temperatures

Suddenly, October was half over.

Orange and black and yellow decor painted the city and those waxy little triangles seemed to ice the cake of every counter, every desk. The Oaks and Maples have been burnt scarlet and sienna for some time, and I still haven’t decided if I want to be a shark or a cat burglar this season – maybe a jewel thief.

Towards Summer’s end everyone bought motorcycles heavily in need of maintenance and by late September abandoned any motivation towards restoration. A romantic slant can dissolve easily as the temperature drops. The weathermen all raise their brows and sigh; regardless of science their profession keeps them within a constant state of perplexity.

Serve me my Indian Summer as one endless breakfast.

recent acquisitions in old news city

“Same” by P

Maybe it would be different

If it were different

But it ain’t different

Half-way down the block I decided the six dollars were better off in my wallet than surrendered to the local ‘health food’ store in exchange for free-range, grass-fed, diamond-incrusted chicken eggs. I turned around.

Back at the apartment I ate sad 99 cent broccoli and drank Guinness and thought about the rest of the paintings and prints I had to hang. They couldn’t all be slapped up, allocated only by what wall space and patience could afford; there is always a greater visual to be created in their assembly. Color, subject, medium, whether or not text appears, style, era, the outline left by frames when the wall is completed – all values are considered with equal importance.

I wouldn’t finish working today, but I didn’t need to have the place appear as it should until after the couch is removed. Following a decision last week to donate a rather large, dastardly uncomfortable sofa, in favor of having the apartment appear even more like a gallery, I began thinking of the additional pieces I could bring in: sculptures that would sit on the floor, Ficus trees, tall and poisonous, even more Jade – more of everything, just less available seating. I love the impracticality of the idea.

Outside now, this city is grinding away at hosting weddings and attracting tourists; new construction, new construction, new construction. Every morning the sound and smell of cars and cigarettes, burnt onions from the bagel place and vanilla blunts from the barber shop shove me awake. The temperatures are sweeter but the people have stayed the same; satisfied in seasick repetition; night life activity has given up trying to entertain me and put on sweatpants for good. It’s the same old shuffle lately. While nobody likes a complainer, it’s entirely worse to continue moving robotically while expecting fresh stimulation. Cut the deck and toss me a wild card, New York – break the pace.

end season

Holiday Weekends; these sweet seventy-two hour allowances evaporate so quickly, and then you’re back in your apartment all of a sudden with nothing but out of focus photographs of the time and a half you had twenty-four hours ago, left-overs, and a pink September suntan. But you knew it all along. The book I can’t put down I bought for a dollar and succeeds in covering me with favorable thoughts of guns, sex, commercial brands, cheap food, American-made trucks and Bruce Springsteen’s blue jeans.

To an easy work week – clipped short (thankfully).

 

 

strength in numbers

“This really is the last beer?” It was such a silly question. Knowing the answer, I let the sentence settle softly on the palate like head on lager and turned the Long Trail label so it faced the road.

“Yup.” He sighed and shifted in his seat, reached for the bottle, emptied, then leaned back in the chair and folded his hands. “Should have bought more…of course…but let’s see, twelve pack yesterday, drank a couple…so that’s four each.”

The constant noise I’d left in New York could never find me there, outside on the deck, sitting with my Father. Stars. We stared straight at the eleven-forty-five sky with its glittering punctures of pinholes.

He tapped the bottle to shimmy across the table.  “I wish we could have eight more each.”

I laughed, neck still craned, ”I wish we could, too,” back of the head against the top of the chair. Neither of us changed gaze. Naturally.

“Look.” I said, knowing we were already well locked into the same navy blue. “More stars.”

“Yeah. You’re right. Look at that.”

On my way out of town, the man who rang me up at the package store offered a brief serenade as I held my 24-pack with two hands, precariously.

“Take the Long Trail home…!”

Two hours sweating in velvet and thirty bucks worth of high-test gasoline to get me back to New York.

seasonal shift

This weekend, Connecticut’s weather brought a welcomed Autumnal taste to slice through the salt of Summer’s constant feast.

I wanted to remember what it felt like to have the chills.

beauty of the twenty-four hours

My opinion of Sundays has always been difficultly split; opposing sentiments peeled apart meat from bone: a day off, yes, but how closely Monday hangs, hot on the heels of your good time. Before too long you’re waking up to that early New York noise – the garbage trucks, the car alarms, the ever-present construction, the smell of burned breakfasts from buildings nearby - it’s all there waiting to kiss you, wet on the mouth, and whisper thickly, good morning.

The Sunday, in brief below, was a bow to a fine weekend.

frames

Last night was bowling in an alley out of 1982. Scratch-offs, ancient taupe-and-brown vending machines, pinball and a bar in the back with Budweiser on draft: the place starred as the setting of my own personal dirtbag fantasy. I played terribly but loved every frame.

And again meteorologists fail to tell collective ass from elbow; Saturday prowls across soft tar, menthol cigarettes are devoured by the men outside the barbershop at the base of my building, and I grease my vanity in ultra-violet radiance.