I am sitting home as I type this, listening to the heavy wind and driving rain in a darkened outside, the noises of ten thousand raindrops joining in harmony to form a singular and insistent drumming against my window. On the table next to me, four tea candles burn quietly in four earthen pots. It's perfect sleeping weather.

I slept most of today away, having had a fitful night on the redeye from San Francisco back to New York. I told myself this was the reason why I called in sick today, but the truth lay closer in my helplessness against the dark grey skies, the lull of the rains, the warm, warm bed that held me so.

Emma blew me a kiss goodbye at the airport last night. "Bye-bye, Uncle Popcheck," she laughed. She's growing into a fine young lady, I can tell. She sings her songs, she dances with me, she shares her crayons and invites me to draw along with her, making circles and zigzags in a hundred different colours. Darling little Emma. She knows her colours and shapes. "No, no, that's a peach circle," she corrects me. It's not a blue square; I can't fool her. She sings her ABCs too, but she has trouble with her Ws. She sings "ba-du-du," laughing and clapping and dancing in her little shoes that light up when she walks. Sweet, sweet little Emma.

Her one-month old sister, Nicola, doesn't know how to sing just yet, but she enchants me all the same. Nicola gurgles and cries and wiggles and yawns, and she won't be told that she has to wait. She knows her rights as a newborn, and she has me immediately learn the rules. Pick me up, feed me, burp me, change me now. I am ready. I will learn to talk one day, I will learn to sing one day, I will learn to dance and paint and jump like my big sister. But not today. Today I want you to pick me up and hold me and tell me I am adorable. And she is, little Nicola. Very adorable, indeed.

A few photos here.

[permalink] ::

Love is the flower you've got to let grow.

        --John Lennon

Pretty, pretty, beautiful girl.

[permalink] ::

The duties of unclehood call and I find myself up at an ungodly hour today, heading soon to JFK for a last-minute flight westbound to San Francisco. I am heading to see little Nicola, to see what the fuss is all about, to see my brand new little niece. I can't wait.

[permalink] ::

Greg and I spent the weekend squirreled away at a tiny bed and breakfast in Mystic, Connecticut. The B&B, run by a lovely middle-aged lesbian couple, had as its theme mermaids so that everywhere we turned there were scores and scores of tiny mermaids peeking out of the nooks and crannies, smiling and waving and winking with mischievous abandon, their tails splashing about and their hair rippling in the wind of their creators' imaginations. We were in Mystic for Amanda and Rich's wedding.

The wedding was an emotionally charged one, culminating at the end of the evening with everyone arm in arm, shoulder to shoulder, hugging and swaying and singing in delightful discord as the music swelled around us. It was one of those moments where hairs stand at napes of necks, where goosebumps emerge from hibernation, where tears threaten to stream down women's faces and ruin mascaras. Amanda and Rich held each other tight and danced in the middle of the circle of singing guests, and as the song drew to a close, the circle collapsed into a giant pile of hugging and cheering and ruffling of hairs and patting of backs. When all was said and done, there was hardly a dry eye in the room.

Sunday morning we woke to a crisp and glorious sunshine. We spent a few hours ambling through historic Mystic Seaport, running around on the ancient whaling ships and restored schooners and recreated village, watching the visitors as much as the employees in period costume and marveling at the brisk autumn weather. Eventually we strolled over to the little downtown area where we had promised ourselves a pie or two at Mystic Pizza. Even after sixteen years the late lunch crowd still buzzed with chatter on Julia Roberts and her movie filmed there.

It was a beautiful weekend as weekends go, full of emotion and pleasant surprises, quiet and contemplative and altogether delightful. As we packed to leave the B&B, we couldn't help but laugh at the dozens of mermaids sitting on the chairs, kneeling on the bookshelves, hanging from the ceiling fans and reclining on the desks and tabletops. They were all women mermaids of course; this being an inn run by lesbians, we expected no less. But as we were leaving, we noticed out of the corner of our eyes a tiny new figurine hanging over our bathtub. It was a tiny little figurine, a creature shiny and sparkling new that hadn't been there the day before, we were quite sure. I leaned over to inspect it, and giggled. Our hostesses had seemingly rummaged through their trove of mermaids and brought out what appeared to be their singularly and token masculine figurine, and put it up in our bathroom just for us. It was a little merman. As we bade Mystic farewell, I thought of the little merman and his cheeky grin. It was one of the little touches that made us feel so warm and fuzzy inside, one of those token details that made us smile that extra smile, one of the little things that made this weekend such a delight and so special in its own little way.

[permalink] ::

A quiet Friday morning and summer's end is upon us. It's that time of year again, the time where seasons switch gears, where summer hands her baton over to autumn, where children are packed off to schools and early mornings begin to assume that unmistakable air of impending change. All around me there is change.

I see changes, the little changes. I see happy changes, I see sad changes, I see changes that frighten me more and more the older I get. Romances ending, friends moving away, couples separating, couples being separated, partners moving in together, friends moving apart, lovers clinging together to the vestiges of a hope romanticized and dormant and all at once renewed.

The handoff from summer to autumn seems a gentle one this year, with cool breezes roaming the none-too-busy streets of midtown and the skies overhead blue over shimmering skyscrapers. The Republicans and protestors have all dispersed quietly, swallowed unapologetically whole by this Goliath of a city we call home. It's at times like these I marvel at the city and her resilience.

Like so many others, this summer's end is a bittersweet one for me. Last weekend Greg and I sat in the darkened shoebox theatre at York Square Cinemas in New Haven, the musty smell of old registering pleasantly at the borders of our senses, the ancient seats springy and well-worn though not yet to the point of uncomfortable. Outside, Yale freshmen walked about unsure and unsteady as they took in their new surroundings, the realization of a home left behind dawning apparent on some faces. At the end of the movie, Greg cried.

It's the gradual changes like these that put me so into a pensive melancholy. It's the certain but not quite tangible changes, the events marked by holidays and get-togethers that insist something is imminent, the days on the calendar that force us to stop and plan and make arrangements and accommodations. It's a pensive melancholy, all right, but it's a happy melancholy. It's a truly lovely melancholy with which to say goodbye to a wonderful summer.

Happy Labor Day weekend, all.

[permalink] ::