Love the duck and the dog

I found this on Court Street this morning while I was walking Molly.  I had to take a picture.  First of all, its completely adorable.  Love the duck dog and the fish.   I love that he loves animals.  I love that he's trying to find work:  "Great Rates!"  I'm sure he's trying to help his parents afford the rent here in Cobble Hill b/c it ain't cheap, baby. I love that he's "reliable."  I'm sure he is.  I should've taken the phone number just to hear this 11 year old entrepeneur talk shop.  I'm  also sure he will find part-time work before I will.  Ha.  Ha. 

Fierce Feministas: Real and Fictitious (FFRF)

Mars Clark, painter, activist cooking up Catskill Chili in her East Village studio/home.  She's preparing a meal for her friend--- whose very young and very beautiful daughter is very ill.  Mars was also an engine in her much publicized and successful blood drive.  In fact, some might call this blood drive historic.

She is currently painting a pictorial history of the world; hallucinatory and intensely personal.  Its cosmology, its biology, its the Sefiroth, the tree of life, the Seven Planets.  It's a feminine lens.  The view is strange and beautiful.  Strong narrative, provocative symbols. 

I once viewed the finished canvases exhibited on the wall of her studio.  She's telling a big story. 

She throws huge parties and invites everyone. 

This is why Mars is the first in this series of FFRF.

Erotica

Love in the Time of Terrorism

A sexy short story

on Salon.com

happiness :(

Barbara Ehrenreich my favorite writer on the dark side of the American dream, has a new book out. "Bright-Sided: How the Relentless Promotion of Positive Thinking Has Undermined America, published by Metropolitan Books.  When I passed  by Book Court, and saw it in the window, I thought; Christ.  At last.  I thought I was the only person that got depressed every time I watched a special on public television.  By a  motivational speaker.  Exhorting us poor slobs to improve our lives, increase our wealth, live forever, and totally be at peace.  I also got depressed when I read a self-help magazine.  The message was always a version of: think positive. Initially I would judiciously note all the things I should be doing and thinking in the pursuit of positive thinking, but an hour later, I just needed a pint of chocolate ice-cream or a drink.   Or both.

According to Ehrenreich, in an interview on bloomberg.com, the whole movement of positive thinking got its start in corporate America.  During a cycle of lay-offs.  Motivational speakers were hired.  Preach a message of wealth and prosperity, and the power of positive thinking.   Soon, according to Ehrenreich, "Positive Thinking became the ideology of the business world in America." When she had breast cancer, she felt "oppressed  by the feel-good aspects of the culture."  

We can't grieve, we can't mourn, we can't be depressed, we can't be sorrowful, we can't be angry, anxious, edgy, tired.  Getting nervous at a party, especially if we don't know anyone, which is completely normal, completely human---  has been  pathologized;  social anxiety disorder.  And guess what?  You can take a pill and cure it.   You can always feel good.  You don't ever have to feel bad.  And if you do feel bad, it is your own fault.  You just have to think positive.

This is the message we hear.  This is the message I hear.  How am I standing in my own way?  How can I work harder to be happier?   What am I doing wrong?  Am I doing something wrong?  Why aren't I happier?  I should be happy. Everybody else is. According to Ehrenreich, forced optimism, "..silences people and quells dissent."   Its embarrassing to be sad.  We never say that.  Or if we do, more often than not, we hear in response,

Think Positive.

Beware of the twilight. The shadows can trick you.

The darkness is back.  Twilight at 4:00 p.m.  Night falls at 5:00.  My mother said: It's the most dangerous time of day.  The shadows can trick you.  She was afraid of us on bicycles.  Out on the streets.  Oncoming cars. Careless children.  All six of us.  Our cheeks ruddy from the cold.  The kitchen windows steamed.  A pile of sweaters and socks by the back door.  Dinner time and its totally dark out.

Today, in Brooklyn, it means the streets are littered with yellow leaves. It means the light from the setting sun falls at an oblique angle.  The brownstones across the street are gilded, momentarily, against a backdrop of pure blue sky.  Coming up from the 4 train after work, its dark.  It means I drink more coffee.  Suddenly think: get out while its still light. 

I like the way the days diminish leading up to the solstice.  I like that the light becomes more and more burnished.  More oblique. I hear the sound of dry leaves underfoot, the distant echo of children.  The trees in the park are orange, yellow, red.  Somewhere, not here, a young mother admonishes her sons and daughters: Beware of the twilight.  The shadows can trick you.

I don't know what I've been smoking

I don't know what I've been smoking, how I've changed, or what's in my Kool-Aid, but I've been avidly watching the World Series.  I think it began b/c the Wolf, aka my brother, is a huge fan.  On the night of the first game of the series, I was outside Yankee Stadium.  Inside the madness.  Blue and white as far as the eye could see.  A buzzing, brimming, bobbing sea of humanity all focused on one thing and one thing only; the game! And all of a sudden, I became a fan. 

I walked  over to a vendor selling souvenir caps.  I asked, how much.  He grunted, 20 bucks.  I said, how about ten?  He smiled, waited a moment and said, How about you go across the street and pay 25 bucks, and five bucks for a cup of coffee while you're at it.  I smiled back.  Total New York moment.  I forked over the money.  Surely this will be a talisman, I thought, a good luck charm that I will mail to the Wolf. 

At home, I turned on the game, for the first time in my life.  Was mesmerized by the Phillie's pitcher, Cliff Lee.  Swooosh.  He threw the ball.  Swwwiiinng----  Jeter, Matsui, Damon, A-Rod, all the Yankee superstars struck out. Who was this man?  He dominated the game like a magician, like he was high on crack, like he was king.  The Yanks never had a  chance.  Now I'm hooked.  Game 4 tonight and you better believe I'll be there.  They're up by three games.  If I mail the hat to the Wolf in time, I believe they'll go all the way.

photo: wallyg

Portrait of the artist as a young dog