New Year’s Day

First day of the new year, or New Year’s Day. Helicopters bring tourists from New Jersey for a fly-by over Central Park and the buildings of my East Side neighborhood, making it sound as if this is a war zone, and I think about the ones who actually live in a war-zone– in Syria, Yemen, Iraq, etc. And the fires in Australia, referred to with insufficient alarm, except by David Wallace-Wells who writes (In the Intelligencer) that: Global Apathy Toward the Fires in Australia Is a Scary Portent for the Future.

We should leave, but where is there to go? Where is it safe and quiet now? 2020, you’re off to a rocky start.

Still, Paul and I will play music next month (for the first time in 7 years!) at a friend’s club in Brooklyn (The Owl Music Parlor– on February 6). I’ve been practicing every day, reminding my fingers how to play, feeling the songs again, feeling my way inside them. Singing is a marvel, a relief, like howling or crying. And songs are prayers, hopeful, magical, though things are bleak in the world and the concept of healing is hard to believe in. But we need to believe, to hope, (and play music).

February 6, 2020. Lori Carson (with Paul Pimsler), and Atoosa Grey at the Owl Music Parlor

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Last night I dreamed I had a daughter. She was playing in a park and I needed to find her. The feeling I had was similar to dreams I’ve had of trying to keep my animals safe. In Olga Tokarczuk’s brilliant “Driving the Plough Over the Bones of the Dead,” Mrs Duszejko, the wonderfully odd and philosophical protagonist, refers to her missing dogs as “my little girls.” I had just finished reading the book, so maybe that’s why I had the dream. But also upon waking, I thought of Minnow, my fictional daughter, who was left to ride horses in South America in some future I imagined for her.

I’m in reading mode again, not that it ever stops. But sometimes, I seem to need it more than other times, for both escape and comfort. Inspiration too. I have become increasingly particular about what I need. Wise books by brilliant women. Characters who have seen a thing or two. I’m not interested in coming-of-age tales, or conventional love stories. I want a story of a woman who has been through some things. She is a little cracked as a result but has acquired a unique and independent way of looking at the world. Yesterday, I went to the Corner Bookstore. I knew just what I wanted. Sometimes, I go and browse, but this time I knew: Rachel Cusk’s book of essays, “Coventry,” Deborah Levy’s new novel, “The Man Who Saw Everything,” and Olga Tokarczuk’s first book (in translation), “Flights.” I think I’ll start with the essays. Cusk’s intelligence always satisfies.

As far as writing goes, I am between books. I plan to start another soon, though what it will be about I don’t know. I’ve finished three since the first; they sit here on my computer, mostly unread. I am without an agent now and spend some time each week looking for one. But mostly, I am living my life, walking Gem in the park, reading, cooking for myself. I play the piano or guitar, go for a run with Tracy. The other day at the dog park, a man asked me what I do for work. “I’m either unemployed or retired,” I said cryptically. Of course, neither is true. I continue to work, though the conventional understanding of “work” would not seem to apply when the work is made without reason or compensation. In truth, it is not enough for me either. Work is meant to have a finish line, and to be shared. Well, it seems to be beyond my control for now. Maybe I have had my turn (at worldly success) and I should try harder to accept that that time is finished — accept that my work is incidental to the world as it is now. Ambition is painful. I do try, even as I look for a new agent. I repeat like a mantra: accept what is.

(Painting by Matthew Wong)

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I’m not sure how to begin. Like many, I’ve been in a strange place lately, but maybe that’s when you turn to strangers. There is just so much you can ask from your friends. So, here I am. What I’ve been thinking about is what next? Or what now? I suppose I could lock myself in a room with a bunch of instruments as Rob O once suggested– I have a room. I could begin another novel or a short story, perhaps, but more and more it seems like futility to do the things I know how to do. So I walk my dog. A cheerful creature named Gem who gets me moving and is a constant source of humor. She’s totally food-obsessed and would probably choose a cheeseburger over me, but she’s a good dog. Without her company, I don’t know what I’d do.

