Monday
Things moved quickly from alarm clock to contacts to kissing Kristin in the elevator. By 8:05 someone wearing pink wanted me to think her dog looked cute. Somebody smoked in a nook in shirtsleeves. It was the time of year I tell people to visit New York, slightly cooler than typical spring.
Car-lot attendants with black bowties leaned against a silver truck talking. A boy and his dad shared a scooter: the younger beaming, the elder in shades. Approaching a snack cart I scanned its shelves for a thought or image to hold onto—nothing.
Accelerating across Murray to avoid cabs catching a fresh green signal I remembered what it felt like to run. I grew happy to have skipped the cognac drink I allow myself on Sundays. Just before entering the Church St. post office I glimpsed starry tiles. I passed beneath gridded windows, sensing how spiritual Modernism was. There weren't any change-of-address forms. There were envelopes crammed so slots seemed full. I despondently consulted display panels. I interrupted a woman installing stamp machines. But she stayed nice about it. I followed, fixated on her rastafari hat. She dug up two forms and gave me both. I thanked her (wondering how I would carry these documents). My wrists hurt more than ever.
I had the annoying sense my shoes were about to come untied and kept staring down. I stopped to read a Times front page. A clerk's question so startled me I jumped back to sidewalk. Amidst estuary-like momentum where local foot-traffic and PATH crowds converged I paused to watch people push ahead before their eyes adjusted to aboveground light. Many sneezed. I considered how women from New Jersey (from most of America outside New York) dress to look attractive from a distance—meaning less subtle hues—though I'm sure class determines colors options.
I cut through a Trinity Church rear entrance. Beneath bright sycamores its cemetery flushed. Pink crabapple petals decked some gravestones. I didn't want to read names on mausoleum towers. I read about James Chad departing this world at age 40 on April 4, 1797. I wondered if his life felt long. I thought about how I don't have consistent values.
Dropping into Battery Park I passed the oddly placed Museum of the American Indian: curious if people ever go. Men dragging pretzel carts down to the water bobbed along exaggerating the rhythm of their steps. Slashed tree stumps traced this year's abrupt landscaping. A rollerblader took his socks off, stepped barefoot into business shoes. A turkey or a peacock—a brown-tipped, upright bird—rummaged between fences. Nobody cared.
As I curved along the Esplanade a square of memorial slabs (New Yorkers who died in WWII?) stood scarred, ready to crack and topple. Queen of Night tulips wavered slightly in a slender row. A park officer coasting past waved to plaid-skirted Jewish girls. Not one acknowledged him.
Watching a pudgy sparrow on the river rail I found it wonderful that birds survive. New Jersey commerce cast searing glares across the Hudson. A mom exiting a bus's face seemed half-scarred red. A pair of joggers argued each other was skinniest. A group of white workmen ate what looked like mango sandwiches. I considered how early they must have started to already be on break. I remembered how pleasant it is to share mornings with your peers and the muddled self-consciousness afterwards.
In Kowsky Plaza twins strung a volleyball net. A boy on a sailboat turned his face to the light. I wanted to suggest he remove his sunglasses. A water taxi cruised past kicking up wake.
Hurrying now I observed St. John's students sitting silently opposite each other—thinking, not lonely. Someone didn't notice as she stepped towards a sprinkler. This incident about to happen already felt complete. I wanted to detect change all my life. I wanted there to be a point to remembering things. Raphael wouldn't look up from his Daily News.
Tuesday
I stepped out with no sense of weather. Still not warm enough for shorts. On a second trip across the hall I restrained myself from signaling Luis. I wanted a key for the basement laundry room but couldn't talk because I was about to surge. At 11:06 I hit 110th and mailed my change-of-address form.
At the corner someone college-aged laughed amidst sparrows, stood idle and almost menacing (this explained a lot of strangers' reactions to me). Somebody crouched and sighed: thrilled to photograph the Farmer's Gate. A man sat grinning near a spilled can of Pepsi. A baby heron crept through muck until falling into The Meer chin-first. A woman dropped down steps wearing violet pants, with a violet sweater around the waist, mauve open-toed shoes, mauve blouse and cumbersome lavender purse held tight. When we passed she blinked as if refusing assistance. With my backpack stuffed I could only look south.
Bubbles beneath the waterfall glared like hot white marble. For the first time in months I watched a dog (a retriever puppy) writhe on its back. How you feeling Kate? called out the fun lesbian owner. Someone sensed me watch him stare through branches at sky. He snapped and hurried off (to my regret).
