New York in May (yes, that's still LA, somehow)

Dawn's apartment has a great small room for keeping jade plants and writing letters by the window, though not for reading, since the chair is bare and stiff. It is spring in New York and within the frame of the dirty window two maple trees nearly block the brick facade of the school building, and there is a good feeling of space and vegetation. These small deceptions belong to cities and make me feel that I belong to cities, too, since I have always loved to find a hidden courtyard or a garden on a rooftop.

I have been re-reading A Moveable Feast, to get to Pound.

"When spring came, even the false spring, there were no problems except where to be happiest. The only thing that could spoil a day was people and if you could keep from making engagements, each day had no limits. People were always the limiters of happiness except for the very few that were as good as spring itself."

I think I would say now the only thing that spoils these days is the awful technology. People are welcome. Any minute Simon will call to say he is down on the street. Then he will come up and we will make a salad and talk about the last three years, which is how long it's been since we last saw each other. People on the street below have small, efficient shoulder bags. A city for walking makes for light travelers, and this elicits a moderate degree of envy. I brought too much for two weeks, and anyway I have been wearing the same pair of jeans and the tee shirt with the title of Dan's novel in green felt letters.

I asked Whit for bad ideas; he said cocktails at 4:30 on a sidewalk with a view of walkers. I didn't ask for good ideas, but he said "If you carry a camera make it a mini digital. And if it's a day out and about wear comfy quiet shoes." But my camera is large and my red boots make the sound I couldn't wait to make when I was a little girl. The click clack of a woman's heels on the sidewalk. Walking back late from the subway last night, I carried that rhythm somewhat painfully and woke up at 6 this morning with a charlie horse.

I've been looking at maps of Montana once every two or three weeks. Two hours from Dillon to Missoula, four from Dillon to Red Lodge. Surely there will be time to put something aside and plan a trip. Coffin is going to see his old friend and Sam will be tending the middle cow camp from June to November. For me it is a question of the season, maybe a little of courage, because I have been dreaming for a long time and it takes courage to give up a dream.

But I am drifting. The window is open now, and I have Richard Goode playing Bach, and although I'd like to be comfortable in a tee shirt, I've become vulnerable to the Northeastern chill, which maybe means I've hit the peak of my days in Southern California and am gearing for the long descent.

Simon made an album and it sounds like this: clean out my heart before you leave.