There you are, my blog reader. You’re out there somewhere in America, and I’m here in my little den in NYC. I have only spoken about 10 minutes in the last 2 days — when you live alone, that can happen.
The phone rings throughout the day. It’s almost never a real call from a real person I actually know. I miss that. I miss someone wanting to reach out to me, just as I want to reach out to them. And I do … I call people. They just don’t call me.
I don’t take it personally … but the one thing it’s hard to do is make new friends at this stage of life (see my blog statement). Can I insist on people calling me instead of emailing? Not that hundreds email me.
I’m whining. I know it. But you out there who live with someone you like and have come to take it for granted that at the breakfast table, someone will say: Pass the milk, don’t.
I’ve had cats – that’s been wonderful in its way but becoming deeply attached to an animal that dies too quickly is so painful I can no longer bear it. Besides, I can’t bend down to empty litter boxes, can’t take a dog for the long walk it deserves, and frankly don’t want to fill my small kitchen counter with cans of pet food.
I think I’ll play piano. When I do, I’m usually in deep communion with the composer… “What do you want me to say here?” “Oh, just something about laughter … pretend I’m tickling you.” “OK, how does this sound?” “Don’t depend on me to tell you — I’m dead! You’ll know it when you get it. I’ll stop by for a second or two.
“Or I’ll send down (or up) a smile for your face.”
Forgive me, gentle reader. It’s so grey outside. I haven’t sent anymore poems out, I didn’t do the laundry. Call me, someone – there’s a great new coffee place nearby with buttery croissants which you can eat while I much on my diet snack bar. No, go ahead, it won’t bother me. I insist!