Some branches cast shadows on others, exponentially thickening the foliage. A problem arose behind my left knee; the nerves would flash in a spider-web pattern. As siblings spread along The Loch two tall boys whistled. OK one said, He's coming at you right now. I remembered crayfish. I crossed through the type of sweet rank aroma that makes you wonder where a pet has been.
Where I climbed out from The Ravine kids stood in red jerseys. When I got higher I saw these were actually blue. Football squads split apart with the females stepping self-consciously. Other girls watched from boulders. Again I felt guilty getting sexual around teachers—who are trained to establish eye contact.
Smog left distant sweeps of buildings looking like a dated postcard. At the first break in Yoshino cherries I paused surrounded by pink. Plodding sounds had been approaching for a while. Just as I turned two Clydesdales passed. Crowds abandoned previous interests and gawked at the horses. To a Japanese couple with many cameras these animals suggested nature not surveillance. Even a Buddhist priest posed smiling.
Someone identical to Kristin's sister hoisted a shrieking infant overhead. I took it as a sign Amy had born her child. I spotted the Polish king's statue—something I always consider good. Four moms scaled benches in aerobic unison: each with a carriage in sight. Tourists stared up at an obelisk behind the Met.
I caught the outer reaches of The Pinetum (my favorite place in the park). After a brief stint through The Ramble I curved along The Boathouse (between usher-type men in tuxedos). From The Drive a British dad said So what kind of birds did we see this morning? With the second species listed (Starling) his daughter passed beyond my range.
A cornetist played a song which in movies means Here comes the president. A Columbian family combined preppiness with intense eroticism. I peeked in The Dairy for a map to help me remember but they only stocked sophisticated versions you had to buy. I didn't want to enter The Plaza but looked enough like a tourist to get a free map. A doorman asked Can I help you sir? I'm staying here and want a park map I said. Sir? the guard responded. The Plaza's closed.
So I continued south, confused by businessmen with partial mohawks. I slowed to read the Times front page. I sensed how for five years I've been stopping, awaiting good news. A fashionable man's boot heels clicked—a masculinity I haven't dealt with yet. Noon bells filled my attention as I crossed 54th. Women's breasts in oxford shirts seemed to reach out just for me, just like in adolescence.
Three men slid into separate lunch booths talking (each a bit bewildered by his salad). For the first time this season I crossed into shade. With the president's song still in my head I turned into school, into the library stacks, my favorite favorite place I guess, where twenty thousand shelved titles looked right.
Wednesday
More bad sleep, with squares of light that slip through Kristin's drapes intensifying and my balls scrunched. Still I crossed Greenwich just to smile at the picketing teacher's union. By 8:46 I'd focused on a woman's clean bare heels. Nothing seemed more urban than sandals.
I had to do something about the Fanny Howe book I was carrying; my wrists couldn't take the pressure. When I tucked the book in the back of my jeans one girl winced. Along the water I passed a security guard in nylon jacket, shirt and tie—each a different blue. She moved so slow it looked like exercise. Rounding Robert Wagner Park I spotted a returning ferry.
Soon I began weaving through men flashing watches. A blonde with a jump rope made some sassy comment. I kept smiling, waiting to understand what she'd said. I rushed towards Whitehall Terminal ready to sprint if the crowds swelled. The new lobby lay dingy and easy to love. I barely noticed sledgehammers.
Boarding the Guy V. Molinari I reasoned that this trip could count in my walks if I never sat, stayed outside and never read the Fanny Howe. The boxy overlap of Brooklyn-Manhattan bridges reminded me of Frank Lloyd Wright windows. Downtown looked like any financial district from the freeway (Hartford especially). White wooden towers gleamed on Governor's Island. Groups of white suds drifted past. The Hurricane Deck's other passenger frowned. It's cold out here. I know I said. That's all it took to get her giggling. She wore a neon-pink sweater, yellow neon flats. I noticed I'd been trembling.
Assuming the non-ocean side would be less windy I switched: coming out on cranes across Kill Van Kull. For now there weren't any ships to tend. I wondered what such monstrous stature and strength meant to previous generations. I decided there's no better sound than a buoy's bell. I stared down at the shadow of a flag, a pipe shaped like a megaphone, my bent figure. I'd never seen the large stone church just west of St. George Terminal.
