9 47 pm est   [ communing with the dead ]

I had the most fantastic evening last night. I met Darren for dinner at Pasta Presto [93 MacDougal between Bleecker and W. 3rd]. I tried not stress that I was late, but I did a poor job of that. We ordered wine, but I had warning him that if we ordered a bottle, he would be drinking three glasses to my one. I'm just not a big wine drinker.

We shared divine bruschetta and tangental stories. Is there anything better than meeting someone new? Darren's and my tastes in music and chatterbox habits overlap heavily, so the conversation never trailed off.

I ordered a strawberry margarita for dessert, and it was simply the best tita I've ever had, so I enjoyed a second. Eventually, Darren and I wandered to Nell's, thankful that the short burst of rain had subsided. After chatting with the bouncer about Souther California, we went in.

The dancing was beyond description, besides to say that Darren had fibbed in say that he couldn't dance well, and it was so warm that the sweat condensed on the ceiling and dripped down on the dancers or ran down the walls. It sounds disgusting, I know, but everyone was so sticky and the room was so steamy that it really didn't matter. We took breaks for water and to enjoy live jazz upstairs (their renditions of The Girl From Ipenema and God Bless the Child That's Got His Own were superb). At three in the morning we finally fizzled out. I sang along to the radio on the cab ride home, surely to the dismay of the driver.

It was a perfect evening.

Today I went to commune with the dead in two Long Island cemetaries. I visited both pairs of great-grandparents on my father's side of the family tree. My grandmother had no headstone, but I knew she resided in the family plot in spirit (she was creamated, and I believe her ashes were burried there. If I knew the mourner's Kadish, I would have said it.

I found the first cemetary with nary a glitch, but the latter took considerably more driving around. I've only been to Christian cemetaries, full of flowers. Apperently one does do flowers at a Jewish cemetary. There were stones on most of the graves, which I know is a tradition [you might have seen it at the end of Schindler's List]. I couldn't remember why, so I asked someone, and he informed me that it was simply a sign that you had visited. I left my offering on each of the grave stones of my relatives, a few others that looked neglected, and one the plot marker that bore my last name.

Driving in New York is much more stressful for me than I would prefer. I felt as though I had a full workout just from holding all my tension in my lower back. But I was glad I went -- even glad I went alone -- and my return to Manhattan was greeted with a glourious sky of swiftly moving puffy clouds.

When I finally returned to the apartment, I was dead tired. I only paused to show the doorman how my camera works, as he inquired extensively. I am always happy to explain anything I am capable of. Knowlege was meant to be shared.

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