Miss Peri Lyons' observations on:love,culture, ghosts, love, celebrity, psychic ability and how to get it, fashion, boys, girls,cats, artists, love, and anything else that wanders by.
What is an Ampelopsis? To quote Lord Peter Wimsey: "An ampelopsis is a suburban plant that climbs by suction."
(Speaking of which, everything here is copywright-ed 2012 immediately.)
[Author's note: wrote this a year and a half ago. Have calmed down somewhat, since. xo]
1) In my current neighborhood, there is a fair amount of no money. And a more-than-average-share of homeless folks. One very tall, very very drunk homeless gentleman has been standing on the corner lately,
aiming acute and pointless and very good observations at his entourage of invisible friends.
Today, he pointed at one of "them" (who was very specifically NOT standing exactly three fet to the left of me, leaning negligently against an invisible lamppost)- and shouted sternly, "We will only be free when ALL of our eyes are perpendicular! Perpendicular eyes equal freedom!"
Appraently his friend raised an invisible skeptical eyebrow because the homeless gentleman became rather insistent on the subject, as though to both warn and convince his ethereal fellow.
I left, and went home, in order to look up "perpendicular". It means "exactly vertical or upright".
I am still impressed, both by his conviction and his ability to pronounce "perpendicular" shortly after replacing all the fluid in his body with MadDog 2020, Vintage: Tuesday.
Also? I think he may be right.
I'm just not sure what about.
2) My cat Princess has become more and more spoiled, because I've been home writing nonstop and she's been on my lap the entire time. Her demands are getting increasingly specific. First, no more dry food. Okay. Next, no more cheapo "Friskies" crap: nope, it's either "Fancy Feast" or a hunger strike a la Bobby Sands, except much much sillier. Now She won't eat off of paper plates. She likes china. China only. Or else.
I'm worried that my lack of perspective about her right now--we've become close--is going to wind up, where this escalates to a point that is obviously ridiculous to everyone but me.And Princess.
"Oh, just ignore the liveried servants", I'll say airily, to visitors to my home. "Oh, and remember, after we cross the threshold, we're only speaking Chaucerian English to her. Got that?"
"What happened to "French only?"", my nervous suitor will inquire. [Note; All of my suitors are nervous. Can't imagine why.]
I will look at them in disbelief. [I like "them". It suggests that I am visited by rotating squads of suitors on a pre-arranged schedule. History will remain mum on whether or not that's a fact.]
"Please!" I will snort in derision. "That was LAST week! Sheesh. -Now, everyone..." -commanding pause--"please don your cashmere unitards."
-Okay. That's it. We're going back to "Friskies". Frankly? I just can't be arsed to re-learn Chaucerian English.
Speaking of suitors, what is with the new mania of sexual coyness that seems to be springing up as a trend in NYC Men? History will remain mum on where I stand on this subject, but I am HEARING nothing but complaints frpm my gorgeous woman friends about how difficult it is to, well, get any action in this town.
Men are succumbing to fits of the fantods; calling-(apparently, from a reclining position alone on a Victorian settee-)-at the last minute to cancel dates with genuinely beautiful and accomplished women. THIRD dates.! We all know what third dates are supposed to mean.Ahem.[Note to my parents: I wouldn't know. Every night, I go back to the Upper West Side,to sleep in the chapel of the Episcopal Convent school you sent me to. So relax.]
Are boys the new girls? Are men the new women? Is up the new down? When did the "thing", in the traditional, motherly warning, "Men only want ONE thing, o daughter mine,", become: Celibacy?
Sometimes I think there are only two flavors of people: those who are "in love" and those who aren't. When I am in love, I can't imagine NOT being in love; when I'm NOT in love, I can't imagine being so again. I DID almost get this quote ( of Matt Groening's) as a tattoo:
"Love is like a snowmobile, speeding along an icy path.
Suddenly it flips, pinning you underneath.
At night, the ice weasels come."
The tattoo artist talked me out of it, on the grounds that it would be 1) somewhat deleterious to my love life, in future; 2) prohibitively expensive; and 3) take up so much room that I might have to continue it on another person. So... am inkless. -Unlike ANYONE else in Brooklyn.
Not playing "hard to get": I AM hard to get. ...not intentionally..just got so much stuff to do. I've spent most of my adult life in relationships, and it has always been a point of pride making my guy happy, fulfilled, well fed, coddled, and eventually, rich and famous. (There are some women who are just really good luck to be with. Not to brag. But I'm one of them. Hell, I'm THREE of them.-Okay, that's bragging. -Yay!) But now I'm making me happy, fulfilled, etc etc . It work! Who knew?
Been doing some volunteer work, instead. I go and hang out with old people. Whether they want me to or not. We play cards and tell stories, knock back some juice, and have some laughs. At an Old People's Home, which is somehow an entirely different thing from an Old Person's HOUSE. Go figure.
So: Men of New York! Arise! You are heroes, descended from heroes! Awake from your illusion of passivity! Go live your true, passionate nature! Kiss that girl! Make a fool of yourself in a brave and dashing manner!
-Or? don't. That's okay too. No worries. No pressure. Me, I've got a life to lead and a book to finish (and if there's any time left over, get my legs waxed.)