Paris is so beautiful, that it’s emotional,
like the red tile roofs of Rome,
or the Kenroku-en gardens of Japan.

It’s a relatively large world.
Whenever you can fly over an ocean
you feel limitless, and godly,
like the world is there for you, on demand.

Speaking of God-like views, I’m headed
to Lisa’s (parents) Manhattan highrise again
this year for Thanksgiving—six, very-long days
from today—and I have to wait—but I can’t wait.

I’m starting to stuff things into my bag, like a turkey.
There are so many holiday things to do in Manhattan.
Things that invariably whip you up for a sparkly Christmas.
But these are only commercial attractions—planned distractions.

One frosty November-break morning, two years ago,
a tide of clouds had rolled in, like a trillion tons of cotton
candy had been dumped on New York city, overnight,
filling it up to the 42nd floor. It glistened there, below us,
in the klieg-bright sun, like Tiffany diamonds on cotton.

So, imagine that, then add a flock of geese, in military-like
v-formation flying just at the crest of the glitter, like dolphins
hopping in and out of the waves, as they passed above the
insignificant works of man. It took my breath away.

So, naturally I grabbed for my fancy phone with its super-duper,
high-res camera. The snaps did the glorious scene poor justice—
the majestic, wild geese came out as dots on glare.

I’m watching things carefully this year, not just the multicolor, cachet, window displays on Fifth Avenue and the decorations at the Chelsea Market (where Oreos were invented). I’m going to capture this year
—every intense, emotional second—with that most unreliable, 3D
gadget of all—Memory.
.
.
A song for this:
Holiday Road by Lindsey Buckingham