June 2025 Snapshots

I took a right-hand turn and found myself driving in the Pride parade in the small beach town next to mine. I was on my way somewhere else but could not escape so I just went with it, waving and beeping, like I was supposed to be there. Happy Pride. You’re not going anywhere and the clock cannot be turned back. I stand with you always. I accidentally drive in the Pride parade and I will be late to where I am going but I feel privileged to be there among you.

Wonderful afternoon with my sister-in-law Melody and my niece Lucy. We drove to Providence to the Avon theatre, in operation since 1938, for a showing of Pride and Prejudice (the 2005 version). Lucy had never seen it. She hadn’t been to the Avon either. The Avon was where we would go, in high school and college, to see independent films, foreign films, classic films. We’d drive up to see a Hitchcock. We’d drive up to see a little French movie. The Avon is essential in such a small state with only a few arthouse theatres. Also it’s this old art deco building. Lucy was so into it. The movie was overwhelming and it was fun to hear Lucy’s bursts of laughter next to me, at the ridiculous Mr. Collins, or how unbelievably rude Mr. Darcy is, or the hilarity of the silly Bennett sisters. We walked across Thayer Street afterwards and had some Chinese food, talking about the movie, and about other things, technology and A.I. We have to do more outings like this. We all deserve it.

I met up for drinks with my first boyfriend, Antonio. We haven’t seen each other in years. Not since our mutual friend Brett died in 2011. I wondered if it would be awkward. He and I went through a lot together and much of it was really bleak and it ended with us living in our van for months, which I’ve written about before. I’ve joked that I had no business going off the grid when I should have been in a psych ward. None of which was his fault – at least not the mental illness part – and it was a million years ago. We met up at a seafood place – kind of legendary, at least in my neck of the woods. I’ve been going to this place since I was a kid. I’m sure he and I had dates there. It was a beautiful afternoon and actually kind of empty, maybe because it was a Friday. I don’t know. We sat up on the deck at first, with a view of the ocean, had drinks, food, and then we moved downstairs to the little patio out back. He brought a little bag filled with all the letters I wrote him – by hand !! – and cards we gave each other, as well as photos. Stuff I not only haven’t seen since we broke up but have no memory of doing any of the things portrayed in the photos, I have no memory of making all these little cartoons depicting our relationship, I have no memory of being so “lovey dovey”. It was shocking. We put each other through hell back then. It’s not like memory has blurred it out or like it didn’t happen. It’s just that we’re so far on the other side of it we can look back on it together and go, “…. what the fuck.” We were together for hours. There were times when we were WEEPING with laughter. It was rejuvenating. And surreal. The vibe was so positive we talked about the most harrowing shit with honesty and openness, we both were like “we should have broken up three months into the thing” – not because we didn’t love each other but because we were meant to be friends, not boyfriend-girlfriend. It was all okay to talk about. Here’s an exchange about, well, me losing my virginity to this man:
He: It wasn’t a bad experience for you, right?
Me: (sipping on my Bloody Mary) It could have been worse.
He practically did a spit take and then we howled. Unheard of even ten years ago. Look at us! Looking at photos of myself back then. Age 20, 21. Having no idea what was in store for me. Or him. Thank God I didn’t know.

Spent the weekend at my sisters. It’s been too long. When I lived in the New York area, I was there all the time, coming up a couple times a week to get my niece to the busstop, to babysit, to fill in if they needed it. I’ve missed that personal one-on-one time. I still see them all the time but usually in a group setting, where my niece and nephew race off to be with their cousins. So I took my niece to the movies. We saw Lilo and Stitch and fully enjoyed our time together. We talked about everything going on in her life. I loved it. Then we came home and watched Dance Moms, which she loves, and I couldn’t help myself, I kept giving her short lectures: “So you know this isn’t a good way to treat each other” “This is fun and all but I hope you know so much of it is fake.” She was very patient. “I know, She She.” Then the next morning I got to go see my nephew play baseball. My sister is one of the coaches. These little boys were so adorable in their uniforms. I love the whole ritual of it. Then I drove down to the city for Bloomsday.

The good thing about my life is I can work from anywhere. I was in New York for a lot of this month and went to this little cafe in Greenwich Village one morning, and signed on for work. It’s this cute coffee place where you also buy plants. There’s a little glassed-in area in the back filled with flowers. You drink your iced coffee surrounded by flowers and greenery. It was a rainy day and, I don’t know, it was ideal.

How is it possible he’s only been with me since November? LOOK at him. He is always near me and always in some variation of this pose. Except for when he’s racing around my apartment like a Tasmanian devil. He’s so dear.

Speaking of Frankie: I had someone take care of him while I was away, of course. I got pictures sent to me of him rubbing up against things, rolling around, playing with toys. So he adjusted to me not being there. But he went a little crazy at one point, and attacked the lower shelves of my bookcases, creating total chaos. I came home to a lot of books lying on the floor. Frankie! You went nuts! I had to laugh though because I walked in the door and this was the first book I saw, lying at my feet.

Reading
Judge on Trial, by Ivan Klíma (read this decades ago so it’s a re-read)
The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson (a couple a day)
Essays in Criticism, by Matthew Arnold