With just a hint of Autumn...

It is late as I finish catching up on this past season's "The Killing" while keeping an eye on the Sox-Yanks score on my iPhone.

The windows are open in the kitchen and I can hear the handful of dried leaves as they scrape their way along on the concrete patio outside. Sitting in my living room, I can feel the breeze that coincides with the raspy sound.

It sounds like an early October in Boston where I lived for so many years. There, the house was off of a pond and several of the homes had working fireplaces - a smell I love. When a good breeze struck any of the many trees that appeared as if on fire, any of the leaves void of moisture would make a valiant attempt to cling on. The resulting sound was like that of a giant toy rattle.

When Fall was well underway, there were times I took the B Line train to the terminus at Boston College just so I could make the walk down Lake St. to my home. During those cool and dusky early evening strolls, I would take in the sounds and smells of a New England autumn.

Now, in Brooklyn, I await my 47th autumn with an odd anticipation. Odd? Regular season baseball is winding down (Red Sox victorious over the Yankees 9-8 in 10 innings!) and Yankee fans are nervous. Odd? Some air conditioners are still running; I can only assume poor room air circulation as the reason. Odd? A curiously contentious mayoral race.

Basta!

I love this time of the year even if I don't have the scent of burning wood in the air and as many trees as I used to have. Even if I'm not in New England proper.

And maybe it's time for me to resurrect that fire pit project...

"Words, words. They're all we have to go on."

For someone who disliked English language classes in school (but no where on the same level as mathematics), I've grown quite fond of the power of words.  Quite recently, I participated in a reading of Tom Stoppard's "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead," one of my absolute favorite 'modern' plays thanks in large part to a film version starring Gary Oldman and Tim Roth. Tom Stoppard's plays are, when executed well, marvels to watch but especially to read because of his command of language.

To follow is a simple exchange from the first act:

GUILDENSTERN: Where are you going?

PLAYER: Ha-lt! (Tragedians halt and turn.) Home, sir.

GUILDENSTERN: Where from?

PLAYER: Home. We're traveling people. We take our chances where we find them.

GUILDENSTERN: It was chance then?

PLAYER: Chance?

GUILDENSTERN: You found us.

PLAYER: Oh, yes.

GUILDENSTERN: You were looking?

PLAYER: Oh, no.

GUILDENSTERN: Chance, then.

PLAYER: Or fate.

GUILDENSTERN: Yours or ours?

PLAYER: It could hardly be one without the other.

Concise and exact. A beginning, middle, and end. And a turn on what most people conceive as obvious yet forgetting the other half. On balance, the forgotten other constant of the universe - change. 

Philosophical. Deep. Call it whatever you want.  I'm only grateful that these words exist. In the order that they exist.

Because when all is said and done, it's what we'll have.

Vogon poetry

See, see the sacrificing sky
Marvel at its big neon green depths.
Tell me, Michael do you
Wonder why the shar pei ignores you?
Why its foobly stare
makes you feel lethargic.
I can tell you, it is
Worried by your gerndenduk facial growth
That looks like
A mayo.
What's more, it knows
Your kumquat potting shed
Smells of moss.
Everything under the big sacrificing sky
Asks why, why do you even bother?
You only charm seafoods.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/vogonpoetry/lettergen.shtml

"Vogon poetry is of course the third worst in the Universe. The second worst is that of the Azgoths of Kria. During a recitation by their Poet Master Grunthos the Flatulent of his poem "Ode to a Small Lump of Green Putty I Found in My Armpit One Midsummer Morning" four of his audience members died of internal hemorrhaging, and the President of the Mid-Galactic Arts Nobbling Council, survived by gnawing one of his own legs off. Grunthos is reported to have been "disappointed" by the poem's reception, and was about to embark on a reading of his twelve-book epic entitled My Favorite Bathtime Gurgles when his own major intestine, in a desperate attempt to save life and civilization, leaped straight up through his neck and throttled his brain. The very worst poetry of all perished along with its creator, Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings of Greenbridge, Essex, England, in the destruction of the planet Earth." - Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy, Douglas Adams

9 May 2013, 14:04...

The guitar solo of Blue Oyster Cult's "Don't Fear The Reaper" comes wafting in through the open fourth floor window I'm near from the street below.