I cut through couples, considered them a hindrance. We had eighteen minutes before the next boat left. An alcoholically muscular bald man confided They tell me Be safe. Get home safe....all that shit. I thought of how the poet Joshua Beckman remains the one person I know on Staten Island. I hurried through a loop around the Borough Hall, waved at the public library, read the sign Baker Square Park and the street signs Hyatt and Stuyvesant.
Pressed into a crowd boarding the Andrew Barberi I ended up beside Joshua Beckman (on his phone). I said hi. He seemed uncomfortable. As we pulled out the Verranzano Bridge reminded me of Whistler paintings where everything's blue. Traffic became a darker blue pushing across it. For this return trip I focused on glassy stretches. I stood packed in with girls playing hooky: some bragging, others paranoid.
Girls squealed inside a bus on Battery Place. A man with a microphone revved them up. A separate girl in tight green Veterinary Volunteer t-shirt stepped last from a cab. Her parents looked calcified. They paused beneath a Dutch flag-post offered in good faith to the British around 1660.
Kids overran Wagner Park kicking balls much bigger than themselves, dressed like millionaires. Tugboats led barges labeled Buchanan which probably carried coal. People sauntered by with limbs loose but I still had ferry drafts caught in my sweater. A petite jogger all in black checked me out as she shook her quads. I wondered why I also wore all black. I pledged to carry my Fanny Howe book the rest of the way, however painful, so as to not further damage it, since it was from the public library. Doormen outside the Residence Suites practiced kicking doors down and pointing pistols. Crossing Barclay I knew I'd never been so trim, sensed I'm happiest small, considered how appropriate this will become if space travel gets cheap. Finally I nodded at Raphael who choked a bit, drooling coffee.
Thursday
I shaved before leaving since the Gardens weren't open yet. I decided it's warm enough for shorts when you say it is. At 7:53 I stepped through a puddle, kicking water up an ankle, uncertain what was rain. With thin socks on I didn't know how to carry my keys or phone. Situating both in underwear elastic I vowed soon to find another solution.
Just ahead a tall Brazilian blocked The Meer. When we drew parallel her profile looked cracked. A woman exasperated by a mutt caused further problems flailing its leash. Cars turned on lights against pre-storm darkness. A mom and daughter passed riding an old tandem Schwinn with the girl only pedaling when she thought about it. All together the willows grass and daffodil husks heaved.
Already lilacs overwhelmed The Gardens. I couldn't tell if pink, magenta and white varieties gave off different scents. I grew curious if a lot of garden time can inoculate allergies. Someone read with a French-English dictionary in his lap on a bench along the North Parterre. It seemed the perfect place for that. As remaining Dreamlands rocked in wind I wondered which would survive the storm.
In the South Garden the Elegant Ladies had bloomed, the last of the great tulips. I scanned the general decay a couple minutes. I saw new growth enliven perennial beds. Prickly, burr-like bulbs swung about. Somebody bald stalked the Woodland Slope—weird, bare-chested, like it was a confessional. I wondered if snowdrops appear each season (or between seasons). Exiting from one allée I wanted to cry at how smooth its stones had set.
I turned past what in winter seemed a soupy fenced-off garbage pit. Since then the water evaporated, leaving dozens of 40-oz bottles in sand. I kept remembering how in 7th grade everyone pulled down each other's shorts. The best shop I saw was Hielos En Bloque. Within shapes sat visible but dark: storm light.
Parking tickets stuck to a sewer grate. It's so fun to watch people toss those things. I wondered why I make a mental note whenever I spot a new post office. I crossed the F.D.R. thinking I'll next see this river in final descent from Germany. Somebody with a cigarette behind his ear put a half-burned one out against the rail. For the first time I reflected on a student's essay (about public smoking). Torn clouds beyond the Triborough Bridge cast hues made ugly by the industrial context—gross even—like a Christian realist painting. Lamps lit Riker's Island.
In the Thomas Jefferson Park dog-run stood one man (without pet). This inspired me to take the jogging track. Sprinters clotted outer lanes while inside walkers commiserated. In a fenced plot a boy played foursquare with the girls. I've been really wanting to abandon whatever traits of a paranoid personality structure I possess, like Stalin's and billions of other people's. It seemed so much easier around these kids. The Church of the Holy Tabernacle's sign read STILL ALIVE IN 2005 / THE YEAR OF EVANGELISM! I thought No, that's not the year it feels like to me.
