Like a sea anemone pulled into itself, I curl up. My mind doesn't want to write, to give. It wants silence where the introspection lives. Ideas for things to say here pass through the windows of consciousness then I let them drift away again. I think for the time being I must live on autopilot in order to get these things done.
It snows again this evening. Probably the reason I'm typing. This time there is enough snow to make the street beautiful. At least for the night. Everything is frosted white, the cars make wet sounds with their tires, sounds that remind me of living in more southerly and rainy climes. The swirl patterns hypnotize. I turned the lights off in my room so I could open the curtains to shamelessly peer out the windows onto the street. One candle burns. My old cat is stretched across the computer desk slowly swishing her tail down onto my hands on the keyboard, she wheezes but is restful. I hope this week to see the vet. Poor thing. She rests her chin on her paws and looks out the window watching the snow too.
Everything glows orange reflecting the street lights, it looks like the world was filmed with an amber lens. Something haunting and appropriate plays on the classical radio station. The station in NY is good, they don't talk much and they don't chop musical works into 3 minute unsatisfactory and teasing bites, unlike most in my experience. I don't know what piece this is: single vocal, monophonic, sounds like it was written in one of the church modes, maybe a baroque piece written to imitate medieval chant?, accompanied by a string quartet.... she just announced it, all I caught is that it was a Motet by Baldassari.
I have been planning to write a post 'the ghettoland diaries' but then they found the dismembered legs and arm in a plastic bag. Someone put them on the subway tracks near my station. The thought that only a few nights ago some murderer carried the limbs of a nineteen year old boy down my street and down those stairs to dump them on the dark tracks is quite scary. It squelches all my desire to dwell on these surroundings.
Tomorrow I go to Central Park to walk the trails and see 'The Gates' by Christo and Jean-Claude. I had hoped it might snow so I could see them then--lucky me-- I think it will be more impressive in a white park. When I was growing up in Miami, my dentist had a large framed photo of an island that Christo wrapped in pink. I remember being fascinated by the picture. I couldn't believe that anyone would do such a thing and I tried to imagine what it looked like in real life. Here is a link to some photos of 'Wrapped Islands' and the story of that work. Thanks to Lynn for the link.
Like sands in the hourglass... another week of life went by.
(P.S. here's a link with a little peak at and some more links of The Gates. Or, visit the artists' own website. (Thanks Lynn)
