In my dreams

Last night I dreamed I had a hidden talent for Looping.

Sitting at the sidebar

Let's lighten things up here at the Half, on the Frantic Freeway by Spike Jones.

All right

In the past two years, I've made choices that altered my life as well as the lives of others. I separated from my husband, got a place of my own, took a trip to Europe I couldn't afford, and repeatedly offered my heart to a man I knew was not in a position to receive it.

Here's an excerpt from the book Conversations With God, that puts into words why I believe, that regardless of the pain and suffering, we're always where we need to be, doing what we need to be doing.

"...I have never set down a "right" or "wrong," a "do" or a "don't." To do so would be to strip you completely of your greatest gift--the opportunity to do as you please, and experience the results of that; the chance to create yourself anew in the image and likeness of Who You Really Are; the space to produce a reality of a higher and higher you, based on your grandest idea of what it is of which you are capable.

"To say that something--a thought, a word, an action--is "wrong" would be as much to tell you not to do it. To tell you not to do it would be to prohibit you. To prohibit you would be to restrict you. To restrict you would be to deny the reality of Who You Really Are, as well as the opportunity for you to create and experience that truth."

Internationally Irish

Today, the Old Castle Restaurant & Pub on 54th Street advertised their "Irish" Breakfast Special. Belgian waffles, French toast, Bagels & lox.

Sitting at the sidebar

Something by Francis Dunnery

New York City 1963

Me & my brother Michael.

Secret...

Jokingly, I used to say that I wished marriage vows were different. I thought if instead of saying, "I promise to love and cherish you until death do us part," it would be more honest to say, "I promise to love and cherish you until I don't anymore."

I know it sounds terribly unromantic, but I'm beginning to think it makes more sense.

"Betrayal of yourself in order not to betray another, is betrayal nonetheless. It is the highest betrayal."

~From Conversations With God

Sitting at the sidebar

Jazz moves; it pounds and stirs the soul, leaving me closer to myself and more in love with the world.

Flying High by McCoy Tyner and the late, great Michael Brecker is doing just that, right now.

Sweet freedom

After almost 2 years, Annie finally had the dental extender taken out of her mouth. Although its purpose is to align little jaws, it also imposes a moratorium on all things chewy.

To celebrate, I let her go to town at Dylan's Candy Bar on Third Avenue.

Oh!

That fuse box!

Sidebar update

It's still Joni, only better.

Sitting at the sidebar

There's always a little Joni in me, and today is no exception.

The plan

The weather is beautiful, and David, Annie and I will spend the day together on a boat, circling Manhattan. We don't know what boat, we're not sure what time, but if there ever was a day to be on the water, it's today.

9 @ 9

Annie Kosh, 9, at 9 West 57th Street, NYC.

Quote

"He was like 200 in jazz musician years."

~David Kosh, on the passing of 83-year-old drummer, Max Roach.

Fact #658

I went to school with his kid.

In real time

Just finished singing to Annie as she fell asleep curled under my arm. Doesn't get much better than that.

Bravery

Young men riding the "A" train north to Yankee Stadium, dressed from head to toe in Boston Red Sox garb.

I wonder why they always travel in groups.

Sitting at the sidebar

I don't like country music, but the cowgirl in me holds a place in her heart for Willie Nelson. Romantic, honest and tender, and if there's such thing as country soul, I think he's got it.

"Skin" deep

Katie: "I ate the most delicious yellow apple today, but my eyes got all itchy."

Annie: "You know you're allergic to apples."

Katie: "Well, I was hoping it was only to red apples."

Annie: "Mom, that's like racism!"

Katie: "How do you mean?"

Annie: "You know, different color, same inside?"

Wanted

Someone to pay me a substantial salary to stay home and blog.

All reasonable offers considered.

Sitting at the sidebar

My all time favorite from Johnny Cash.

Men will be boys

Truth. Sunday at 5:00 a.m., there were eight men in my bedroom.