What to do with a life that has been about one thing only? I suppose I could change cat litter boxes at an animal shelter or volunteer at a food pantry. Visit with old people, rub their feet or read to them. I could make myself useful is what I mean.

Sometimes, I think: just stop. Stop trying. I’m still in the mode of believing I can make something happen as I did when I was young. But I’ve slipped under the wheels of a different time and become irrelevant. This is natural. It’s only my resistance to it that is unnatural. All year, I’ve queried agents, looking for a new one. And wrote a new book too as I did this. So the unpublished work accumulates. What to do with it? Today, reading over the agents’ names, I realized that I have queried some more than once, some three times, like an insane person! Mortifying.

Outside, the chanting voices of children marching for climate change. They’ve been let out of their private schools for this purpose. It’s our fault, they say. We adults who did nothing, while the world became uninhabitable. What to say to this? How to defend it? It’s a failing of our species, an inability to live without harming everything around us. How to change this fatal flaw? It will be more difficult than eliminating fossil fuels. Character is destiny on the largest scale.

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Change Is Hard

I read an essay by the writer Meghan Daum the other day. After living in California and being married and divorced, Daum returned to Manhattan and resumed a similar, if not identical, life to the one she had lived twenty years before. She described the sense she had of returning to herself when this happened, the self she was unable to circumvent by temporarily adhering to societal conventions, such as marriage and working in an office. This was who she was, she realized, the one she was inevitably meant to be. Daum equated it to the number on a bathroom scale when, despite dieting and other temporary gains and losses, her body always seemed to return to the same weight. The life she was living again was her “normal,” she realized, the state she would return to no matter what. Sitting at a messy desk, writing on a deadline, eating deli sushi, drinking coffee, staring out the window. This was where she was, and where she would end up, too – because it was who she was.

Of course, I identified with Daum’s realization about this inevitability. I wrote about it in The Original 1982. That’s not to say that I believe we’re incapable of changing anything about ourselves, or our lives, but overall, I think we tend to drift back to a state that is true to our nature. I’m thinking specifically of my own decision to stop performing when I say this, and also of my romantic history. My life as a musician was stressful, the travel in combination with all the things that can go wrong. An unsympathetic sound-system, a broken string, voice or hands that refuse to behave. As for love, it’s been even more fraught.

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Doe, my love 2008-2019

I felt terrified of the moment when she would die. I have been through it with other animals and it’s never easy, but I knew losing her would be much harder. She is my companion in a deep way, I think because it’s been just the two of us. Also, she is a dog. I have loved cats, certain of them more than the humans I lived with at the time, but loving a dog is different. Their needs are constant and their attention is always on you. A cat no matter how much it loves you will treat you with some indifference. A dog, never. Its love is big and devoted and demands a corresponding feeling. A dog is both a permanent toddler and your best friend. Which doesn’t quite explain the way I love this particular dog—who is clever and funny and sensitive. She moves to curl up against me every time she wakes in the night. And in the morning rolls onto her back to have her belly rubbed. She gazes at me with intelligent brown eyes. She has the softest fur, is beautiful and elegant, and this is not only my very biased opinion. It is confirmed by strangers every day on the street who say, “What a beautiful dog!” and “What breed is she?”

“She’s a Papillion mix,” I reply, though, in fact, I’m not sure what breed she is, or what mix. She is uniquely herself, my Doe. When I ask her a question, her ears pop up to signal yes. Ears back, means no. If I say, “Do you want to visit Tracy and Jasper?” she will pull me all the way to 96th Street, right to their door. I don’t care what anyone says to dispute it; she understands what I say. When I first saw her, it was in a photograph on She was wearing a cheap red collar, standing outside in the snow, looking directly into the camera lens. I chose her from dozens of dog-photographs, for her intelligent expression, her delicate beauty, her tragic circumstances. She was 8 months old when I brought her home and we have been inseparable ever since. For 10 years, I have loved her more.

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Last Day of Summer

There were men on paddle-boards and no one else in the ocean, but the water was warm and I walked along the shoreline, ankle deep, with the seagulls who thought I was chasing them; I was, but only because they ran from me. I just wanted to talk to them, and remark on the beautiful morning we shared. The sun was shining and it was 75 degrees. The clouds looked painted on the blue sky and the waves felt soft and inviting as a bath.

