'Nuf said

New Mexico!

I'm heading off tomorrow morning for the sandy, desert locale of Albuquerque, New Mexico, where I'll be doing a health care training for some very fierce young women organizers.

The Southwest is a mystery to me, and I've always romanticized its bleak beauty. Maybe it's all the Joan Didion novels that I've been reading, but I'm going to enjoy my 18 hours in New Mexico immensely, I'm sure.

I have a ton to say about the state of the nation, but it'll have to wait, for now.

Mercy me.

OMFG.

Cutest pic in the history of presidential campaign photo-ops.

Close second: this.

And so it is

P-Town, here I come!

While the rest of youse are safely ensconced in your day-to-day routines, I will be in the lovely MA cape hamlet of Provincetown for the next few days at a planning retreat. We're going to work for hours on end to figure out how to get universal healthcare in 2009. And we're having a clambake.

Miss me,
E

Word, Matt Damon. Word.

That Sarah Silverman was on to something.

And for what?

I've spent the past couple of days strategizing about healthcare reform in Boston. But last night, on my way home, I dashed over to Webster Hall to see Adele.

And this is my new anthem. Anathema, as it were, to wallowing.

Enjoy.

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.

Poetry Thursdays: Love by Lorca Edition

Cancionella del Primer Beso/ Ditty of First Desire
- Federico Garcia Lorca

In the green morning
I wanted to be a heart.
A heart.

And in the ripe evening
I wanted to be a nightingale.
A nightingale.

(Soul,
turn orange-colored.
Soul,
turn the color of love.)

In the vivid morning
I wanted to be myself.
A heart.

And at the evening's end
I wanted to be my voice.
A nightingale.

Soul,
turn orange-colored.
Soul,
turn the color of love.

MoSex Tonight!

That's right folks, it's benefit season! Last week the NYCLU, this week PPNYC!

I'll be at the Museum of Sex tonight. Where there will be an open bar and raffles-a-plenty. Maybe, I'll be lucky one that wins the lunch with Dr. Ruth...

A New York Vacation

So, because of the many happenings in my life and work, I haven't any time to take an actual vacation. But I've had a great idea: I'm going on a New York vacation!

Bear with me, it's not as lame as it sounds. I realized something yesterday, as I was hit by the fatigue of work-related weekend travel and weeknight obligations: I won't be able to make it to Texas before the summer is out, and can't really afford to go anywhere else. So, instead of wallowing, I've decided to be proactive. Instead of just working through the entire summer, I will take some days off from work (maddness!), detach from my computer and cell phone, and enjoy NYC like it's meant to be enjoyed. Here are some of the things I want to do:

Stock my fridge and cupboards with delightful vacation food so that I can get out of the raisin-bran-for-breakfast-lunch-and-dinner funk I've been in. Fresh fruit, croissants, gourmet coffee... you get the picture.

Spend mornings enjoying said delectables and reading the paper.

Spend afternoons strolling through the summery senic locales of NYC like the parks, piers and promenades that I've been woefully neglecting. Maybe some museums thrown in for good measure.

Spend the late afternoons in out of the way coffee bars and bistros reading and being mysterious.

Spend the evenings going to foreign films, blues clubs and other interesting venues and continue being mysterious.

So, now what do you think?

Clearly, I've given this some thought. You'll notice one very particular element of this plan. There's NOBODY else in it. I might pick the week that Anna's out of town, so that the apartment is quiet and I won't make plans to see any New York friends. It'll be like I'm not here! Like I'm actually on vacation! Not a novel idea for most people, but rather revolutionary for the likes of me.

Gulabi (Pink) Gang

These women are amazing. And it's no real secret that my favorite color is pink. Seriously, women after my own heart. Enjoy!

Going to Austin!

I have many thoughts and observations to share. But I'm off once again. This time to A-town. I'll be back though, and then we'll dish. xoxo, E

From Samara to Me: Watch it til the end.

Send a JibJab Sendables® eCard Today!

Heading out

My dears,

As things get rather frantic in my life, I'm off for the week to a conference/retreat just north of Boston. I'm looking forward to it very much, many of my favorite people in the world will be there. This will be very good for my emotional health. There will be daily morning yoga, which will be good for my physical health. There will be lots of fierce activists. Phew.

I leave you with an updated photo of the city's fireworks. As seen from Brooklyn. Not taken by me but delightful, no? Red, sparkly patriotism. Not particularly my thing, but pretty is pretty. At this point, I'll take it.

More from me, soon.

Poetry Thursday: Sad White Dude Edition

Thanatopsis


by William Cullen Bryant


To him who in the love of nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty; and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And healing sympathy that steals away
Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;--
Go forth, under the open sky, and list
To Nature's teachings, while from all around--
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air--
Comes a still voice. Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements,
To be a brother to the insensible rock
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold.

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world -- with kings,
The powerful of the earth -- the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, -- the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods -- rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste,--
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. -- Take the wings
Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,
Save his own dashings -- yet the dead are there:
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep -- the dead reign there alone.

So shalt thou rest -- and what if thou withdraw
In silence from the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glides away, the sons of men--
The youth in life's fresh spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man--
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,
By those, who in their turn, shall follow them.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, which moves
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.


Also, if that wasn't enough:

From XLI Poems (1925)

by e. e. cummings


my mind is
a big hunk of irrevocable nothing which touch and
taste and smell and hearing and sight keep hitting and
chipping with sharp fatal tools
in an agony of sensual chisels i perform squirms of
chrome and execute strides of cobalt
nevertheless i
feel that i cleverly am being altered that i slightly am
becoming something a little different, in fact
myself
Hereupon helpless i utter lilac shrieks and scarlet
bellowings.