Eleven weeks and counting until I hit the open road. Hendrix, Bowie, extreme heat and the mountains ahead.
a beautiful spring sunday in soho….cafes, flowers, linen shirts, capri sandals, carrying the newspapers incognito behind sunglasses, breezes lifting branches overhead, even the graffiti shines on a day like today….
this is the view from inside Housing Works bookshop – one of my definite team gloria hangouts where I bought a used copy of Diana Athill’s Instead of a Letter (1962) and went to read in the Crosby Hotel.
not that I’ve told anyone (apart from you, here) but I entered a short story competition last week. I am fluttering a bit inside at the thought of writing again for a living. It’s been a long, long, lifetime since I did. More on that some other sweet time…..
1. Duke of Yorks Picturehouse, Brighton, England | ah, mis-spent (or not) youth – smoking ten malboro red on the balcony with some cheap red (head) as i slipped into the mysteries of saturday afternoons watching Louise Brooks…..
2. Electric Cinema, Notting Hill, England | sundays after portobello market, watching nouvelle vague 60s – all black turtleneck and leather jackets and faded dreams of Thatcher England.
3. Laemmle Monica 4-plex | secret joys of slipping into a cinema with the sun still beating down outside, sand on your feet from the beach, skin smells of suntan oil mixed with Chloe and watching a Woody Allen or Chocolat – memorably one new year’s eve when I wanted to be alone.
we went to India last year for the first time.
It was a business trip – not an attempt to find oneself or drop out or whatever else one is meant to do on a trip to India.
But it happened all the same. we loved the heat, the Namaste, the frankly curious meeting of minds and spirits. But most of all we loved the afternoon we got to slip away with who-we-are-in-RL after she had finished work and watch the cricket match before walking in the cool gardens of the temple nearby. The sounds of summer. Swishing saris, thwack of the cricket ball and flies buzzing in the thick air.
It’s Monday, and I need to get ready for work, but I’d rather pack a roomy, rather gorgeous, brown leather zip-up bag and head to a foreign train station and read a novel by the window while the countryside wakes up.
“True, when the train had crossed the Alps and engaged its slow descent into a sunlit fruitful valley, I had experienced a state of sheer joy, a fulfilment of a longing that lies dormant in many of us whose birth has been into the rain.”
it’s saturday: time for european newspapers, coffee and jazz.
perhaps here at ground support, west broadway, soho…..all wood tables, collections of vintage National Geographic magazines and a thoughtful, intelligent, proprietor, who truly understands what makes a welcoming neighborhood establishment. His name is Steven Sadoff and he’s interviewed here.
don’t just take my word for it – new york magazine did a jolly nice review…..