...:: * ::... 

Jerri recently introduced me to Maira Kalman's work. She's
absolutely wonderful. I love her words, her paintings, her humor.
If she were a man, I'd seduce and marry her. Hell. I might even
if she were a woman. Which she is.
   I wonder what she's doing Saturday night...

note: the following is a brief excerpt from ms. kalman's illustrated
column, posted each wednesday on the new york times website.
although you must purchase a subscriber account to access the
column, it's more than worth it.

* * *

"My sister and I go to Israel during the short,
furious, the-world-is-doomed war.
For a wedding.
Because you cannot postpone weddings in
dark times—especially in dark times.
Who knows when the light will come on again?
Are things normal? I don't know.
Does life go on?
YES.

[snip]

I return to New York. Tired. Sad.
The world is coming to an end.
What to do? What to do?

I know what to do. Spend the day on the subway.
Oh wonderful, life-affirming, two-dollar subway ride.
I go with Rick. He wears a straw hat,
and he will take pictures.
It is August. Hot but not too hot.
We take the F train to Coney Island.

Two girls on the way to the aquarium have tied
t-shirts around their heads and they are dancing.
D A N C I N G!

A man in a black hat and scraggly beard reads a book
A woman next to him wears a green hat and does not
read a book. The man takes his brown suitcase and
gets off at Delancey Street. Things are looking up.

And his serene and charming paintings.
I think of his bulldog tenacity and solid optimism.
Winston, where are you now?"

© copyright maira kalman, new york times

...:: * ::... 

I kneel and extend my hand in invitation...he comes eagerly,
thrusts his velvet nose into my palm knowing it holds his
favorite treat—a pinch of oats, blueberries, or maple leaves
picked fresh from the backyard. His mouth is impossibly soft
against my palm...the softest sensation I've ever felt.
   Once again, I marvel at his beauty. He looks the same as
the day I first saw him and carried him home, cupped in my
hands, held close to my heart, nearly thirteen years ago.
   The treat finished, we stretch out flat on the floor, nose-to-
nose, chin on carpet, and commune. I tell him my deepest
secrets; he listens, liquid brown eyes closed, drifting into
sleep as I stroke his ears and cheeks.
   Graystone, little lapin prince...show me your dreams.
Let me see what you see...

* * *

"At least once before I die, I want to remember everything I've ever touched. Maybe not all at once though as the swelling of a single sense must surely crush the others, but slowly, positively and without compunction. Piecemeal, reunification.
   I want the surface of everything to reanimate my nerves and concentrate in the tips of my fingers. Rise slowly, like blood from a puncture, eking in darts and figure eights around the lonely boulder of my heart."