Brunch and Money



I have discovered nirvana in a cup--Orange Creme Frappacino from Starbucks. One of those things that are better than sex. I adore Starbucks and I don't care how unoriginal that makes me. I love Target and Barnes and Noble too. I also love the silence of this house that is one kid off at chorus practice and the other having pizza at her best friend's house. The universe seems to spinning gently and benevolently as of late. Good things keep happening and I am no longer drowning financially. Someone I used to know informed me that I needed to come from a place of power (financially)for a number of reasons. Well here I am in that place, and without anybody pouring advice into my panicked ear anymore either. No more panic, no more voice. Life is very, very good. And Karen and Jogi, your help will be repaid this week. God bless tax season!

Blessings on Weezer Jr. too, who created a gorgeous mother's day brunch complete with souffle and little pastries and a Lazy Daisy cake. Jr. has won a prestigious residency through the School of Visual Arts. She is an extremely talented painter and sculptor and so deserves this. You can see her art here My ex-fiancee just contacted her and bought one of her best paintings. I have to say I hated to see it taken off the wall and shipped off to Brighton.

Study in Orange and White

I knew that James Whistler was part of the Paris scene,
but I was still surprised when I found the painting
of his mother at the Musée d'Orsay
among all the colored dots and mobile brushstrokes
of the French Impressionists.

And I was surprised to notice
after a few minutes of benign staring,
how that woman, stark in profile
and fixed forever in her chair,
began to resemble my own ancient mother
who was now fixed forever in the stars, the air, the earth.

You can understand why he titled the painting
"Arrangement in Gray and Black"
instead of what everyone naturally calls it,
but afterward, as I walked along the river bank,
I imagined how it might have broken
the woman's heart to be demoted from mother
to a mere composition, a study in colorlessness.

As the summer couples leaned into each other
along the quay and the wide, low-slung boats
full of spectators slid up and down the Seine
between the carved stone bridges
and their watery reflections,
I thought: how ridiculous, how off-base.

It would be like Botticelli calling "The Birth of Venus"
"Composition in Blue, Ochre, Green, and Pink,"
or the other way around
like Rothko titling one of his sandwiches of color
"Fishing Boats Leaving Falmouth Harbor at Dawn."

Or, as I scanned the menu at the cafe
where I now had come to rest,
it would be like painting something laughable,
like a chef turning on a spit
over a blazing fire in front of an audience of ducks
and calling it "Study in Orange and White."

But by that time, a waiter had appeared
with my glass of Pernod and a clear pitcher of water,
and I sat there thinking of nothing
but the women and men passing by--
mothers and sons walking their small fragile dogs--
and about myself,
a kind of composition in blue and khaki,
and, now that I had poured
some water into the glass, milky-green

Billy Collins