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Subject: Getting Out of Dodge - Do not pass New York, Do not spend $200/night.
Date: July ".... SO, I have been sick of New York of late and for that I am in Princeton. You know that, as I have told you already, well, at least that I am in Princeton. Regarding my uneasiness with New York these days - it is quite simple - New York never stops. Never stops for those who wish to idle. Idling isn't served well in New York, you will not find it on a menu, a wine list or at the super market. New York is just one, big give and take economic equation where everyone loses. You must have something to give and those who idle take up space with nothing to give but a blockade to the arteries of waking, commuting, working, shopping, drinking, eating, and drinking again. Even the tourists, in their 'I'm with Stupid' t-shirts and their hip-pouches, cameras draped around the neck and hair flopping in their eyes while they try to touch their chins to the clouds staring at the 41st floor of some office building, learn quickly that you must move to survive in New York. Why idle in front of a van Gogh when the Monet is in the next room, or the Duchamp is in Midtown. For those who live here, the 'walk-up' isn't the third-floor sandstone in Hell's Kitchen, it is the emergence from the subway stairs, sifting through the tourists surrounding the office building that wraps around the elevator that you hope one day drops the floor and pounds like a jack hammer all your peers fighting for the same promotion you are. And that bright, shiny and bloody day, you will exit the elevator at your next destination, the second rung of the ladder that promises more money so you can increase the debt on your credit card with the clothing you strap to your arms and legs moving, the food you choose to eat at the restaurant that isn't as good as the one downtown, and the drinks that are pushed in front of you so you can move them to their final destination, moving and shaking in your blood stream, to the inevitable effect of cheating your insomnia, because your mind keeps running every night when you try to rest your head. But the alcohol, the little liquid soldiers stomp out any anxiety and put you to sleep. To rest for a few minutes before waking to the pounding in your heart and head and your feet on the pavement. This is New York. And this, I can do without for the moment. So, for the moment that just passed. I stood idle, outside. I watched three butterflies feed on flowers. Large, lavender, pinwheel flowers with red rust bulbs in the middle. These beautiful, sun-shaped flowers were supported on tall, thick green storks bent from the weight of their eminence. These winged insects balanced deftly and released upwards as if they were sprung by a gust of wind from the mouth of a fairy lifting them up before settling down on another bulb. Softly they settled with out tracts or trace of them having been there. These elegant creatures were colored. One was bright yellow with black stripes. He or she looked like a tiger. Another, orange with black dots that clustered close together on the tips of the wings. This one looked like a cheetah. And the third beast was black. Beautifully black, shining blue. And I was reminded of a panther. I stood there idle for twenty minutes watching them feed. I was outside, not wanting to come inside, I worked my way to cleaning the pool. I am helping a friend while he and the family are on vacation. I relax, feed the dog, Quigley, an old, heavy-breathing black Labrador. He has a double chin that reminds me of a college professor. I scantly use the pool between cleanings, I prefer a run, a walk, a read, a moment in the kitchen cutting fruit and feeding myself. But all in its daily dose, I am enjoying myself while slipping idly out of the insanity of New York City day and night-life for 5 or 6 days. It is very rural here. There is a canopy of trees that house an umbrella of bugs' nests. If there is one thing I appreciate about the concrete and steel of urban living, it proves no habitat for anything but humans. Daily, and often throughout the day, I have to contend with Japanese beetles who are using the pool as some aqua landing strip in which they are to practice their diving and swimming techniques. Once splashed, a ring of water seismically reverberates around their little green beetle bodies and they quickly emerge from a depth of about one half inch of water and roll themselves to commence in a backstroke. Their underbellies pointed to the sunshine. They swim and I believe because I have looked close enough, they are smiling, enjoying themselves before being sucked into the filter which shortens there already short lifespan. You will not believe how many beetles there are waiting in the wings to prove they can land better and live another day to tell about it. I do hope, as I am a hoping creature, that one, maybe two, climbs outside, drys his or her wings and warns the others that that glassy surface is sheer danger, it is not the oasis they believe it to be. This is no party, this ain't no disco. But for the many bugs, for ten or twenty minutes, it is a glimpse of heaven's bright light, the white light of the eternal sun, before drowning. So, I net them and toss them over the fence, hoping they fly off to live another day. I am off to write another letter on another day. Until then.
Post - July'06 Back to home...
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