Doctor, Tailor.

Between the train being a while and the train being delayed, I arrived just in time to be fashionably late: I walked into the party just as the guest of honor was being introduced. The woman of the hour, a newly published author, a friend of the people whose library I was hired to organize who decided to invite me to the book party as a parting gift. I was the last person to arrive and comfortably below the average age of the guests, and even recognized a handful of people from overlapping social Jewish circles. I felt nervous about being there until the man who was introducing the author talked about how her memoir was both nostalgic and sad, not a combination that comes up - and I waved my hand to get his attention, because I knew exactly what to say.

I quoted Anya Von Bremzen to say the phrase she used for that sensation was poisoned Madeline.

When I say the host, author, and room were suitably pleased and impressed at the phrase, that also says a lot about the rest of the guests at the party.

What's even better is that my interjection wasn't my high point of the party. As much fun as it was to be invited to that kind of thing, as deeply as I enjoyed putting some goat cheese inside dates for an amazing snack, I mostly attended to network. I knew my clients, I knew who their friends would be, and I worked that as much as I could. I introduced myself and said, "I'm the librarian." I explained how I'd come to be at the party. I hobbed, I nobbed, I was suitably impressive. I said, "My card," and handed over a business card. I commented to one of the hosts that if all that came out of it was being able to say I'd said "My card" it was worth the evening. It was an amazing feeling to do that. So very grown up.

I wore one of my nicer dresses, and it definitely helped me feel like I belonged there. After a while, the feeling simply settled in. I chatted about fiction, about the philosophy of library science and the psychology of letting go of books, about cakes and baking, about public transportation. I said cabs were the luxury of the people and that they were union. I joked about wanting to show off my party trick but since the party was over, too bad. I nibbled and had some wine, and took some grapes home at the hosts' insistence, though they didn't have to try very hard. I took a bike back instead of using the subway or walking, and it was the best way to come down from the elevated state. Not all the way down, though - it'll be with me for a while longer, and I'm doing what I can to savor it for as long as it lasts.

It was beautifully quiet today. The snow helped, of course, and the snow was the cause - people staying home, cars not getting driven, taxis not cruising for passengers. Helicopters and planes staying on the ground. It took me a while to realize I wasn't hearing the usual sounds. When the snow let up and people started driving again, I honestly felt resentful that the travel ban wasn't going on longer. It'd been a nice glimpse into a quieter New York City. I feel like that's how it always is. Just a glimpse of a better world.

Or at least, a moment to resettle so I can realize just how noisy the West Side Highway really is. I went down to the park to walk a bit in the afternoon, after the snow stopped, and I don't mind noise from kids that are shouting about how happy they are or what a good time they're having when they're sledding down a big hill, or noise from people talking about an inflatable toy's weight limit before sledding down the big hill themselves. Human voices. There were a couple of shrieks right near me for some reason, and of course a very loud barking dog that its owner insisted was friendly, and overall, just nice sounds of people.

I had my headband on and my hood up, and both those things helped muffle the world. The coat itself was warm enough that when I lay back in the snow, twice, I stayed comfortable enough to settle in for a little bit. Not many minutes, but enough time to measure on a stopwatch, easily.

There were several taped-off CAUTION areas around fallen trees and threatening branches, and I found it wonderful that people had already made a single-file path underneath one of the trees in between the branches - sticking as close to the path that the tree had fallen over as best they all could. Ducking down to get under and through. A little ways away there was a bower made from bushes bent over with snow that also provided something of a roof, and some parents took pictures of their kids hanging out in there and posing at the entrance. It made for a nice echo of both adults and children doing more or less the same thing, if on different scales. The intent of play was close enough to call it the same.

There were snow men, snow women, snow people, and snow animals. There were snow structures made from hand packing it and snow structures made from using plastic bins to mold sturdy bricks. There was a moment I saw the sky start to come out and felt a pang of disappointment because it meant the day was moving on from the storm. I'd fallen back into the snow already then, and made a point to do it a second time. If I'd been more careful with my legs not getting wet, I'd have lain there a while longer. But I knew the day was going, so I might as well go, too, so I wouldn't have to see it end.

The travel ban's up. Schools are going back to remote learning. Nobody's going anywhere if they can help it. I'd figured this was coming, and it's nice that it's settling in. The snow's coming down steadily and I can faintly hear human voices - going from where the light's coming from, the people in the next building over are either hosting some friends or having a very loud party by themselves. Either way, it's warm human voices on a cold night.

Not a dark night, though. The clouds aren't letting that happen. It's one of the nicer parts of nighttime snow.

I took advantage of the day and took in a small William Eggleston exhibition. I started reading Clockers on the way there and a book that commanding of my attention put me in the right frame of mind to take in the colors. And the colors were why it was there - it's called The Last Dyes because these prints, the ones I saw today, were made with the world's last materials for this kind of printmaking. Kodak decided to stop making the necessary materials for the process some decades ago. I don't know if it was for cost, environmental concerns, lack of a market, another reason, or a mix of several. What I can say is that all the critics were right: knowing that going in gave it an autumnal feeling. Something fading out.

They were also right that it's astonishing to see the colors up close. More than once I got as close as I could to take in the depth of blue or red or green, thinking that it was like seeing paint made from crushed-up gemstones. The intensity of color, the intentions of the lines and shapes. I'm happy to watch his fascinations with what makes America tick, and I was very happy to stop and look close and then step back and look far and take in all the different parts and pieces in the compositions. More than once I looked at something off in the distance and then farther in the distance and saw how it was a reflection of something in the foreground. Walls and fences at a parking lot. The swirl of a sign matching the clouds behind it. The flowers, the fence, the truck, the houses peeking out.

What really struck me was how the outdoor photographs had such good distance to them. There wasn't a horizon but there was clarity to a long ways away, and more than once I'd think that this was human influence as far as the eye could see. The tilled fields. The cars off in the far distance. The car right up in front of you that you couldn't look away from even if you wanted to see the stream just beyond it. Forcing you to pay attention to what's really there.

In today's dubious triumph over aphasia, I told my client I'd emptied out her utility kit.

Her toolbag. I couldn't remember toolbag and tried to use the next best thing to describe the object in question.

It was a fairly remarkable moment on a number of levels, and I'm pretty sure I'm going to be shaking my head over it for quite some time.