You are currently browsing the category archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ category.

Couldn’t decide whether to go dark or light today.

I’m reading William Manchester’s ’The Death of a President’, published in 1967 and purchased then, but only read in a drastically abridged version serialized in LOOK magazine in the day. Onto the bookshelf, into a moving box, onto the bookshelf… un-thumbed, un-loaned, just yellowed with age.

Having experienced the assassination of John F. Kennedy, this month in 1963, at 16 years-old, and now reading this densely detailed account of the days preceding and following, it’s mildly disorienting in part from being reminded of early Sixties mores via some of the author’s unapologetic terms.

Now the ’light’, the last of the ginger lilies, a small cluster of blossoms saved from the cold in a sequestered spot in our postage stamp-sized front yard/courtyard. (One of the men delivering our new washing machine last July asked me if we planted ’all this stuff, or did it just grow up’. Sometimes I wonder.)

Followed by the only ’Fall Color’ we get anymore in these parts, mums from our friend Rick’s plant nursery.

When my dearest friend Dee died ten years ago, the sifting of her possessions went to her friends Charlotte and Tammy. They discovered a trove of greeting cards unsent and decided mailing them could not be the wrong thing to do.

This is the card I received. Dee’s favorite holiday was Halloween, though she could do a right thorough job on Christmas as well. Imagine the slight dislocation, then delight, melancholy, to hear from her again.

In 1971 through all manner of circumstance, it fell to me to sort the contents of my grandparents’ attic. The experience was like opening a tomb, as evidently it had not been disturbed in decade upon decade.

Unplundered, among the treasures I found a Ouija board. Though Dee and I never tried it out, I turned it over, at something resembling her insistence, to her care. I suspect the evil husband in its vanishing, Charlotte and Tammy found not a trace of it during their good works.

The following essay I would call balanced in its talk of ‘experiences’. I myself have had one that in particular could not be explained the way deja vu has been, the left brain taking in a scene a semi-demi-micro-millisecond before the right brain does.

‘Experiences’? What about you? I’m always hopeful for another.

We got married six years ago on the Equinox, the September one, cleverly choosing an equinox to begin with to celebrate the newly won ‘Marriage Equalty’.

Enter information we’d missed. Whereas the vernal Equinox always occurs March 20th, the autumnal one, as it turns out, occurs on the 22nd of September two years running, then switches to the 23rd two years running, then switches back to the 22nd, etc.

I don’t know what that’s all about, but I call it astronomical tomfoolery.

Quick check as of this writing says marriage and equinox did in fact occur on September 23, 2015.

Here is an iPad lit photo Stephen unearthed of the happy couple somewhere during our 44 years together.

We are depicted engaged in what I believe is called ’horsing around’.

Twelve years on, and at this point clearly running on fumes, I understand that it could be difficult to believe that once upon a time Domani Dave even sported custom blog ‘headers’ tailored to the subject of each new post.

Here are three from the archive.

The trouble is, I tend to torture everything I write, which is very fatiguing at this stage of my lack of ‘lust for life’, so to speak. So, now it’s back to posting other people’s compositions.

In the case of the example I’ve chosen to purloin for this post, it’s partially about excellent writing.  How depressing is that…

It closes with: “The struggle itself toward the heights,” wrote Albert Camus, “is enough to fill a man’s heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.” 

I’m just going to go ahead and say that I cannot imagine Sisyphus happy…

ANYway, here is a lovely excerpt from an opinion piece from the Washington Post last week by George Will entitled The Pursuit of Happiness is Happiness.


Arriving in the splendor of Grand Central Terminal, I plunked down a nickel for a New York tabloid in order to see what was going on in Gotham. This purchase of a New York Post was a life-changing event because in it I found a column by Murray Kempton.

I do not remember what his subject was that day, but his subjects generally were of secondary importance to his style, which reflected his refined mind and his penchant for understated passion, mordantly expressed. Here, for example, is a sentence from his October 1956 report on President Dwight David Eisenhower campaigning for reelection: 

‘In Miami he had walked carefully by the harsher realities, speaking some 20 feet from an airport drinking fountain labeled “Colored” and saying that the condition it represented was more amenable to solution by the hearts of men than by laws, and complimenting Florida as “typical today of what is best in America,” a verdict which might seem to some contingent on finding out what happened to the Negro snatched from the Wildwood jail Sunday.’ 

This 75-word sentence — sinewy, ironic and somewhat demanding — paid a compliment to his readers: He knew they could and would follow a winding syntactical path through a thought so obliquely expressed as to be almost merely intimated. Kempton understood that the swirling, stirring society in which Americans are immersed is constantly clamoring for their attention, plucking at their sleeves and even grabbing them by the lapels with journalism, politics, advertising and other distractions. Furthermore, Kempton knew that reading newspaper columns is an optional activity, so a writer must make the most of his ration of words. Reading a columnist’s commentary on political and cultural subjects is an acquired taste, and a minority one at that: It will be acquired only if it is pleasant, even fun. 