My mother sat a few yards away, up on the sand, wearing her jean jacket and sunglasses. When I was sixteen, I used to beg her to drive me to the beach because seeing the ocean could always act against my depression, especially in the winter when a strong wind could blow it away and there was no one else around. I don’t get depressed the way I did then when I thought life seemed unbearably long and wondered how I’d get through it. Now I know all the tricks, and, besides, it’s three-quarters over. I still get sad though. I guess it’s the same things that get to me and the same things that save me. More than a half century of love and loss and the beauty of the world.

I walked back and sat beside my mother. She is 84 and doesn’t get depressed, not even when she has a good reason. I thought: How many more days like this? The sand was smooth and clean and we buried our feet in it and then walked on the boardwalk. I got a lobster roll from a food truck. My mother got an orange soda, but the bees liked it and chased us back to the car.

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Our Fragile Bodies

Yesterday, Doe and I were in that place in the park… just north of the bridle path, on the East Side but west of the road. The hill there slopes down on two sides to form a bowl of newly mowed grass, surrounded by trees. It’s one of our favorite places to rest and think. I never take for granted the joy of having Doe resting there, beside me. Yesterday, it was overcast but the sun kept breaking through. Still, it felt like it could rain at any moment. There was a strong breeze and it was quiet except for the noise of the trees moving in the wind. We were almost alone there except for an occasional runner, up on the bridle path, and two young women on the far side of the bowl, doing cartwheels and taking pictures of one another with a real camera. I made an effort to be where I was, there with Doe, and not in my head thinking of unreal things, or lost things, or things not happened yet.

The time with K. starts to feel like a dream. Like it didn’t happen. Or like it happened but wasn’t real. Although, every day there is the painting he gave me, on the wall, and the memory of some sweet or funny thing he said. I truly thought I was beyond it ever happening again but I should know better than to underestimate life’s surprises. It was poignant and heartbreaking for many reasons, none of them romantic. Romantically, there is no issue. I’m convinced of this, although who knows? I suppose, despite my feelings, it could be one-sided, but I don’t think so. I don’t think that’s the problem this time.

Like always, it is my work that rescues me, a new novel completed (K. helped, reviewing each chapter, encouraging me to go forward). I’m looking for a new agent and will take my time doing so. I don’t want this book to be sold into oblivion. I want to find someone who will find the right place for it, respect it, and support it. The new book is called While We Have Bodies. I started it long before K. and I got together but the title resonated during that time. Our fragile bodies. They serve the purpose of containing us– our souls, or whatever it is that makes us, us.

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Second-Hand Sweaters and Artifacts

I was at Housing Works the other day — Doe drags me in there numerous times per week: they give her dog biscuits, the shitty kind she isn’t allowed at home. Anyway, I don’t mind being dragged into Housing Works. I like thrift stores and consignment shops. Sometimes, I look down at myself as I walk along and realize that everything I’m wearing from coat to jeans has been worn by someone else first. Better second-hand cashmere than fast fashion, I say — better for the world and for me too. I continue to enjoy beautiful things though I can no longer afford them. Who can? The price of things has become absurd. I know there are many in my position. It’s the state of the changing world. There are a lot of poor people. In fact, I’m well off by most standards. I have a roof over my head and food to eat. My animals receive medical care when they need it. There are many, many worse off. And truthfully, I’m more comfortable living a bare-bones existence anyway. I’m repulsed by shows of excess. I suppose our non-president has brought into focus the grotesquery of wealth. Greed is so ugly, the opposite of compassion. What kind of fantasy do you have to live in to believe you deserve to travel by private plane while others live in refugee camps or don’t have enough to eat?

