Feb 28, 2026
*two different – fascinatingly so, I thought – translations of a poem by Rainer Maria Rilke…
You see, I want a lot.
Maybe I want it all:
the darkness of each endless fall,
the shimmering light of each ascent.
So many are alive who don’t seem to care
Casual, easy, they move in the world
as though untouched.
But you take pleasure in the faces
of those who know they thirst.
You cherish those
who grip you for survival.
You are not dead yet, it’s not too late
to open your depths by plunging into them
and drink in the life
that reveals itself quietly there.
You see, I want a lot.
Perhaps I want everything
the darkness that comes with every infinite fall
and the shivering blaze of every step up.
So many live on and want nothing
And are raised to the rank of prince
By the slippery ease of their light judgments
But what you love to see are faces
that do work and feel thirst.
You love most of all those who need you
as they need a crowbar or a hoe.
You have not grown old, and it is not too late
To dive into your increasing depths
where life calmly gives out its own secret.
*C’mon, isn’t that a tad wacky? I love both versions, and wonder what the poet himself may have thought? My mother had a book of Rilke’s poems and I was sure the author was a woman, because ‘Maria‘, which is another form of translation, our decisions about what names belong to whom and where. In life, Rilke’s mother outlived him, and, as a small child, she mourned the loss of an infant daughter by dressing him – her surviving child – in female clothing. More on this complicated man may be found here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rainer_Maria_Rilke
Feb 27, 2026
Last year, while grabbing a couple of slices at a local pizza place, I quizzed the owner about his status as a tenant in a building that I knew had recently been sold. We discussed time lines and leases and all that jazz, an area of interest to me as I was for many years a landlord. I became aware during the exchange that another person waiting for pizza, a man I know slightly, was listening in, a.k.a. eavesdropping. Hey, we all do it; it’s unavoidable at times, especially if you live in a big city or are in tight quarters, as we were that day.
TBH, I don’t much know, or like what I do know about this eavesdropping man; he is very much on the opposite side of the political spectrum. He is also, I suspect, on the autism spectrum: very bright, but socially disastrous and a bouncing powder keg of highly eccentric energy. He also has a Philippino wife I’ve never seen who, the local rumor mill insists, was procured via an unknown to me wife-buying source via the nascent internet, which is plausible given that the interweb is a never-ending cesspool of grotesquery and opportunism.
Who knows? Given the bullshit I imagine is said about me in that particular rumor mill, generated primarily by disgruntled white dudes in the local fire departments and at village bars and greasy spoons – who knows? And, none of my business. You do you, dude.
I had turned to see who it was I felt listening in, and the listener immediately jumped in, saying, ‘I didn’t know you owned property, Moj’. Why would you, I replied. And anyway, I don’t own any longer. I sold my last co-op apartment in 2022, but I was a multiple unit landlord in NYC for almost 25 years. He then said, ‘I always wondered where you got your money. I figured it was from the drug store.’ Nope. I turned back to the business owner.
Patronizing much? Deep breaths. People seem to believe that pharmacies are money making mills, but the main beneficiaries of our overly medicated society are drug companies and advertising agencies for same. That said, my father and brother did own an independent drug store, closed since 2015, and they were able to make a good living while in business.
People also seem to find it incredible that a woman – even in 2025 – can have a source of income that is independent of men, specifically men in their immediate family, especially, perhaps, because … um, no ex-husbands that we know of, and we’d know, right – so she must be getting some of that big-a$$ drugstore money… Again, drug companies make a ton of money. Druggists? It’s a good living, not a dollar bill printing press.
Eavesdropper went on, ‘What do you know. A landlord? I never knew that about you,’ but at this point he was speaking to the back of my head.
I paid for my slices, all boxed up, responding, ‘Well now you do, although’ – I added as I turned to leave – ‘I will admit, I did occasionally get an at cost prescription or bottle of lotion! And free newspapers! Woo-hoo!’
Then I happily exited the building with my dinner.
What I wanted to say was, if you wanted to know where my source of income originated, you might’ve asked me at any point over the last 20+ years. He had regularly stopped by Town Hall when I was in public office with one gripe or ‘brilliant idea’ or another.
What I wanted to say was, mind your own fucking business. But I didn’t.
The truth is, we generally don’t talk about sex or money. Despite this, what’s also true is that we are often deeply curious about how others are doing (and/or who they’re doing), even to the point of falling into the compare and despair rut, or getting up on a noxiously self-congratulatory pedestal, imagining this or that other is doing better or worse than we are when it’s simply none of our business.
I know a couple who put on a good show of having money; they have done so for years – but she is still working part-time in her 80s because they overspent and underinvested while trying to play Mr. & Mrs. Big in rural ‘Merica, which I find personally heartbreaking – because how exhausting that must be, keeping up that kind of facade. Their choice, however, and one I have to respect because it’s their choice.
Not everyone values the same thing, invests in the same way, pays bills on time or early, handles money well, works toward a pension, or knows how to play the markets. Many, many people invest in their children or grandchildren, or in world travel, in experiences and/or cars/truck/boats instead of in their homes or stocks.
