A story of a hustler in Vegas with a heart of gold. I just wanted to hug this guy, and invite his daughter for a Shabbat meal.
i have this uncanny feeling that i’m going to grow up and be a stage mother.
christmas lights twinkling used to sting.
they brightened the street but created a dull
strong ache in my chest. they pricked
and meant a six-year-old cutting blue paper candles
instead of red.
no invitation for secret santa
a never-trimmed, non-existent tree.
and just that strong blue ache.
tonight on a road in jewish jerusalem
a lone tree sparkled in the baptist center
and two girls let out squeal: “a christmas tree!”
our words hushing the cold air
sweetness and nostalgia
a familiar ache.
20 years later
across the world
there is still the sting.
but now it’s longing for
togetherness, unity and calm.
the expected. the used to.
and maybe even a bit of the isolation.
In Boston for a one-day shoot and totally charmed by the town, the architecture, and the accompanying suburbs, separated by windy streets, starting-to-get-sparse trees, and brightly painted ginger bread houses. I felt a sense of calm here: maybe the history deletes any possibility of pretension. Boston (and Lexington and Burlington and Cambridge) knows who she is. She’s been around the block and she’s seen it all. There’s a steadiness, an all-knowingness and an ease. American and sturdy, wind-blown but intact. Peaceful. Proud.