Moths

Through the kitchen door I can see the moths gathering in the light. The temperature has dropped to forty degrees. There will probably be a frost. The moths have found the back door light, which gives off a little heat.

We are surrounded and inhabited by living things but mostly look at each other. When I suddenly see moths cluster I'm shocked and delighted.

The Beard

J. had just left Whole Foods on Alton Road in South Beach when a woman pulled up in a shiny black SUV, which looked as if it had never been driven on anything but a paved road lined with palm trees. She was tanned, blond, blue-eyed. "Are you Russian?" she called out. Her accent was Russian. "I'm Irish," J. answered. He admired her face. "You carry your age very well," she answered, and drove off.

When J. told me the story, he said, "It must be the beard."

Years ago when his black black hair was turning gray J. grew a beard. I told him he looked like Gabby Hayes. Eventually he shaved off the beard.

I associated beards with Rasputin, Santa Claus and Monty Woolley.

But now I find J's beard attractive. He's wearing a sweater that must be forty years old. The reliably warm, dense wool sheds water.

Holidays and Liquor

I've been enjoying this sign at the Sav-Mor in Medford and playing with punctuation: Holidays? Mean family? We sell liquor. But really the sign is better without my heavy-handed insertion of question marks. A slogan and a sales statement linked in brash caps: the Sav-Mor sells liquor and the family.

Act Up: Carpenter Center, Harvard

"ACT UP New York: Activism, Art, and the AIDS Crisis, 1987-1993" is now on view at Harvard's Carpenter Center for the Visual Arts on Quincy Street in Cambridge. I was there this afternoon for co-curator Helen Molesworth's lively, intelligent gallery talk, which focused on both the aesthetic quality of the movement's artwork and its political message. Many of the members of ACT UP (The Aids Coalition to Unleash Power) were artists and graphic designers. Some of their work for ACT UP appeared in store windows and billboards. I wonder whether that would be possible in these tame times.

The posters are provocative and well designed.

This one urges the use of condoms, the "scumbags" that save lives.

Here's a new take on the senior George Bush's tough-guy words:

Helen Molesworth said we can still call the White House. She joked about the timeless quality of art: the number of the White House is the same as when this artwork was made.

Dullsville

What is the cache of such dull designs as a Burberry plaid or a Vuitton bag? Conforming designs for the rich or those who want to appear rich. Shades of brown and beige predominate along with a safe stupefying repetition.

You'd never catch Iris Apfel with a Vuitton bag. She's no conformist--let's bring back that word!--whether she's toning down colors or amping them up.

From the website "Art Knowledge News":

Elements of Style According to Iris Apfel:

1. Never take yourself or an outfit too seriously.
2. Visit the animal kingdom.
3. Consider the clergy.
4. Travel widely.
5. Go high and low.
6. Don’t fret about your age.
7. Don’t be afraid to stop traffic.

Consider the clergy? Does she mean we should dress like the pope?

Woodsman

J. and I have been together for almost fifty years, but I'm still surprised when I'm reminded of how different we are. The other day I was shocked when I opened the trunk of the car we are sharing and found what a friend would call a "vignette." All of the trunk's contents belong to J.: ice poles for winter trekking, water bottles, rope, heavy shoes, a maul, an old pill bottle full of dry strike-anywhere matches; inside the gray case are all sorts of gizmos for starting fires without matches, including lint, which catches easily. Does he soak it some fuel? I said "maul," but I don't really know if that's the correct term for the tool with the long yellow handle. I can hardly lift it. There's a hammer and two bags of fire wood. J. likes to go into the woods by himself. He doesn't carry a gun, but there must be a knife in the kit somewhere. If I shifted the bags I would probably find a hatchet.

I wouldn't dream of going into the woods by myself. I might with J. In an emergency he could save my life; in the wild, I doubt I could be useful to him.

Friend, Champagne, Purse, Wallet

V. and I met at Flora's and ordered champagne. When the bartender told me the price, I hesitated for only a few seconds, and we went ahead. The champagne was delicious, not the least bit sour or heavy. The bartender asked if this was a special occasion. I said, "Yes, we haven't seen each other for a long time."

V. and I fell into the old, bright rhythm of our usual conversations. I was glad to see him. We covered a lot of ground--the end of a romance, his family's house burning, illnesses of those we loved, my old teaching job, his current one--the two of us smartly dressed--well, he was, all in black--taking our time with the champagne and laughing.

The bartender brought water, a good thing to sip between swallows of the potent champagne. Nothing surges into my bloodstream faster than champagne.

V. said he wished he were writing more, and I, in my irritatingly positive way, told him it was possible to write about anything. I took out my purse and said I had written a poem about how, after picking over dozens and dozens of purses, I had walked away, afraid of spending money--we're talking about a lousy thirty dollars here--even though the stingy wallet I had been using pinched my fingers when I tried to pull out a card. As I had reached the door of the store, I had said to myself, "Is this the way you want to be remembered, walking away from something you like, something that does the job perfectly?" I went back and bought the purse. Isn't it garish? I love it. The designer, Ed Hardy, worked for many years as a tattoo artist and has decorated the purse with orchids, a butterfly, a heart, ribbons, a chrysanthemum into which he's stuck a big diamond. I liked putting him into the poem.

V. took out his modest, charming green wallet with a drawing of a delicate white plant "Let's think of my purse and your wallet as metaphors," I said. Of our personalities? V. can't be summed up as easily as that. As for me . . .