Too Young to Die

Writer, film director, journalist Nora Ephron died at seventy-one.  Too young! I thought.  But is there any good age to die?  Do we say, 'Eighty-nine is a good age to die?'  Or forty-nine, or fifty-two?  As long as one is not screaming in agony, as long as one is getting some pleasure out of life, there is no good time to die.   June, 2012--the  cherries have been delicious this year, and with them I like to drink dry white wine.  A Graves is good.  


I am not calmed by eastern religion or friends who quote serene-sounding classical Chinese poets, who seem to accept death, not that I'm all for raging against the dying of the light in the manner of Dylan Thomas.  Rage and you burn yourself out.  


One of these Chinese poets writes that losing a tooth is a marker of mortality, a sign that you will soon die.  It will take more than a loss of a tooth to convince me I'm about to die.


And please, no one tell me after the death of an old person, 'She had a good life' or 'He lived a long life.'  Save those dull so-called reassurances for someone who can bear banality.    

Spring Beauties

I'm a sucker for red.  These roses blaze as summer gets closer.  There's no such thing as too much when it comes to flowers.  These have no perfume.  We'll have to imagine a scent--a sweet scorch.  These are Meidiland roses developed in France.

This dainty plant finds a foothold in a tightly mortised stone wall.  It doesn't need much.  Somehow it's found soil in the cracks and enough nutrients to bloom--bloom small.

Bold and dainty surprised me on my neighborhood walk.  Fresh beauty is close at hand.  Why not look?

Plumed Hats & Scarlet Cloaks

Seventeenth century artist Stefano della Bella drew this man in a plumed hat.  It would be marvelous to see men in such hats now, a change from the common baseball hat we see everywhere.  (Isn't "della Bella" the perfect name!)    

Here in Boston, in the 18th century, well-to-do men wore scarlet cloaks woven from fine wool dyed from cochineal made from the shells of an insect that feeds on cactus.  On Sunday we saw two scarlet cloaks on display at the Concord Museum.  Now in Boston men wear drab colors: gray, dark green, brown.  (I first came across the word "cochineal" in a poem by Emily Dickinson, in which she describes the arrival of a hummingbird: 'a revolving wheel of cochineal.')

Gathering insects for making cochineal.

Men wearing flamboyant clothes would probably not improve society but would make for a lively scene, a scene on the street and subway.  First we have to get people out of their cars.  Men, put on your scarlet cloaks and plumed hats and strut!

Jews & African Americans on Beacon Hill

Leaving the posh south side of Beacon Hill I saw, by chance, the Vilna Shul built in 1906, when immigrant Jews lived on the north side of Beacon Hill, and Jews from Vilna chose this large bold stained glass window set into the facade.  

The shul on Phillips Streets is slowly being restored.  Earlier, in the 19th century, African Americans lived on this same steep north slope.  The house at 66 Phillips was the home of Lewis Hayden, once a fugitive slave.   

A map of the African American Heritage Trail is available at the Museum of African American History on Joy Street.  The museum is housed in the former African American Meeting House.  I was moved to see the pulpit where Frederick Douglas spoke.  

A creature of soft pleasures, I drank a glass of wine and ate biscotti to strengthen myself for the subway and bus ride home.

Save Us from Shallow

The artist Alex Katz likes painting women in black hats.  On Sunday, friends and I went to the Boston Museum of Fine Arts to see his work.  We were not enthusiastic.  "Shallow," one of us said.  Particularly shallow when there are multiple women in black hats.   Do we look as predictable when we all wear the same hat or dress or shoes?    

Black hats a la Alex Katz are for sale in the Museum gift shop.  We clowned around, trying on hats.  I tried for a hard look but ended up looking silly and enthralled.  The shop  also featured blouses, scarfs, beach bags, etc. copied from the Katz paintings.  I don't understand what one gets out of wearing such things.




We liked the "Paper Zoo" exhibit with this marvelous Picasso "Toad," here in black and white.  I wish I could find a copy in color.





We also liked the exhibit of early photographs, especially this sea scene by Gustave Le Gray.





Fat toad, gray sky, darker gray sea: they gave us so much pleasure.

Loose Ends

What do you do when you don't know what to do with yourself?  Me?  I go out and see what comes my way--see as I walk.  The sun was brilliant but the wind was too fierce to sit and gaze.  Every cloud is perfect.  (Storm clouds are perfect, too.  No one complains about the shape of a cloud.)

And lilacs deliver on all their promises.

The shell of a tree sprouts suckers.

There is a memorial for the girl who drowned herself last week.  You can't see how drops of moisture have condensed behind the glass that covers her picture.  There is a little book in which one can write messages.  People have.  Brief letters addressed to her.    

Redwing black birds are back at the pond.

Leaving for the Neurotic North

It would be easy to take for granted these common tropical sights: bougainvillea burgeoning above Burning Love; a yellow Geiger tree in full bloom; silver palms. But I don't. They become more precious because I'm getting ready to leave. Leave for the north, where children on bikes and scooters wear helmets. It's rare to see anyone with a helmet in South Beach, which may not be the best thing, but here kids fly, unencumbered.

As I strolled around South Beach today, I thought that the culture of the northeast is neurotic: we worry more. It's not easy to relax when spring is cool, when it might snow in March, when we shiver in April, and when a cold wind smelling of winter sails in in August.

Yet I like it up there in Neurotic Land--the edginess, the energy, those fraught moments and sleepless nights. No! Not the sleepless nights.