The severed heads had been put on pikes for all and sundry to see; made examples of. The unseasonably warm autumn weather made grotesques of each— death masques submitting to rot and gravity; to the punishments meted by the state.
Passersby turned their heads, and covered their faces with kerchiefs, but there was no ignoring such a brutal and noisome spectacle.
And then there are parts of town that don’t quite feel like New York at all.
I’m always looking for what elements are the disparate ones; what are the real culprits that make it feel different. Sometimes it’s scale; of buildings, of the street or space around the buildings. But sometimes it’s something more invisible. A certain type of window or siding. The way the garden is planted and decorated.
Every now and then you come upon a whole city block, and the little shops along its length sport cloth awnings all identical, and you have to look around to assure yourself you’re still in Brooklyn.
The church bells are all pre recorded these days. From far away they sound real enough, but sometimes the volume is up too loud, and if you’re nearby you can hear the distortion.
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.
Here are some images from a few months ago that I came across recently. Serene, the bright kind of overcast with a fine mist or drizzle. It’s a lovely thing to wander through neighborhoods I’ve wandered so many times before and see something in a way I never noticed before; or, literally, in new light.
I’ve still been drawing more than writing these days, though it’s not for lack of words. Things are percolating; they’re not ready yet. Day to day concerns and occupations monopolize, and everything less greedy or immediate must wait below decks. Cargo all but forgotten until the bills of lading come out and the crates are hauled up into daylight.
Some of what’s below the surface traces back to winter and early spring. The day I shot these was a fine one, but there was so much going through my head and I wanted none of it, was sick of it, so I gave over control to the senses, and found new details in things I’d walked past and even photographed many times before.
I think I’ve not been walking enough lately. Long wanders always help— to quiet the mind; to solve or to resolve, if only for a little while.
My dreams this morning were a wildly colorful and vivid jumble of characters and scenarios, from which I could hardly escape or retreat. And I don’t think I wanted to.
I’ve been drawing much more than writing these days, and I’ve not transcribed a dream upon waking in quite awhile. Even today, this was as much as I jotted down. Gradually the images began to fade as I got caught up in emails and research and the tasks of the day.
In the meantime, some sketches from last evening. The world famous TARDIS restroom in The Way Station bar, and its attendant tiny library!