Standing in line yesterday to gain admittance to the paradise that is Trader Joe's, I looked up and beheld The Salesforce Tower, its top floor glittering in the distance like a Mormon Temple.
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Looking at famous paintings, as I have been in my free time, it looks to me that every time a famous painter makes a brushstroke he or she is trying to become beautiful or famous or powerful or immortal.
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The foghorns this morning: on my deathbed, the very last sounds I'd like to see. Yesterday walks through the park: everyone over the age of 10 is walking with some awareness of their own death, most of them for the first time.
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The bookshelf, once relegated to a humdrum life dedicated to a strictly utilitarian purpose, is enjoying a major upsurge in popularity and status.
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We live at the most interesting time in our cinematic history. This is a masterpiece, a Bergman movie in which the actors are presumed dead before the credits roll.
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Over the years, novelist Eric Goodman’s books have been described in many ways – readable, fascinating, raw, honest.
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Now that men can have husbands I can relax and read a magazine, knowing our civil liberties are thriving. Eventually though, one of us will have to get up to do the dishes and take the dog for a walk.
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