Last night was pretty much a perfect New York evening, the kind that makes me happier than I can say with my life as it is right now. And I don’t think there’s a better way to spend the evening of the 4th than at a picnic on the roof of the McKittrick, watching fireworks with friends & fellow drunks.
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It was the spinsters who made me. Who made farm-share feasts with me for our family dinners and watched Golden Girls with me every night. Who sent me silver-framed photographs of us at a Houston diner, and glitter-framed photographs of us at Graceland, and magnet-backed photographs to put on my fridge of us sharing a bed at a Palm Springs hotel. Who talked with me for hours on the phone as we lay a thousand miles apart in bed in the dark until one of us finally fell asleep. Who asked me to help them choose their mother’s gravestone. Who told me about their abortions. Who bought me a dress for my yet-to-be-adopted daughter. Who made me the aunt of their one-eyed Chihuahua. Who sat next to me in church. Who swayed on the piano bench as they accompanied the gospel choir with a ring on every finger, playing from “sheet music” that was simply a piece of paper saying “Abundantly Blessed in F.” Who burned sage in my apartment and said blessings and jingled bells and burned small sticks of aromatic Panamanian wood to drive out the bad energy after my roommate’s psychotic break. Who came into money unexpectedly and paid off my $65,000 student loans and changed my life forever. Who left me long delirious voicemails on the happiest day of their life with their voice stretched almost to breaking with joy. Who sent me lilies on my birthday (“It’s Heavenly to Be With You” in the language of flowers) and filled my Easter basket and stuffed my Christmas stocking and made me black-eyed peas on New Year’s for good luck. Who invited me over for cava in the garden or vinho verde on the deck. Who invited me to stay with them during a hurricane when my house was shaking. Who were my family and made me their family as they lived with metastatic cancer. Who called me Lovely and Lady and Sweetie-pie and Dear. Whom I called Lovely and Lady and Sweetie-pie and Dear. Who are my readers and editors and muses and collaborators and confidants. Who are my loves. Who know that although in the eyes of the world and the law we are alone, we are not alone.
I don’t go to sleep no more very often anymore because I think even over the space of twelve years, one hundred times is probably more time than one needs to see the same play, even a large strange play that is also very good. I still have an enormous amount of affection for this big weird building and all the big weird shit inside it, but there’s generally a lot of things competing for my $150 at any given moment. you know how it is.
anyway! all of this to say I went to the show a few weeks ago for the first time since summer 2022, and I had a blast, with the exception of the approximately twenty minutes total I spent in manderley, which was a little bit heartbreaking, if I’m honest.
but that’s okay. all of the new cast (and all of the new-to-me cast) are great, all of the not-new cast are great, I had a great time stalking the cunning man as per usual, everything is great. (please do actually fix manderley though.) ok thanks bye!
Photograph of a dance recording by Franz Löwy at the “Exposition Internationale des Arts Décoratifs et Industriels Modernes” in Paris in 1925