bike riders and street art on a saturday!
Surfboards and street murals on Sunday.
Caroline Shepard why are you naked. Prof Benjamin Heim Shepard replies why NOT naked. Living with a photographer provides many joys.
All weekend, the cycles whirl.
Storms make their way through the seas.
“…hurricane accelerating away from the Mid-Atlantic coast. In the Bahamas, victims picking through the devastation. In the Southeast, cleaning up debris. And in Washington, …President T waged war over his forecasting skills…”
At war with ourselves.
But what is real?
The beaches close Friday and Saturday.
I plan to ride there Sunday.
For one more dip, a final wave of summer.
Would we be oK?
Dorian rips through the Caribbean.
Leaving homelessness in her wake.
Maybe not his time, but a matter of time.
Dreams meander through my mind.
I’m at an old friend’s house showing him a diamond.
A secret talisman.
A testament to something special.
Brecht and jobs, NYU and kids.
The making and breaking of bonds,
erosion like the cliffs.
Too much other chatter.
Full of colors, lights.
“And to my state grew stranger, being transported”
Worries Prospero, a tempest leaving him at a loss.
“The creatures that were mine, I say, or changed 'em” wondered.”
Things becoming stranger.
The table cluttered.
More and more rubbish.
The conversation slows.
More and more garbage.
The diamond is gone.
Comradeship lost in the wreckage. .
Riding in and out with the tides.
The teenager and I ride bikes to the park.
Where Bill and Joe talk Critical Mass and Extinction Rebellion.
If we don’t win this one, we won’t win any of them.
The little one looks like Flo in Mel’s Diner, skating to and from vamped up, whirling down Smith Street.
The bikes pop wheelies on the Manhattan Bridge.
The skate boarders beat back the AstroTurf in Tompkins Square Park.
West on 9th street, JC’s play was Washington Square Park.
His, “little musical with the big heart ….” opens the space.
The anarchists piling inside Judson Memorial.
Up at 67th Street Gladys hosting book group.
Its hard riding 6th Ave, more cars, horns, agitation.
A city discombobulated.
Why didn’t she leave earlier?
Wound after wound.
Why’d she come back?
Did have Stockholm Syndrome?
What’s the relationship between trauma and mental illness?
“The thing about having a mental breakdown is that no matter how obvious it is that you're having one, it is somehow not obvious to you. I'm fine, you think. So what if I watched TV for twenty-four straight hours yesterday. I'm not falling apart.”
Rejects her parents but not the system that imprisons her.
“It’s strange how you give the people you love so much power over you.”
“I'm a bit curious about how her pre-memoir mind works. If anyone finds it pls send it through,” ponders Catherine.
Friends dropping by,
We wonder about the Trials of Job that we all endure from time to time.
“Job arose and tore his robe and shaved his head and fell on the ground and worshiped. And he said, ‘Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return. The LORD gave, and the LORD has taken away…”
Off we ride, meeting at Grand Army Plaza.
A week after
“Hurricane Dorian touched land on the Bahamas… battered the islands for two days, killing at least 43 people… leaving 70,000 homeless as it damaged .. nearly half of the homes on Abaco Islands and Grand Bahama….”
Beaches in New York open Sunday.
Dorian’s damage done. ?
Down Prospect Park West.
Toward the holy land.
Steven recalling riding through Nazareth,
Crashing on a hill.
Where Gabriel told Mary she would bear a child.
Stumbling, breaking four ribs.
Down Rugby road, the bikes take us,
Toward Sheepshead Bay.
Past Floyd Bennett Field, Southeast Brooklyn.
Writing on wall along the shore of Jamaica Bay.
“Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off--then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship.”
Walt Whitman, wonder the riders. Who wrote that?
Beach Rides always surprise.
Holy Brooklyn, epic poems everywhere.
Bridges and streets, up over the bridge, past a boat in the distance, talking about water and work.
Beach dreams dancing.
Down the bridge, past my favorite trees.
Birds on the beach.
Surfers in the water.
Swimming bodies bobbing up and down.
Talking about hikes in Ecuador and Peru.
Stay in Lima, suggests Christine.
Collecting sea shells.
Birds visiting, sharing.
Our waterfront giving.
Dorian receding, cold water, dark clouds.
Cracking brews, chatting with buddies.
Last day for lifeguards.
Friends down the beach.
“..fun riding and swimming with you today!” says Christine. “I found my friends on the other side of the rockaways, and we took the ferry back to Manhattan; perfect!”
Back down Flatbush, through Holy Brooklyn.
Dreams, water, hope, beer, bikes, graffiti, restaurants along the way.
Past coffin warehouses on 3rd Ave.
Meeting Rob, chatting about Alice and Fred and the way we cope with our horrors.
Caroline and I talk about the tender spot from here to there.
Waking and wondering what happened to those dreams.
Reading the memorial for Susannah Hunnewell, who left us, left the Paris Review for parts unknown.