Human history is riddled with cursed repetitions, but goddamnit the unabashed presence of nazi white-supremacists who claim also to be patriotic Americans is as anathema as it is indefensible. It’s been less than 60 years since the Civil Rights movement; less than 80 since WWII— the atrocities of which are tattooed on the flesh, stitched into the fabric of collective memory; survivors of which are still alive to witness this terror, this evil, these cowardly acts of fragile men.
These are not acts of free speech; this is the fomentation of deadly hatred.
Here’s a scene from the deck of our little house in Cherry Grove. I had it in mind that I’d start with some color then go in and add structure with pen, but I quite liked how serene and unfettered this looked so decided to leave it as mere suggestions of the pool and flower pots.
This morning I woke to find a black bird walking around in my kitchen. When I walked in, she startled and flew smack into the window a couple of times. I opened a screen for her, but she flew into the living room and affixed herself to a screen before I got another one open to allow her out and free.
As the contractor sealed up the roof yesterday, I wondered how a building can be watertight but not bird-tight.
Her nest, it turned out, had been in the space between the ceiling and the roof, just next to where the collapse occurred, and there was found a small opening beside a drainpipe on the exterior wall. That, too, has now been sealed, and I feel bad that she’ll have to find a new home.
I remember not long ago having a dream in which I found a crow walking around in my kitchen. I think he spoke to me but I must not have written it down, as I’ve found nothing of the sort in my archives. Anyway, the bird this morning reminded me of that, and my search in the archives brought me back to the dream of the crumbling apartment, and the hidden room! (But in this case, a bird’s room.)
I suppose, if I’m going to have the occasional vaguely-prescient dream, I’d do well start having altogether more delightful dreams.
You guys, let me tell you that life in the Big City is just one crazy adventure after another, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Why, this very afternoon, some crazy, impromptu shit went down! Or rather, came down, I should say.
I was weekend-chillin’ in my apartment when I heard an alarming sound from the kitchen, followed by a second, even more elaborate sound. And like a fine wine, that second sound had a long finish—of pebbles bouncing on the floor, a trailing off kind of sound.
Last night, sitting on a blanket on the ersatz turf of the sporting field behind the Old Stone House in Park Slope, I enjoyed the production of Macbeth by South Brooklyn Shakespeare, now in their fifth season.
Set in a post-Vietnam timeframe, fatigues comprised much of the wardrobe, and the weird sisters in proto-punk variations on kilts, a playful reminder of the setting (and I wish I’d drawn them, too).
The sky, too, was dramatic, the wind never ceasing in its toil to keep the endless tide of clouds moving overhead, first unveiling then covering over the moon, and over and over.
(For anyone still tallying up: these bring me to 81 / 100 people )
Here’s one I did the other day, but just finished it now, especially for the Thursday post. It’s my bicycle, a Globe Daily 1, and I love it. Its (his?) name is Boric, named by Z, back when he decided my witch name is Lizzie Boric.
The basket on the back is one that’s intended for handlebars; my bike mechanic gave it to me and I decided it would be more useful on the rack, so it’s affixed with a handful of zip-ties.