We paid our annual visit to the John Lennon memorial in Central Park today, then played hide and seek with the sun: it peeked out for a few seconds, then hid behind a cloud, then came out, then hid, and so did we, slipping in and out of shirts and hats and jackets each time the breeze pricked up gooseflesh or the sun’s warming rays briefly shone. Why can’t it be a proper May at last? Sun, warmth? Spring…?
But at least the buds and blossoms were out, and the first warbling birds of spring, and the first warbling John Lennon impersonators as well. Well-intentioned, all. (Talented, some.) Books being read included historical comic HARK, A VAGRANT, Lawrence Block’s BORDERLINE (random comment: “This book is full of boobs!”), MOBY-DICK via Kindle (thank you, Jeff Bezos, patron said of carpal-tunnel avoidance), and HUNT THROUGH THE CRADLE OF FEAR. Oh, also HOUSE OF LEAVES. Because, you know, HOUSE OF LEAVES.
Tomorrow we visit our rooftop sanctuary and give ourselves the full Shailene Woodley treatment. Wish us luck, people.