I was awoken around 4:00 a.m. by an energetic squirrel playing on my fire escape, so I decided to get up and get a glass of water. I was startled when I went to flip on the light and the switch burned my hand. I felt the wall which was also hot, and I could hear a faint buzzing sound coming from the same spot. Damn, I thought. I really don't want to call 911 at this hour, especially the fire department; they always make a big deal over nothing. Then I thought I smelled smoke. Damn. Hell.

But I was still determined to get myself out of this. I was in boxer shorts and a tank top, up much too early on a Sunday, and I really didn't feel like getting dressed or having an apartment full of people. I also had no interest in waking the firemen as they slept soundly in the station, dreaming of whatever firemen dream of. So I put on some coffee, turned on the computer, and typed in a search for the phrase, Hot light switch.

It looked like a common enough problem, something I could surely tend to after a few more hours of sleep, but just as I was about to make my way back to bed, I spotted the heading: Dangerously hot light switch. I clicked on the article and learned that a hot light switch was really no big deal, if it was a dimmer switch. But if it was a standard switch (which of course mine was), then basically it had Fire Hazard written all over it. Still, I didn't want to call 911, at least not yet. What I wanted was to have a civilized conversation with a trained professional, so instead I dialed 411 and asked for the number of my local fire station.

"I'm sorry," said the operator, "We don't have that number. If you want the fire station, you'll have to call 911."

I explained my reluctance to wake the firemen, alarm the neighbors and draw attention to a situation that might prove to be no situation at all. The operator listened, then suggested that instead of calling 911 or 411, I should call 311: The official number of The City of New York.

"Thank you for calling 311, this is Edgar," said the much-too-friendly-voice-for-4:00 a.m. "How may I assist you?"

"Hi Edgar," I said, "here's the thing. I've got a hot light switch but I'm not sure if it's an emergency, and I'd really like to talk to someone who knows about these things, you know, so I can first determine if it's really an emergency. "

Edgar said he'd be happy to transfer me over to the fire department so I could speak with a trained professional. It rang for a bit, then there was a click, then I was disconnected. I dialed again.

'Thank you for calling 311, this is Jenny," said the friendly, but not-as-friendly-as-Edgar's-voice, on the end of the line. "How may I assist you?"

I told Jenny about the light switch and about the disconnected call.

"That's odd," she said. "Even if I wanted to, there's no one to transfer you to. It's standard procedure to put you straight through to 911."

I told her about Edgar and his promise, and his ability to connect me with a trained professional.

"I'm really not sure who Edgar is or why he thought you could speak to someone before calling 911," Said Jenny, so I gave up as she put me through...to 911.

"What is your emergency?" asked the operator.

"I'm not sure if it's an emergency," I said, and I told her about the hot light switch, the hot wall, the buzzing, and the smell of smoke.

"I'm transferring you to the fire department," said the operator.

A thick New York accent picked up the line. "Fire Department!" he barked, "What's your location?" I gave him my address.

"Where's that?" he barked again, "The Bronx?"

"Washington Heights," I said, and he told me a truck was on its way. A truck. Right. It wasn't going to be just one truck, I knew that, and they certainly weren't going to come quietly.

I put on some jeans, threw on my red New York hooded sweat jacket, went downstairs and planted myself outside on the stoop. As I sat and waited in the dark, the thought crossed my mind that if I were a smoker, this would be a perfect time to light up. Just then I heard it. The sirens.

In minutes, the first truck barreled up the street, then the second, then the third; one siren louder than the next. Then out came the men. The first, the second, ten in all, dressed in massive gear, heavy boots, oxygen tanks strapped to their muscular backs. And as they approached me, each one smiled, and yes, they were sleepy smiles. It was clear I had woken them up, and I feared it may have been for nothing.

Eight of them came upstairs, piled into my bedroom and hovered around the light switch, looking at it as if it were a new toy or a frog with two heads; something to play with or dissect.

"Where's your fuse box?" one of them asked. I froze.

"What does it look like?" I replied, not trying to be funny.

"It's the box where the fuses are kept," he said.

"Is it the thing that Con Ed checks every month?" I walked him into the kitchen, pointing over the top of the refrigerator.