However, the fact that most Americans do not read newspapers, let alone the commentary columns, is actually emancipating for columnists. The kind of people who seek out written arguments are apt to bring to the written word a fund of information and opinions. Having a self-selected audience of intellectually upscale readers allows the columnist to assume that his or her readers have a reservoir of knowledge about the world. So, he can be brief … without being superficial. 


July 2, 1976: Hartwig House, hallway (clickable)

This has always been my favorite Joel Meyerowitz photograph.

I believe I am in good company, as whoever curates has placed it first in the series of photos displayed there.

On the right, chenille bedspread, small bureau, framed print on the wall, ‘distract’ you from an otherwise kind of hypnotic view down the hall.

I think of this picture hearing cinematographer William Fraker relating a conceit of Roman Polanski’s during the filming of ‘Rosemary’s Baby’.

It’s a very short video clip.

Feign deny you craned your own neck a micron or two.

From our friend Martin, who teaches high school in Santa Monica:

Today I received California’s textbook guide to incorporating new social standards into the classroom. My favorite is this book title for Elementary School:
“The Bride was a Daddy — How to Teach LGBQT to First Graders”

Some couple of years ago, we were inadvertently invited to a party.

An afternoon lawn event with an obscene amount of food and mobs of the legitimately invited, we did in fact know a sizable swath of people there.

The inadvertency? Apparently the hostess had asked a friend about a couple she wanted to invite, but didn’t know, and the response to her description resulted in us. I can’t remember how we eventually discovered we weren’t the intended, and I won’t ask the irritable Stephen again.

One of the known guests at the party was lovely Page O. You are obliged to take it on faith that in both appearance and demeanor she is a complete tonic. Chatting with her, she introduced me to a gentleman nearby who had recently relocated from New York City.

I can typically be counted on to trot out my must-be-a-culture-shock opener when I’m introduced to someone ‘from abroad’, whether it’s moving here from a large metropolis, or another country. In this case, it produced an engaging back and forth.

Interrupted mid-sentence by another partygoer, when that person lurched away, this fellow said to me, ‘You were saying…’

Shocking as this overtly courteous display was, I believe I was able to collect myself, and parting, he said he looked forward to our running across each other again, he imagined, unaware hubby and I were all but common party crashers…

Friday was Stephen’s seventieth birthday. I gave him peonies, his favorite, from a local commercial flower farm owned by a gentleman who could only be cuter than he is if he sold his soul. I would not want that.

I also gave Stephen a new iPad. I gave him a new iPad for his sixtieth birthday. As you can see, I have virtually no imagination.

Went searching the other week for a husband-targeted birthday card, one specifically gooey with adoration, but they were all way too écrasant in their ghastly and I chickened out.

Celebrating both the birthday and the ‘permission’ to congregate with other vaccinated’s, we had lunch with a couple at a superbly COVID-revamped restaurant in town called The National. Stephen knows everybody, so other brave lunchers stopped by the table. It was a trace surreal.

Click on my attached photo, enjoy, and I’ll post a picture of the flower grower if you’re very nice to me.

I’d thought to borrow the title ‘Curious things about the house’ for this post, an homage, or ‘Spomage’ (sorry) rather, then tweaked to ‘Curiosities about the house’, but backed down — though our house is in fact curio heaven, or curio something.

I came home one day and found one of Stephen’s ‘finds’ dropped off near the front porch steps, and briefly imagined it had gotten there on its own, word having circulated among inanimate object circles that our house was like the elephant graveyard.

Stephen is the inveterate collector, but it will be revealed that the items on display in this post are actually mine.

These perky artifacts idle in a china cabinet from my mother’s house.  I’ve begun realizing that I routinely refer to the house that way reasonably, as she remained there alone 33 years after my father’s death at 48, 52 years ago today.

Emptying the house with my brother, I found these candles in a box of Christmas ornaments, wrapped in the same bit of tissue paper they’d return to each year after an appearance in some spruce or holly backed tableau.  It was the Fifties.

Now, their survival: they’ve got to be 65+ years-old, and they’re wax.  What are the odds.  Additionally, and I think I’ve wondered since childhood, wicks?  Who would light them and watch those tiny fawn heads melt?

My friend Will W says, ‘Only a monster!’  I’m going with that.

Next up: OXO silicone egg poachers.

You put them in boiling water up to the midriff there, crack the egg into the top scoop, it falls through into the cage, the egg coheres, egg white ‘feathers’ tamed!

Though you may not go into Eggs Benedict ecstasy as apparently I have done, you must have these, and will not know that until you do.  Thanks welcomed.

Why am I telling you this?

I started blogging in 2009, but in October 2016, I ditched the previous posts in a fit of cyber housecleaning. Some of it was really nice writing, but alas, as my old friend Susan once said: ‘Compulsion is a cruel master’.

Blog Stats

  • 48,272 hits


Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Join 15 other subscribers