I’ve been thinking about this because that eavesdropping guy annoyed the fuck outta me. Why do you care where my money comes or came from, dude? And why would you or anyone assume I didn’t make it MYSELF. For years I’ve been saying that the only person whose sex life interests me is ME, and that of whoever I am fucking. Ditto other people and their money. It’s none of my business. The only money that interests me is mine, and I pay a good accountant and a fabulous investment advisor/broker to care about it as well.
Beyond that, the GOP has been coming for Social Security since I was in my 20s, determined to close it down or significantly scale it back, which meant that I – me, myself, and I – needed to be financially independent of that social safety net. I also have this personal quirk: I hate working for other people. Hate. Working in local politics for the people? Loved it (mostly).
And then there’s this fact I know about me: I never, ever wanted to feel obliged or trapped into relationships with men in order to pay my bills, including bar tabs, lunch or dinner. Because I knew this about myself, and knew it pretty early on, I made plans, financial plans. I bought an apartment on a dangerous seeming street across from Central Park, one that the bank practically gave me (it was theirs due to a defaulted upon loan), then bought more of the same because there was no way the neighborhood – 5 stops from midtown and along Central Park – wasn’t coming back.
Not all bets pay off. But mine did. It wasn’t that risky, as I saw it, and I was right. Lucky me. Smart, too. When I sold that first apartment, I increased my investment in the stock market, and paid off the mortgage on my then current home, reducing my monthly nut. That provided me with more spending money as well as a larger safety net, all while holding on to my other income producing units. Since then, no need to work, except at that which I choose: writing, fund raising, a short stint in public office, a little librarian-ing, a little travel, and having fun. And, most essentially, not working for anyone else.
My choices. Mine. And no one else’s damned business.
And unless I’m paying your bills, why do you care? So weird. So much projection.
Feb 26, 2026
*my progressive opinion column for the month of February – I wrote 3 different versions, before finally settling on this one for the column, which was published on the 14th. Sydney W. really was the handsomest man; he looked like Marvin Gaye in his prime. Yummmmm… Thank you for being here, and for reading… 🙂
When I was learning math as a child, the less than/more than exercise really struck a chord in me, mostly because, by 1st grade, I had already been exposed to several related concepts, and close, human examples conflicting with those essential, kindred ideas. One was that we were all, in America, created equal, which meant that no one was less than, and no one was more than. I liked that; it seemed fair. Remember when, as a child, fairness was a basic value?
My mother had explained to me, however, that there was a reason why Mrs. F treated a handful of my Kindergarten classmates poorly, as I had reported to her during that year: Mrs. F was a snob. ‘What’s that?’ ‘A person who thinks they’re better than others, not everyone, but certain other people, or groups of people.’ ‘Oh. So they think they’re more than?’ ‘Basically, yes.’ ‘But, mom, I love Mrs. F.’ ‘Yes, well, she loves you too – but that’s because you’re a good student, you’re musical, and you’re in a group she likes. And, not for nothing, she thinks your grandfather walks on water because he once led her “in group”.’ ‘Oh. The more thans?’ ‘They’re not more than, but they think they are. No one, no one in America, is more than.’
It was complicated. Then she said, ‘maybe you can do something to protect your classmates.’ ‘Really!?’ ‘Maybe.’ Argh. She went on, ‘you can try, anyway. Just remember that you have a kind of power because Mrs. F favors you.’ I knew about this type of power, because my mom favored my older sister; my grandfather did too. I had seen my sister use that power to get what she wanted, occasionally even playing those two against one another, advancing her interests. Were interests the same as goodness? As fairness? It sure didn’t look or feel like it (it still doesn’t).
Happily, my 1st and 2nd grade teachers were both lovely non-snobs, but my 3rd grade teacher was on a whole other level. She hated most children, but especially disliked boys, which made for another challenging situation as she thought I was golden. I did my best to protect the boys in my class when I could, but mostly I anxiously sweated it out. We all also witnessed, that very long year, an adult we knew we were supposed to respect and take direction from daily treat two of our classmates – two 9-year-old children she’d failed the year before – as less than. It. Was. Horrid.
But another central, hard-to-accept concept I learned in childhood was that adults were not always fair, or nice, or honest, or true to the values they taught us. In fact, adults were incredibly inconsistent, and maybe even a little crazy. As an adult for several years now, I can confirm that this is 100% accurate.
When I was 14, I started clerking in my dad’s drug store. On Sundays, many regulars came in to pick up their newspapers, including Sydney W., who, like most other customers on that day, came straight from church. Sydney often wore a 3-piece suit, and was very friendly; I thought he was incredibly handsome. He had a British-inflected Jamaican accent, which made me swoon (I’m a sucker for accents), but more than once I heard and saw other regular patrons mutter words of racist hate into his ear as they passed him coming in or out.