But this isn’t what I meant to write about at all. I meant to write about the strange sensation that came over me while I was looking through second -hand sweaters at Housing Works. They always have music playing and on this occasion, the song being blasted at a pretty good volume over the sound system was a David Bowie song — strangely, I can’t recall now which song it was; perhaps, it will come back to me before I finish writing this. But I was enjoying listening to the song, and that’s when it happened, this weird shift in perspective. Suddenly, I found myself feeling sad and thinking that Bowie is dead and, more and more, the music being blasted through speakers in stores, and restaurants, and everywhere is an artifact– not of the present but the past. And that increasingly we will live in a world where this is true. It wasn’t even a thought so much as a feeling. Kids will grow up loving music, art, fashion from decades before they were born. They will understand Bowie and the Beatles and Joni Mitchell as artifacts, not artists. Anyway, maybe this is not such a big revelation, but it struck me as such.

It’s possible that this sense of the world, as increasingly strange, is characteristic of aging– getting old, I mean. Unbelievably, I will turn 60 in March. I still love the world, have become increasingly appreciative of it, in fact. Not the horrible things, of course, of which there are too many. But the beauty of it: the five-story maple tree outside my window, the birds, and the rooftops. Good friends and family. My work, which continues to give me something to do and, on good days, provides meaning.

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Beast of Beauty

I’m sitting here at my desk by the window with its view of the big maple tree. All the rain this spring has turned it into a beast of beauty. I need to find other words for lush and green because I write the tree into everything. It seems sentient, alive, not only in the sense that we think of plants as being alive. But as if it has consciousness — if trees (and animals) are more aware than we know, imagine what they must think of our barbaric species? I’m ashamed to be human sometimes.

I am done with school as of last week, a graduate of 2017. I returned to Hunter to complete my degree after thirty-plus years. I wanted to be a better writer, and thought I might want to teach writing and so would need the degree. But in the end, I believe I made a good decision at twenty when I decided life was a better teacher. Maestra Vida in the words of someone I once loved. I enjoyed my classes, read literature and poetry that I had overlooked; took courses in human rights, history, philosophy, math, and science, too. But on the other end, it does feel like an indulgence or diversion. I’m anxious to get back to my own work. I’ve started a novel and would like to write some new music. I’ll probably need a job too, something part-time, but I’d rather clean houses than work in academia. I reject its small-mindedness and rigidity, its insularity and obstruction of individualism and creativity. (I know that’s harsh and probably unfair.)

As I worried about what I would do next, I got an email from Lyndsey P. about writing a tribute to Gregg Allman for Yahoo, and then G. requested my manuscript, “The Ones I Loved,” to give to his new publisher. So, I wrote the Gregg Allman piece — the link is posted on the “News” page — and now I’m revising the manuscript before sending it to G. It’s easier to see the tweaks that need to be made, two years later. I am in no danger of sitting idle. It feels wonderful, though, to be free of a schedule, for now at least.

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Something in Your Eye

It’s been a long time since I’ve written here; since I’ve wanted to write. I read an article in the New Yorker this morning about a Brazilian author, Raduan Nassar, who wrote two short highly regarded novels years ago and then quit to be a farmer. Repeatedly, he was asked why he had quit writing but he didn’t know. He tried to come up with explanations over the years but the truth was probably he just no longer wanted to. Reading Swann’s Way by Proust, I think, again, about how the best writing comes from a need to communicate. More than a need, a compulsion. All good writing is one side of a conversation, a necessary communication. Reading Proust, one has the sense that his reflections were essential to him. When you have something in your eye, you don’t have to coax yourself to remove it. Emotional disturbance, loneliness, political unrest, disappointment, longing. These things motivate an outpouring. What is the purpose of writing only to have written? I admire the writer who becomes a farmer when he has said all he has to say.

At times, I have clung to my identifying label “artist.” Who am I without that which I have always been? I’ve been thinking about this a long time; I wrote “Part Missing” fifteen years ago. I’m a part/of the woman I used to be/I don’t know what’s become of the rest of me/Did I leave her there with you? As a musician and songwriter, I have been genuine in my need to communicate, to connect with others in the world. And I still feel that need, despite an ever increasing hermithood. (How proud I feel to be a member of the resistance, for example, to be a woman ready to do what we must to protect our freedoms and our planet.) I still want to write, to connect, but have not felt the same need to communicate. Has it been sated by social media? That would be a shame, I suppose. I don’t know. The truth is, the answer is a mystery.

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