It’s extremely snowy here in the east. About eight inches here in NYC, up or down in the surrounding areas. Way cool. A foot by morning, so they say. This was early this morning.
snow on walkway
snow on bench and walkway
snow on benches
out my window
Steep-sided wavelets,
Breaking into whitecap foam,
Racing toward seawall.
Hail falls and sizzles,
Makes intersecting circles
On sharp-edged water.
Rain begins, pounds hard.
Quickly soaked through, I find now
No reason to leave.
sorry — forgot to post these!
To Laraine’s question in the comments about women being invested in the BSI, B.G. Ritts is correct: though the group was founded by men, women have been members for quite some time. In fact, by-law (3) states that special meetings may be called at any time or any place by any one of three members, two of whom shall constitute a quorum. Qualification A of this by-law goes on to require that “If said two are of opposite sexes, they shall use care in selecting the place of meeting, to avoid misinterpretation (or interpretation either, for that matter).” There are also Sherlockian groups of and for women.
The Scions are a different matter. A Scion is a local Sherlockian Society and they set themselves up however they want. A Scion, the rules state, can be formed by any two Sherlockians with a bottle of scotch; if necessary, the second Sherlockian can be dispensed with. Some of the Scions, I’m told, are all male. But could they really be having all that much fun, without us?
Jan Burke, Dana Cameron (my evil twin) and me relaxing in the Asian Wing at the Met.
I got invested! I’m a Baker Street Irregular! I’m totally astounded — did nothing to deserve it, but there it is. Tonight was the Annual Baker Street Irregulars banquet. I’ve been going the past few years, invited by Les Klinger. (Thank you, Les!) You need to be invited to the banquet by an invested Irregular, but going — even for years — doesn’t mean you’re going to be made an Irregular. That decision is made at the highest BSI levels. I’ve never been that much of a Sherlockian, so I didn’t necessarily expect ever to be invested, I just enjoy the Sherlockians and the banquet. Well, imagine my surprise. When you’re invested, they give you a name: a person, place, or thing from the Holmes canon. Me? I’m The Imperial Palace of Peking! Is that the coolest thing ever?
To Wesley Stace, whose music, both as Wesley Stace and as John Wesley Harding, continues to get me through my every-other-day 5K runs. I have a couple of his albums, though “Who Was Saved and Who Was Dead” remains my favorite. If you can listen to “My Favorite Angel” or “Pandora” or “The End” and not find yourself hooked, you and I probably shouldn’t talk music.
… that not only did a bunch of my buddies get Edgar nominations, but also, one of my Art Workshop International students, Linda Stasi, is nominated for the Mary Higgins Clark Award for a book she worked on in Assisi! Go, buddies and students!
Pulled up the blind this morning to fog in the backyards. That rarely happens, so rarely that at first I was afraid it was smoke. But no smell and no sirens, so I made my tea and took it through a fog bank down to the river. This was a thinner fog, but more pervasive than the one I wrote about the other day. The buildings on the blocks east of me were no sharper than the pilings in the water. For all I know, at this narrow end of the island, Manhattan was engulfed from river to river.
When I got to the park I saw two mallards napping on the pilings while a pair of Gadwalls nibbled at barnacles. Gulls, for some reason, find it interesting to fly in fog. Usually they sit on the water or the pilings unless something is happening, but when it’s foggy they all get up and fly around. Atmospheric for those of us in the park when they suddenly wheel out of the white nothingness, but I don’t suppose that’s why they do it. As I was leaving I ran into Urban Naturalist, who, having conquered bugs, birds, and trees, has now developed a fascination with lichens and fungi. He showed me a couple, including the smallest mushroom in North America.
By the way, Urban Naturalist and Keith Michael, who in real life is a dance guy but also is a big ol’ birder and a helluva photographer, lead nature walks in Hudson River Park in all seasons except this one. They’re generally on Sundays, so I can’t usually go because of basketball, but I’ll keep you guys informed so you can come on down.
Last season the Knicks played exceptionally well at home, while this year their home record is abominable. Late in last night’s game, when it looked like the Knicks might not be able to hold on for the win (they did), Walt “Clyde” Frazier said, “Last year the Garden was the Knicks’ Xanadu. This year it’s been their Waterloo. What’ll it be tonight, folks?”
I love New York.
(Extra points if you know why he’s called Clyde without Googling.)
I’m walking down the street ten feet or so behind a young couple, he in slim pants and wool topcoat, she in fur jacket and even slimmer pants. Expensive haircuts, and she’s carrying a Kate Spade bag. She’s smoking. They stop at the light. A scruffy guy steps out. “Hey, can I buy a cigarette off you? Come on, I’ll give you a dollar.” “Nah,” she says, recoiling as he reaches into his greasy pants pocket. “I’ll just give you one.” She does. I’m behind them as the light changes. The scruffy guy, drawing deeply on his smoke, walks past me. He smiles and winks. And I think, damn, if you pick your mark carefully I’ll bet that works every time.
I love New York.
Tug, tanker vanish.
Foghorn blasts, moving through mist,
Announce their progress.
Thick fog bank opens.
Tower stands atop far hill
Like ancient castle.
Ducks come for breakfast —
Gadwalls, mallards, buffleheads —
At piling cafe.