Sydney never responded verbally that I witnessed, but his body reacted, twisting away from the mutterer. If my dad wasn’t busy filling prescriptions, he always made a point of coming out from behind the counter to shake Sydney’s hand, a small act of decency in an often indecent, unkind, and unfair world. I remember saying more than once, ‘Dad, you know that person who said that to Mr. W, he just came from church!’ ‘That’s right, kiddo.’ What I didn’t know then was that the reason Sydney, one of the only persons of color in town, and all of our many Jewish customers patronized my dad’s store was because the other pharmacist across the street refused to serve them.
On this, the 50th anniversary of Black History month, we need reminding that racism, homophobia, anti-Semitism, sexism, xenophobia – among other mistaken belief systems, faults, and flaws – are all learned and taught, just like basic math and the basic values of fairness, kindness, decency, and honesty. Snobs – those who think they’re more than – come in all types and forms, and in times of change and upheaval, like right now, our inner, learned, and most often unconscious biases can – and have – come charging to the fore. And, all of the above can be untaught. Unlearned. Given no gas, no juice, no airing. No service.
Mrs. F’s ‘more thans?’ Republicans.
*it amuses me to note that the other pharmacist, the one who wouldn’t serve Jews or people of color – his last name was Christian. a perfect example of truth being stranger than fiction, because you can’t make this shit up, reality is that crazy, and cruel?!
Feb 25, 2026
Missy and Ken Miller ran Bussy’s, the corner grocery store where we had a charge account, shopping there almost every week, often more than once popping in for something. I ran over there occasionally from my dad’s store to pick up an order my mom called in, usually meat or a mix of some kind she’d forgotten to pick up; Ken used to seem so angry, standing behind the butcher counter; he scared me, but Missy was nice, and always so well-dressed, hair perfectly permed, cats-eye glasses with those rope-y thingummies to hang them about her neck, pearl earrings, make-up.
They had a really friendly cashier lady, whose name I never knew; she still lives in town and shouts out, “Hi, Margie” to me just like when I was a kid, and, like a kid, I smile and say ‘Hello’, or ‘Hi’ but with a comic book like bubble floating blank where her name ought to go – too embarrassed to ask after all these years (I think it’s Shirley, but don’t quote me).
Everyone knew my mom and dad, and they knew everyone, too, but they didn’t always say the names, ‘Why hello, Shirley! How are you today, Shirley!’ or Stan, or Flo, or Jack – and – along with a certain level of name blindness (not an actual diagnosed, medically recognized thing except and unless you have it!) – that has made remembering names hard, especially for those people you just ought to know because c’mon already!
Bussy’s had sawdust on the floor, and carried everything you might need for the home, including hardware kinds of stuff and a row of vegetables on the right-hand side of the first aisle, and farmer type clothing including boots. Canned goods. Cake mixes. Twine. So many choices of bread, all white as snow in plastic wrap because we don’t have to bake it ourselves anymore, said the old people.
It smelled of hay and leather and green grass and cheese; it smelled of freshness and familiarity; it smelled like adventure because even if we just went around picking up the usual things, you might find a new item, a corner you’d never noticed filled with candles of all sizes, or socks that were wool and cotton and high or low or boxes of matches in colors and shapes you’d never seen before as there were just so many shelves with so much to explore!
It was in truth very small, Bussy’s, but so was I. There were just two cash registers, and the sloping entry had to be navigated carefully when carrying paper bags of groceries, and other stuff. Do not let the potatoes roll out of the bag. Do not squash the loaf of white bread. Do hold the bag from the bottom. Do remember to thank Missy and Ken for their help. Do hope that dad isn’t too upset when all those bills come in; he’s the one, after all, who loves his meat and potatoes!
Feb 24, 2026
*from a digital creator named Andy Master – about whom I can find almost nothing – in part because I don’t do Insta, which he’s on (my bad); he has a FB page, but few followers or info therein and he puts “Andy Master” in quotes, so, a pseudonym for ??? BUT – all that aside, he has a point, a good point, which I why I am sharing this with you. And, what a joy to find another new angle, an ethical argument, for why abortion care is necessary. From, one assumes, a man?
If society agrees that a 14-year-old boy is too young to be financially responsible for a child, then it must also accept that a 14-year-old girl is too young—physically, emotionally, mentally, and developmentally—to be forced into pregnancy and childbirth. You can’t argue maturity and responsibility on one side and suddenly ignore them on the other when it becomes inconvenient or ideological.
Pregnancy isn’t just “having a baby.” It’s a major medical event. It permanently alters the body, carries real risks, and demands emotional resilience most adults struggle with—let alone a child who hasn’t even finished growing herself. Expecting a minor to endure that while simultaneously acknowledging that another minor can’t be held accountable for the outcome is not morality; it’s hypocrisy.
What’s really being revealed is how responsibility gets selectively assigned. Boys are protected because they’re “just kids,” while girls are expected to absorb the physical consequences, social judgment, lifelong responsibility, and trauma—often in silence. That isn’t about valuing life. It’s about controlling outcomes while avoiding accountability for systems that fail children.
Keeping the energy consistent means this:
Either both are children, or the argument falls apart.
Either neither is ready, or the logic is dishonest.
You don’t get to call one a child when it comes to consequences and call the other an adult when it comes to suffering. Consistency isn’t radical—it’s ethical.
