13th Street, Park Slope

In Park Slope we have a 13th street, and It's been offering a very interesting theme. I was just looking into the number thirteen on wikipedia and read the funniest explanation of why 13 is considered unlucky by some:

It was suggested by Charles Platt writing in 1925 that the reason 13 is considered unlucky is that a person can count from 1-12 with their 10 fingers and 2 feet, but not beyond that, so the number 13 is unknown, hence frightening, hence unlucky.^[4] This idea discounts the use of toes or other body parts in counting.

That is really, really goofy. I've never in my life used my feet for counting, but I will do that from now on whenever I can. And why not elbows and knees, anything that can be moved in a gesture that says "count me, too."

But this has nothing to do with what's interesting about 13th Street in South Slope. There's a strange extroversion pattern. The first point of interest is this house on the corner of 6th Ave.




















I've often noticed this place, but the other day I was walking with someone who couldn't stop proclaiming her amazement that anyone could tolerate having a glass lined interior staircase. No curtains, no way to hang curtains. She worked in real estate and couldn't get beyond the idea that someone could tolerate that much exposure. I remarked that I guess someone just might not care that much about their privacy, and I got the sense she thought I was an idiot.

A little farther up the hill there's a medical office where you can get MRIs, XRAYs, ultrasound. Is there anything as honest as bones? Bones have nothing to hide. They speak only one language.


























Beyond the lab someone has a strange housed bulletin board - what on earth are those things called, and where would you get one? They are usually seen in front of churches listing mass times, etc. But this house is no church, and the sign holder holds sheets posting this resident's favorite quotes. I agree with all of them, if her house were a church, I would go there. Read the version of the Lord's Prayer therein supplied for public viewing.

























































In the next block of thirteenth St. you pass a group of houses with very deep and graceful front yards. This is unusual for our neighborhood, to have the yard in the front, most people's yards are sheltered and protected from foot traffic, but not these. Note, one is for sale.




















Here this post becomes a story, a disturbing one. Near the intersection of 8th Ave I see a small white poodle-like dog. It is the kind that has a shaggy face so he doesn't look like he has eyes. We get closer and he still doesn't look like he has eyes. He really doesn't. In spite of what my daughter has tried to teach me about how to talk to people about their pets in a polite way, I fail to muzzle my tongue and find myself asking the owner if his dog has eyes. The man says no. I think he's being sarcastic with me, of course I deserve it, but I have to know if he's serious, so I ask him again. No his dog doesn't have eyes. Please, you're kidding right? No. He was blinded in an accident. He got hit by a car and his eyes popped out of his head. The dog doesn't have eyeballs. They sewed his eyelids shut. I wouldn't joke about that.

This dog is less distracted, more present than most. We spend some time with her. She is so calm, completely aware of what's happening around her. I pat her back for a while, it's warm and squishy and I feel connected to her. Her name is Ernie, as in, Ernie and Bert. Ernie was the extrovert, always embarrassing and annoying Bert. Ernie is shameless, innocent as bones.

Maybe 13 is dreaded because there is no thirteenth hour in the day. I associate it with the Great Goddess in all her forms, maybe because the emanation of Mary in Fatima always appeared to the shepherd children on the 13th of the month. I think it would be impossible to know what day of the month the White Buffalo Woman came bearing the sacred pipe to the Lakota nation. According to Black Elk, she was first spotted by two young men, one of whom approached her with impure thoughts. The story has it that when he got close to her, they disappeared in a cloud. The Woman stepped out of the cloud and walked away. When the haze cleared, all that was left of the man was his bones, standing there. (Black Elk Speaks, p. 3)

Too hot to handle. I mean, in a Sacred way. This is the song she sang. History made it so it belongs to all people, thanks to the printing press and Black Elk's intentions.

With visible breath I am walking.
A voice I am sending as I walk.
In a sacred manner I am walking.
With visible tracks I am walking.
In a sacred manner I walk.

No doubt some extreme purification took place, after which the man had nothing left to hide. Loaded number 13, turning defenses inside out, dissolving alienation, fostering internal sight, cleansing motives. A scary kind of lucky, the scariness of honesty, barring the soul, telling all.