I cut through projects I couldn't name: a white guy in skimpy Diadora shorts. I crossed what I think were Union Settlement Houses, passed more young men than on any other walk. At the James Weldon Johnson Homes rat-poison warnings posted to trees turned white. Backboards had graffiti but not any rims. An arrow pointed down a paved lot above the caption STRIVE. I headed through the gate, past a statue of someone with orphans in his arms, across 3rd Ave. and through a second set of Johnson projects to a sculpture of ballerinas reaching up for a bronze sphere. A dancer's feet had been spray-painted. Somebody left a LaCroix can between them. Still in the surprising lush it felt hard to stay hopeless (I mean, I guess, about politics).
Pausing beneath commuter trains I scanned a month of tabloids and remembered most headlines. The Taft Homes started and I took these to 5th. On my own block a flyer read: Have you recently known jail / Out in last 90 days / Finding it hard? / If you answered yes to all the above call Operation Exodus.
Cabinets stood worth keeping if it wasn't for the rain. By the time I'd crossed our courtyard ubiquitous drilling had begun.
Friday 5.13
I biked around too much last night, ate an extra cheese sandwich. I woke from a religious prison nightmlare and couldn't get back to sleep. When I stepped out at 10:30 it felt cool and dry. I was wearing pants again. The first person to pass looked like if he wasn't pushing a wheelchair he would have had to sit in one.
An old guy exited a grocery tossing sneakers. He caught up with the shoes and stomped. Someone selling things from a blanket called Damn it Ronnie, don't lose your temper. Someone else shouted Lucy! right into my ear. On sidewalk outside Captain's (seafood place) ice cream melted in a perfect square. From his station wagon at 124th a man sold Etta James and Jimmy Smith bootlegs. He hadn't been there in April.
After feeling like a failure a couple blocks I decided there was no way for these walks to include upper upper Manhattan—it would have wrecked my memory to ride a train. I pledged to tomorrow cross Central Park then the Queensborough Bridge into Queens. My left wrist ached. Fingers curled. Lilacs bloomed in vacant lots. One man's voice rose above the rest: What was their last war about? Price control!
At 136th one-way streets converged, confusing my sense of balance. An adult fired an uzi-shaped squirt gun near me. Bang bang bang bang he said. Someone sat on a standpipe, his leg hooked to another, so that he could both stretch and read the paper. I was steaming in sun but wouldn't stop to take my sweater off.
From 147th I saw Yankee Stadium's scoreboard constantly change. Close by stood a hangar of MTA busses. The drivers looked poised in brown sunglasses and leather. An M1 departed for the East Village.
An attractive woman tossed a Fanta bottle. She said the home they'd put her in had a 9 o'clock curfew. Behind a fence a sign read Rand Engineering. I wondered if this was part of the Rand Corporation. Weaving through stale dog turds and broken glass I wondered what the Rand Corporation does. The Delano Village complex had a run-down Met Foods with Domino's Pizza trucks parked outside.
I continued north, sensing public space. I pushed on to Bradhurst and Jackie Robinson Park, circling the castle, convinced it housed a swimming pool. I passed a Mexican man's grocery cart from which whole peeled pineapples dangled on sticks. The lush made me want to not be so busy this summer. On my way down Edgecombe a bumper sticker said School of War / Vietnam University.
In St. Nick's Park boys painted handball courts. One let a giant roll of tape unspool twenty feet into his partner's grasp. One woman yelled You forgot about Paul....He never listens to what I have to say! Nobody sat on the bench beside her. I paused impressed when, on the bench after that, a fat woman stretched way past her foot.
Around 128th I read about Green Thumb getting launched by activists in the 70s. I sensed strange new platforms affixed to every stoplight. I noticed people perched in cardboard boxes above the hydrants. A gorgeous Hispanic girl stared while her mom readjusted her stocking. A black man flipped dry-cleaning across his shoulder. The neighborhood felt hip and gay like London.
Along 35 W. a woman shook her cane. As I turned in she moaned Not near my building; I can't believe the extent of this shit! She pointed at something. I didn't feel like looking.
Instead of sprinting up stairs as I always do—often wondering why—I experimented with the elevator key. When the green light flashed I pressed 2. But the elevator sank to the basement and just sat a long time. It opened on a red rug rolled into shadows. With footsteps coming I pushed Close Door twice. This time I made it up and (as I crossed the hall) heard Yuki start the shower.
