Lux Lotus

On the Art of Living, Cont.

I've been contemplating New Year's Eve in Paris, and am still very much on the fence. I did knock off work an hour early today to shop for lingerie and then stop by Maison du Chocolat for a truffle, so that does tell you where my head's at, at the moment. While I was peering into the cases at the latter, a friend wrote: There's an English man in the store, and I understand your attraction to them... how wonderfully bold, manly and attractive they are. I do like men of the British Isles, although my taste is not exactly that. My kind of man is well-dressed, reserved, and emboldened by a private fire that burns only for me. No specific accent required.

On the Art of Living

Friday night, I planned to host an informal dinner at home, as I often do (and much prefer it to going out). It was raining in New York and quickly became one of those days –– one friend packing for a long-delayed honeymoon the next morning, another stuck at the office, a third in her newsroom on deadline, so much so that by the time one showed up a bit breathless, I cheerily informed her that it was to be a table for two, and a nice little chance for us to enjoy a tete-a-tete. We opened a bottle of bubbly, took the slow road, rang up the afore-mentioned office, just as the editor, now a neighbor, turned up, and a friend from Maryland arrived at eleven. In the end, a full table, dazzling in charm, and much more than I'd hoped, in the nicest of ways. Last night, I went to Christen Clifford's Abreactions performance at Dixon Place, and it was electrifying, especially when she staged her response to Yoko Ono's Cut Piece and I was invited up with other members of the audience to cut her hair. There was a moment of utter silence at the culmination of the act that was powerful and profound. Also, nudity is an exquisite and beautiful thing. Today I woke up at 9, jumped in a cab with a friend and sped off to the Whitney where we experienced Yayoi Kusama's Fireflies on the Water, an extraordinarily moving study of infinity and consciousness that does more with lights, mirrors and water than one might think possible. Each person is permitted to spend one minute inside the structure due to space constraints, which seem to disappear as soon as the door shuts. I'm thinking about the week ahead, which culminates in a wedding in Chicago, where I'm flying just for the night. I changed my ticket in order to attend a dinner the previous day here at home, and did a little research for it this evening. Presidents of most republics are called "Mr. President," for life.

On Surprises

Isn't it always that way? Unexpected flowers arrive right on time.

On Exchanges

I keep reminding myself that if the life that I want is so radically different than the life that I am now living, I will have to do something to spark its genesis. Except I don't have any money other than what I earn myself, on the wheel, and my time is not dedicated primarily to leisure. So I suppose I could learn to love the one I have. There's something so beautiful and human about not just embracing flaws, and imperfections, but seeing them as a source of wisdom and pleasure. I think often of the teacup with the fissure repaired with gold, and wabi-sabi. Earlier today I examined a nasty burn on my wrist from February, from sliding a roasting pan into the oven, where the hot rack seared me. At first, I wished I could fill it in with gold. Then I remembered the beautiful meal, and the beautiful night, among friends, and I realize that I did.

Windowlicker

For those overcast and yet lumen hopeful days, contemplating one's great unknown future in the world alone, quoting Larkin at his best: Our almost-instinct almost true: What will survive of us is love.

What better than this to slide, twirl on a finger? And so I dream.

[Old School Pull Tab Ring, cast in sterling silver and set with a white diamond, $598 from Laura Lobdell]

Windowlicker is from the French for browsing: faire du lèche-vitrine.