Walking. With Nick…

3:40 a.m. It’s 67° F.  Overcast skies. Sleeping birds. Dew has made its way from somewhere to the front lawn, my footsteps mark the path behind me to the car.

Here it is — the 1,871th consecutive (almost) day on this early morning walk at Cove Island Park. Like in a row.

With 5 1/2 (!) solid hours of sleep in me, I’m near giddy — there’s almost a spring in my step that has me in a near-stable, upright position, stable as in physicality-only that is.

A Siri alert pops up calling for heavy fog, which lifts the spirit further. It’ll keep park traffic down (so great), and add some appropriate tonality to this Federal Holiday, Juneteenth.

There’s usually three or four of us walkers in the early twilight hours, a fisherman or two, and a runner or two. We all keep to ourselves (mostly all), and keep an eye out for each other, and a suspicious eye on all newcomers (aka interlopers, serial killers, marauders, etc.)

Continue reading “Walking. With Nick…”

She’s Gone (Again)

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Four days later, and the tops of both thighs still burn, sensitive to the touch. No, nothing to do with running, which is another sad story, left for another day.

I load my canons, yes one “n”, and fire.

  • The Tort: “You entered into a verbal contract. You said you would stay.”
  • The Economic: “Manhattan is nose bleed expensive. You’ll drain whatever savings you have.”
  • The Nostalgic: “I’m turning your room in an extension of my Den, and calling it my West Wing.”
  • The Desperate: “You know in Italy, kids live with their parents until well into their 30’s.”
  • The Fear Mongering: “I’m cutting you off Netflix, Amazon Prime and yes, AT&T Mobile Service.”

Nothing works. And we’re off.

The family caravan departs in the Resettlement. Eric (Son) drives the U-haul with two friends. Mom, Dad and Rachel are up ahead in a separate car.  Waze estimates 44 miles – a whopping 1 hour 42 minutes to lower Manhattan.

The rain falls gently, setting the appropriate back drop.

It’s a five-floor walk-up. I now know what a 5-floor walk-up means. No elevators and narrow stairwells. Walk-up means walk-up. With furniture, furnishings and oversize and overweight boxes, all up five floors – on foot. With adequate resistance provided by non-ventilated, A/C-free hallways. The musty carpet fibers are pulled deep into the lungs with each trip up and down the stairs. Continue reading “She’s Gone (Again)”

I want moonlight

Blue-melancholy

Everywhere you look these days you see something on how to be happy — how to manifest abundance, desires and success, find your bliss. […]

Whatever happened to experiencing the grace of melancholy, which requires reflection: a sort of mental steeping, like tea? What if all this cheerful advice only makes you feel inadequate? What if you were born morose?

Melancholy, distinguished from grief, is not caused by events, like losing your job, the passing of beloved pets, your miscarriages or health problems. Nor does it vanish when you receive excellent news, like a big film star optioning your novel, or being invited to an all-expenses-paid trip to Venice for the Biennale.

Melancholy is more … ephemeral.

It visits you like a mist, a vapor, a fog. It is generally uninvited. And as some people are born into royalty, wealth and prestige, others inherit a disposition for sadness. […]

Should melancholy descend, you may as well welcome it, wear your finest lounging outfit; give it your finest fainting couch or chaise to lounge in, or that hammock stretched between two elm trees. Let it settle in.

[…]

I want moonlight.

~ Laren Stover, A Case For Melancholy


Credits: Photo via Sweet Senderipity

Just do it.

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Source: mennyfox55

 

Big Wing. Big Bloody Wing.

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I hope you’re enjoying your childhood.
When you grow up, a shadow falls.
Everything’s sunny and then
this big goddamn wing or something passes overhead.

~ Joy Williams, The Visiting Privilege: New and Collected Stories


Notes: