A few days into the new normal of our life in NYC, G had settled into her routine, and I had painted the apartment walls back to white (from cerulean blue in the kitchen and black in the bathroom), installed curtains, and learned how to do laundry and where to find our groceries.

How and where would I write? The chair was uncomfortable. The window had bars across it. My primary concern, our dog, continued to worry me. But it was largely because of her that I had been meeting the neighborhood which is largely (and very warmly) Caribbean. Like the van that we purchased for the sake of the animals’ travel around the USA, this apartment choice was for them with its doggy door and back patio. #priorities

The cat has not learned how to use the doggy door yet; he waits until the pup lets it swing and races out, hoping his tail doesn’t get pinched (which it does). Then he waits, wiser, on the other side for someone to let him back in. He has a cold and chronic bronchitis (not a good combo)—the sickliest but sweetest cat we have ever had—being inside most of the time is good for him. The landlord likes that he will help with rodents.

In walking around the neighborhood, I rediscovered an old pattern of recording my thoughts. I transcribed them the next day. That evening, G looked at my open computer and asked, “What’s this?”

“Some reflections. Transcribed, not edited.”

“I like it,” she said. “Can I play around with it? I can hear it in my voice.”

For the next half hour, she orchestrated my thoughts into the key of G. When she read it aloud, we were both startled at how much it sounded purely like her.

Our days are entirely independent, but in the evenings, there is peace in our interdependence that would have been inconceivable this time last year. This lives between these lines: the sharing of thoughts yet the distinction of voices. The ongoing path of non-attachment.

Despite itching to edit my transcription, I give to you,

 

“Brooklyn”

The city snow
White everything
Stops
No mail, no garbage
No recycling
No Christmas tree pickup
Snow plows afraid of the curb

Walk imaginary dogs
Turn out to be a box, a stick, illusion
Then I miss the real ones
Into attack mode
Biting my mitten, not hurting
Just saying
I’m afraid

People look ahead, as if you’re not there
Not even a box instead
It’s possible to feel alone
Amid a lot of people
Not boxes
Twenty years worth of pines’ tops
Lie decapitated
Sidewalk pedestals
Bundled beside translucent bags
Of things that might cycle into something
Boxes or eye shadow of abandoned warriors
(We can hope)
Garbage gets more and more delicious
By each day we pass
A pork bone, covered in meat!
Pay dirt
We stop and pay homage
What am I doing here, I ask myself
She dines

There is more opportunity
For what
I cannot find a blank canvas, seated comfortably
A place to settle my soul for a moment
Excitement heightened by not-finding
Possibility
In the different faces and thoughts
By the change of scenery
And greater chance
By air conditioning units in winter windows
Rusting at greater speeds
By faiths
Bumping up against one another
Trying at survival
Deteriorating snow
Yelling and cursing sounds from box walkers
Children run screaming, released of school
All ages walking work to work from
Above-ground lacking identity
By remnants of no loitering, no smoking
No littering, no stealing, no gambling
No sitting on the stoop, no standing
No drugs
Bam bam
Speakers for pennies

By the couch still covered in snow
Not picked up
Will it ever be?
Was it meant to?
Maybe it is used for
Loitering

Walk in the wake of boys wearing cologne
Having replaced maples and cornfields’ solitary soda can
With barrios brownstones and bodegas
Coyotes calling morphed into the meandering of teenagers
As we approach,
Window yells
“Stop screaming as if you’re being raped”
“Take an antibiotic, bitch,” replied by smile
Performing twelve-year-old wit for the audience

Cigarettes
The score set of airplanes, slamming doors, honking horns
Engines running, snow slapping against the fenders
Green suede shoes with a nod to
Constant surveillance
Of place, cars, of dog

How a snow storm stops everything

~~~~

 

And, now, “Brooklyn (a transcription)” – January 9th, 2018

The city snow
Turns everything white
But it also stops everything
No mail, no garbage
No recycling
No Christmas tree pickup
No snow plowing to the curb
We walk and I see imaginary dogs
It turns out to be a box, a stick, an illusion of some sort
Then I miss the real ones
And she goes into attack mode
Biting my mitten, not hurting
Just saying
I’m afraid

People look ahead, as if you’re not there
It’s possible to feel alone
Amid a lot of people
Tops of pines that took twenty years to grow
Lie decapitated on the sidewalk
Bundled beside translucent bags
Of things that might cycle into something else
(We can hope)
Garbage gets more and more delicious
Each day we pass by
A pork bone, covered in meat!
Pay dirt
We stop and pay homage
What am I doing here, I ask myself
As she dines

There is more opportunity
But for what
I cannot find a blank canvas, a comfortable seat
A place to settle my soul for a moment
But I am excited by the not-finding
By the possibility
In the different faces and different thoughts
By the change of scenery
And the sense of greater chance
By the air conditioning units out in winter
Rusting at greater speeds
By all of the faiths
Bumping up against one another
Trying to survive
By the snow deteriorating
By the sounds of people yelling and cursing
Children screaming and running, released of school
By the people of all ages walking to and from work
By the above-ground subway
By the signs of no loitering, no smoking
No littering, no stealing, no gambling
No sitting on the stoop, no standing
No drugs

By the couch still covered in snow
That also has not been picked up
Will it ever be?
Was it meant to?
Maybe it is used for
Loitering

We walk at a distance from boys wearing cologne
Having replaced the maples and cornfields
With barrios brownstones and bodegas
The sounds of coyotes are assumed by the sounds of teenagers
As we approach,
The smell of the teenagers’ cologne is trumped by reefer
A white lady yells out of her window
“Stop screaming as if you’re being raped”
“Take an antibiotic, bitch,” is the reply
With a smile at his wit
Performing for the girls in his audience

Cigarettes are everywhere
The score of airplanes, slamming doors, honking horns
Engines running, snow slapping against the fenders
The green suede shoes
The constant surveillance
Of place, of cars, of dogs

How a snow storm stops everything

2.

The things we don’t hear anymore
Because it has gotten so noisy
Even the dog doesn’t hear half of what she can
The variety in the wrought iron
In the individual brownstones
Were they made all at once?
Side by side?
Or one at a time with grand pauses?
How did they attach them?
How speedily did they attach them?
The wrought iron speaks in its own right
Of desire
Of rigidity and frivolity
Protection and claim
A certain expectation
Of a lifestyle to match
I love looking in people’s windows
As the lights come on
The giant paper Chinese lantern
Attached to the intricate moulded ceiling
The wall, lined to the ceiling with books

Here lies a different kind of inspiration
A different kind of nature
Of discovery
Of exposure
Of anonymity
Children walk home from school alone in the dark
They don’t do that in the country
So many people
On their phones
On their music
On drugs, of a kind

The mail is having a recovery day
But the streets have not yet recovered
Days have passed, litter littering lives
To me, there is ugliness
But to the pup, there is opportunity
In the ongoing stew
Of the land
Fill
Filling
Filled

 

 

PS – I like hers so much more! Would love to hear your thoughts.