Still sounding as fresh as it did back in 1975, the added reverb of the original recording is enhanced by natural echo off the buildings on Lexington Ave. on the Upper East Side. Buck Dharma's playing, which already cuts through the track, slices through the rest of the street sounds.

And it just feels so right.

Have music, will travel...

I like to drive. Sometimes very fast. I always thought of it as race, not against other drivers, but a clock. Truth is, however, I began driving out of necessity and not for the thrill of being in control of a machine.  Most in our country do but cities such as New York bypass it completely. As a military brat, I spent my formative years living in the Nürnberg area of what was then West Germany. My family had a car but it was routine for my friends and I to hop on the Straßenbahn or U-bahn to get around. I developed an appreciation for public transportation long before getting behind the wheel of a car.

Still, I like driving - when I can.  And when I do, I tend to prefer longer drives that average two or more hours. Especially in twilight or dusk when there aren't as many drivers out there. Kind of like a sailing vessel with the stars (when you can see them) overhead.

Before my move to Boston in the late Eighties, driving was the time I could sing along to my music and, in some cases, rehearse vocal parts as I was playing in a band at the time. Having become addicted to driving, I thought my acclimation to public transportation would be difficult - it wasn't. I felt right at home and now I had the benefit of the trusty Walkman I picked up in Germany or the subsequent replacements to keep me company. I still had my music.  Depending on my mood, I'd pop in whatever album or mixed tape I had. It was crazy as I packed as many as (gasp) three cassettes into my backpack. So at any one time, I had four and a half hours of music!

How I chuckle now as I plug into my iPhone on my travels and noting that, while still not completely full, I now carry 6.66 (repeating) days worth of music on a daily basis. Music of most genres. Music to fulfill the need of my then present mood.

And when you see me, you may observe my lips forming sung lyrics or fingers and feet following drum parts or following the fingering of a guitar or bass part - left or right hand and sometimes both at the same time.

Still I try to be reserved doing this so as to not draw attention. Or at least that's the goal. I am not always successful as I notice eyes on me.

And if she happens to be attractive, I won't mind at all...

Selected images

The following images have not been edited... 

Williamsburg

Harlem

Upper West Side

Newark, New Jersey - 6:21 a.m.

From the train (Baltimore to NYC) - via Hipstamatic

From the train (Baltimore to NYC) - via Hipstamatic

Brooklyn Navy Yard

Park Slope

Coney Island - New Year's Day

The Supervisor

Reader - 6 Train

Sleeper - 6 Train

Civic Center

Coat - 5 Train

57th St.

It is so very nice...

...to sleep with an open window.

Unlike those who would prefer a constant 'comfortable' climate, I must have all of my seasons. It helps me experience a year in a way that looking at a calendar does not.

Yes, there may be times where the weather can become intolerable but it makes me appreciate the stretches of sheer bliss. Contrast always helps to achieve a healthy perspective - balance. The universe functions as a result of balance and our experiences, personal or collective, reflect that. This past week has sadly been one of an abundance of tragedy, fear and stupidity - a display of things out of balance.

Yesterday, the Senate failed to pass a measure that expanded background checks for gun purchases despite support for said measure by an overwhelming majority of Americans including gunowners themselves. Special interest (or fear of special interest) won the day over compromise, logic and the duty to "establish Justice" and "insure domestic Tranquility." Even if the measure may not have been the best it could be, it would have been one step. It mattered not as those individuals who have been elected opted to side against the will of the people, to side with those who feel the right to acquire firearms of any kind should not be fettered.

Where is the compromise? Where is the balance?

17th century Japanese swordsman Miyamoto Musashi wrote, "Do not collect weapons or practice with weapons beyond what is useful."

"...beyond what is useful."

Is that really asking for too much?

I guess it is...