Poetry Thursdays: Jump-Off-a-Cliff Edition

To a Jilted Lover
Sylvia Plath


Cold on my narrow cot I lie
and in sorrow look
through my window-square of black:

figured in the midnight sky,
a mosaic of stars
diagrams the falling years,

while from the moon, my lover's eye
chills me to death
with radiance of his frozen faith.

Once I wounded him with so
small a thorn
I never thought his flesh would burn

or that the heat within would grow
until he stood
incandescent as a god;

now there is nowhere I can go
to hide from him:
moon and sun reflect his flame.

In the morning all shall be
the same again:
stars pale before the angry dawn;

the gilded clock will turn for me
the rack of time
until the peak of noon has come

and by that glare, my love will see
how I am still
blazing in my golden hell.

Reasons to live and love in NYC: Cafe Lalo

Having just spent a blissful weekend walking through the parks and sitting in Cafes sipping all manner of delightful summer beverages, I've decided to chronicle for you, dear, faithful readers, my favorite cafe in NYC. Come to see me and I'll take you, if I haven't already.

The honor of top billing, and it's very own post, goes to an old-favorite, Cafe Lalo. Made famous by the charming "You've Got Mail" scene, this is an Upper West Side delight. I've not eaten a single confection here that wasn't absolutely delicious; from the flourless chocolate torte to the red velvet cupcakes, from the brunch Bellini to the Irish coffee. They even make salads and sandwiches.



I've loved this place since I was a poor and weary intern at Amnesty International. I spent that entire summer pinching every penny till it screamed. But on Saturday afternoons I would splurge for the $4.75 Parisian brunch special, served til 3pm. It consists of a warm, toasted croissant, your choice of fancy jam (blackberry is my favorite) and a perfect, frothy cafe au lait, dusted with cinnamon. Coupled with Didion, as it was this weekend, the effect is Saturday jouissance, unparalleled.



It's NEVER that quiet. Unfortunately.

Country Music Friday: Love 'em and Leave 'em Style

Before you roll your lovely eyes, hear me out. I'm going through a heartache situation. So all music is game, right? Right.

So, I present to you Dierks Bentley (His real name? Who cares, it's pretty amazing.) singing you a tune that has lifted my spirits considerably in the past 24 hours. I see that Dierks here is no feminist, but sometimes a guilty pleasure (with appropriate awareness) can really help. And just so long as it's country music and not a tub of coffee ice cream, we're winning.




I mean, I still got a lot of leavin' left to do, right?

New Feature: Reasons to Live and Love in NYC

I'm not sure if you've noticed, but I love life on this quaint, overpriced, little island hamlet. And I find myself delighted by many of the wonderful fixtures of life that that can only be appreciated in this town. Today's topic: The bookstores.

Now, I understand that books are mostly procured in large, bookselling conglomerates across the nation. And I have an abiding appreciation for any place that sells books. I even have a Barnes and Noble club card (because, damnit, if I'm to support the man I want a discount!). While there are many of these in New York, they're not the fixtures to which I so fondly refer. No, the bookstores I'm speaking of are often found across the street from these megastores. They are dingy, smoky, dusty and delightful. No one will sell you a latte. In fact, they might scowl at you if you're seen to be cradling one while you finger their precious texts. No one will direct you to the "bestsellers" for homogenized literary consumption. In fact, most likely, no one will even speak to you. Snark and substance. What could be better? Not much if you're able to get both on an activist's budget.

Some favorites, and some bookporn to follow:


The hot, dusty, overcrowded, delight that is The Strand. Yeah, it's love/hate. Mostly love, though. Books are cheap and aplenty. Look at the top of the picture. Yep, those are all books. 18 miles of books, in fact.


The straight-out-of-Harry-Potter wonder that is Westsider Books. I used to live right near this place. Spent many hours navigating this magnificent, crammed place buying poetry. That was the summer of heartache-soothed-by-Neruda.


And Bluestockings. Where the personal is political. Please note.

There are many more, and many on my list to visit. But that's enough for now. Yum.

On Becoming Jane

These days, I've taken to queueing "20th century period pieces" on my Netflix and fancying myself a heroine the likes of Ms. E. Bennett herself. This, you might know, is rather out of character for me. I've never been one to really appreciate Jane Austen or Victorian manners and tales of romance. It's all very... how shall I say... Colonial. If you get my drift.

Nevertheless, the roommate is an Austen aficionado. And so, there are many books and films about the life, times and tales of Ms. Austen in our apartment. And I've changed my tune. Maybe it's the real-life (as far as we know) doomed romance of Jane and Tom Lefroy. Maybe it's the lovely colloquialisms of Victorian England. Maybe, and most likely, it's the romance. Ah the romance, quintessentially reserved while being rather explosive at the same time. The witty repartee between Elizabeth and Darcy. Perhaps, though, what compels me is the fact that Jane's own forsaken romance with Tom motivated her to provide all her heroines with "happy endings." How painful it must have been to write, repeatedly, the romantic conclusion you never had. A herculean feat for the heartbroken. And so, I am converted.

Props, Ms. A.