h e ave n o n e a r t h .

hello

michael,

these are your words:

new york city has......given me comfortincited personal growthshown me to dismiss stereotypes (i.e. new yorkers are rude—not true)humbled meinspired my creative spiritirrevesibly changed who i am (for the better)given me new friendstaught me to look up(sometimes we forget beautiful things exist high up)shown me the goodness in humanityrejuvinated my dreams

your words are more eloquent than mine. maira kalman’s are eloquent too:

this is a year in my lifeabounding with anguish, confusion, bits of wisdom, meanderings, buckets of joie de vivre and restful sojourns.

AND NOW...

food is never just food. it’s also a way of getting at somting else: who we are, who we have been, and who we want to be.

-molly wizenberg, a homemade life

So give me soft, soft staticWith a human voice underneathAnd we can both get old fashionedPut the brakes on these fast, fast wheels

Oh let’s get old fashionedBack to how things used to beIf I get old, old fashionedWould you get old, old fashioned with me?

Put the wall clock in the top drawerTurn off the lights so we can seeWe will waltz across the carpet1-2-3-2-2-3

So give me the soft, soft staticOf the open fire and the shuffle of our feetWe can both get old fashionedDo it like they did in ‘43

Oh let’s get old fashionedBack to how things used to beIf I get old, old fashionedWould you get old, old fashioned with me?

-frightened rabbit

the sheriff of good times was born and raised in new york city. he has three children, all of whom are very serious. he tells his grandchildren to play music and smoke dope. his wife never comes to bluegrass because she has jealous tendancies, and there are young things around. the sheriff has lived in soho for the past 25 years and has the best apartment in the city with a recording studio in it. he used to make movies. the group of people who play bluegrass up front at the grisly pear play old time bluegrass. the sheriff prefers to play in back. there are no rules except to play quietly if someone is playing a solo. before grisly pear, there were three other locations they gathererd to play. they were kicked out of the first two spots because of bar brawls and the third spot’s lease ran out.

Why, who makes much of a miracle? As to me I know of nothing else but miracles, Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan, Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky, Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water, Or stand under trees in the woods, Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love, Or sit at table at dinner with the rest, Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car, Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer-forenoon, Or animals feeding in the fields, Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air, Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet and bright, Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring; These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles, The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.

To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle, Every cubic inch of space is a miracle, Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same, Every foot of the interior swarms with the same. To me the sea is a continual miracle, The fishes that swim--the rocks--the motion of the waves--the ships with men in them, What stranger miracles are there?

-Walt Whitman

My idea of a writer: someone interested in everything.

-susan sontag

dear god,

if possible, when my time comes (hopefully not for a long—long time) i would like my last meal to please include: my friends and family, wine, oysters, eggplant, fennel, rosemary, lamb, stars overhead, a bluegrass band, the sound of crashing waves, a book of poetry, grilled

calamari, a full moon, one or two volumes of the new yorker magazine, and a pot of french pressed coffee. and if you want, add pablo picasso, george orwell or ernest hemingway to the guest list—I would be fine with that. love, mike

she on the skateboardand I on foot, togetherwe search and explore

Two men were walking next to me on 22nd st btwn 7th and 8th. One man was in his late 40’s—silver hair; and the other was in his early 30’s at most. Silver Hair: We should go to Connecticut next Friday. It’s an easy drive.Young Guy: Doesn’t Martha stewart live in Connecticut?Silver Hair: It’s a big state—but yes, I suppose she lives thereSilver Hair: Maybe this time you won’t break up with me before our long weekend.Young Guy: Well, maybe if you stopped sleeping around with other men and told your wife about us, then I wouldn’t have to.Silver Hair: And you should tell your dad about us. This reminded how sane, blessed and simple our lives are compared to all the other crazies that roam our beloved streets.

does the new yorker know our soft spots? i think they do.theeditors love fall, pumpkins, cozy things and shades of orange.

the end.

heaven on earth.