He smiled, "That's the gas meter."All eight of them laughed.

Great, I thought, I've just been reduced to Dumb Broad, I know it.

After the power in my room was successfully shut off, one fireman proceeded to unscrew and remove the switch cover, pulling out the ancient and burnt wires from inside the wall.

"You'll need to call your landlord," said another fireman. "And maybe, if you're lucky, in about 3 months he'll get around to replacing these wires."

All eight of them laughed again.

I gave them a "Thanks a lot" kind of smile, feeling much as I do during the holidays when my two brothers inevitably corner me with their relentless teasing tactics.

Then the chief chimed in, "We'll have to get a closer look,” he said. Right then I saw the faces of every one of those men turn on just like that light switch, and I would bet they had an unspoken system for deciding who would get to do the honors this time.

"We have to make a hole in the wall," the chief said.

"Oh no you don't!" I said. All eyes were suddenly on me."I know exactly what this is! You don’t really need to bust a hole in my wall, you're all just a bunch of little boys who grew up and got jobs doing things you used to be punished for!" Silence fell over the room.

"You've got one thing wrong," said the chief.

"And what's that?" I asked.

"We never grew up."

And as the eight little boys stood huddled together laughing in firefighter suits, the Chosen One took out his clawed hammer and gleefully gouged a hole in my bedroom wall.

A consolation prize I thought, for waking them from their dreams. And really, it was the least I could do for a room full of little boys who grew up to be firemen.

Secret...

I have a red hot story to tell. If I can, I'll post it later tonight.

Update: No time to write it tonight, but I'm aiming for tomorrow...

Brazil?

I'm definitely feeling it.

Sitting at the sidebar

When I fall in love, he will appreciate When I Fall In Love... by Bill Evans.

In memory

Max Roach

Parts to ponder

Seth says if you have a recurring ailment in one or more areas of your body, you are most likely conflicted about that part of you.

In my dreams

Last night I dreamed I was in a plane crash.

I survived it.

Morocco...

...or Panama?

Life happens

I just haven't had time to blog it.

I'll try to ketchup, I promise.

xox,

Katie

Sitting at the sidebar

Want to know what's bringing me joy tonight? Just click on the music player at the sidebar.

Mad crush

He's kind and funny and a jazz enthusiast. He has long gray hair and he's sexy as hell, he's Annie's orthodontist and I have a mammoth crush on the man.

Is it wrong?

...to love not being married anymore?

A little night nesting

Tonight I'm staying in, taking a long bath and listening to music. Maybe later on I'll light my favorite candle, have a glass of wine, and write a little something to post at The Half Note.

Thankful

In whatever form it comes; this morning it's To Go.

Sitting at the sidebar

Turn up the volume, then listen to Kaki King.

Thankful

This in no way, shape or form, resembles my workspace.

Is it wrong?

To blog from work?

I decided to indulge in a little clothes shopping on my way way home this afternoon, and as I approached the cashier with my 4 pretty tops, I said to her, "Don't you just love being a girl?"

She smiled and laughed, but somehow I didn't think she loved it as much as I did.

I live in a small town

Today I was mailing a letter on the corner of 41st and Madison, when I had a sudden desire to call my brother Danny. I dialed his cellphone and we talked a while.

"Let me call you right back, " he said a few minutes later, "I'm just getting out of a cab."

"Where are you?" I asked.

He replied, "41st and Madison."

"I'm on 41st and Madison!" I exclaimed, and just then I saw his taxi pull up and out he came. We embraced, stood on the corner and talked, then suddenly I heard a familiar voice behind me.

"Katie?"

I turned around and it was my friend Lizzie.

I just love living in a town of 8 million.

It's sweater weather!

Sitting at the sidebar

I recently received an email from a fellow blogger in the U.K. who stumbled upon The Half Note and offered some kind words. He also thought I might like this piece of music by pianist Stan Tracy and saxophonist Bobby Wellins. But I don't like it... I love it. Thank you.



Please click the music player...

Coney Island Picture #4

Brighton Beach photos #2 & 3

Hot car.

Hot coffee on hot car.