I can't sleep…
The older I get, the less tolerance I have for affectation or insincerity in all things. It is why I am drawn closer to nature, family, and tradition. Give me the earnest, the true, the real.
— Ryan B. Anderson, @Old Hollow Tree, October 26, 2024
DK Photo. Sunrise. 7:32 a.m. October 27 2024. Cove Island Park, Stamford, CT.
I would like to be a free artist and nothing else . . . I hate lies and violence in all of their forms . . . I look upon tags and labels as prejudices. My holy of holies is the human body, health, intelligence, talent, inspiration, love, and the most absolute freedom imaginable—freedom from violence and lies, no matter what form [they] . . . take.
— Anton Chekhov, (October 4, 1888; Letters, p. 109) in “Freedom from Violence and Lies: Anton Chekhov’s Life and Writings” by Michael C. Finke (Reaktion Books, Nov 11, 2021)
Anton Pavlovich Chekhov was born on January 29th in the year 1860, in the small seaport of Taganrog, Ukraine. He is regarded as one of Russia’s most cherished story tellers. (Portrait & background: Famous Authors)
Just another day.
Walking cross-town to the office.
Paddling in an introvert’s dichotomy soup – preferring to be held in the comforts of Home, of the Known, yet, nourished by the anonymity of the city. The City. Where I can walk for days, for weeks, and never be recognized, and never recognize anyone. Where you can walk for blocks in your own head and remain peacefully undisturbed, in your anxieties, your doubts, and flashes of unexpected wonder. A small dog on a leash, sniffing, then pulled by the owner, both navigating through the rush hour throngs of feet. I watch them. The branches of a Japanese bonsai tree in a small green patch fluttering in a wind gust, as the hulking, soulless gray skyscrapers glare from above. I look back to carry it with me. A bird, or a small flock of birds, sailing in the wind tunnel of 46th street. My arms are pulled upward to sail with them. There are these few, so few, that rush to park upfront, for immediate recall.
So I walk. I’m left alone. Whatever the day, and no matter the weather. It’s my time.
It’s Tuesday. Same landscape. Same story. Same velvety cocoon.
Your name is called out.
You are sure it is a mistake.
You keep walking. You don’t acknowledge the shout behind you.
The call is repeated, a rude awakening from a deep sleep, in the midst of a beautiful dream. This good walk spoiled. Shattered. Continue reading “Walking Cross Town. A Good Walk Spoiled.”
