Get Some Tussy

It is inexpensive and unlike any other deodorant, comes in a tub. Aluminum free - for $1.59 you woundn't expect any alzheimers inducing fancy metals would you? Smells like cloves, cozy for Autumn. Go to Save on Fifth. Spend a little more and you can get some Secret in it's newest fragrance, "Optimism." Loaded and pessimistic? Spend $5.99 for the Tom's of Maine in Calendula, Apricot or Unscented.

Prospect Lake, August 8

77 88 999

I can't remember what I did on June 6, but 7/7 and 8/8 are pretty unforgettable. Got to take the kids to the playground at Fulton Ferry Park on 77, heard the boredoms, was not bored. We also went to the Floating Lady barge pool that day. I missed the Red Hook pool, sorry barge lady. My love for that enormous wading pool and the fun kids have in it expands my heart every time I think about it. My kids didn't even want to go in the pool on the barge, they just wanted to keep filling up cups of water from the water cooler that stood on the ship's deck. For all the 175 people they had allowed in, there were maybe 15 cups stacked there, and my kids couldn't keep their hands off them. They love water coolers. They love the deep satisfaction of filling cups with pure water. Something I can't help taking for granted although it is a luxury of the profound variety. That's what I hear.

88 was a fabulous day for me. A day of freedom. I'm sorry about the tornados, for people's hardship, but I loved that day. Loved that my husband couldn't go to the job that demands so much of his energy. Loved that we went down to Prospect Lake to see how high the water was. It wasn't that high. After a major storm about 10 years ago, we found an enormous crayfish in a puddle on the road that goes around the park, marooned. I was hoping to see more like that one. We didn't, but we did run into friends who also couldn't get to work, hung out with them for an hour in the park, talking about things like how to catch crayfish with a chunk of suet.

Saw a guy walking down 5th Ave in Manhattan with a t-shirt that said got freedom and that day, it made me smile, instead of cry. A beautiful day. I'm wicked I guess, because I can't help kind of seeing roofs ripped of houses as a metaphor for some kind of disaster forced transcendence, delivering people from mind-numbingly tedious routines. We are so lucky no one got hurt. Lucky 88. Well, if I get hit by lighting or my car gets smashed by a tree the people of 68th street and others in Kensington can see that as a metaphor for, um, I'll let them fill in the blank here...

August went so fast. Goodbye 8th month. You're so lionine. Thanks for ripening so much bounty. More than we can take in. Later, Persephone dude.

99 will be here soon. It's not just 99 this year, it's 999 (2007=9). 9+9+9=36=9, oh, nines are so cute and graceful. I know of one person planning a celebration, of the cosmic, not ironic variety. I wonder what else is in the works. Hopefully no natural disasters of any scale.

Saved on Fifth?

Not this time. It hurts a little when I see that the marble composition books which I paid $2.50 each for at the Krupa Grocery are 2 for a $1.00 at Save on Fifth. I knew $2.50 was steep, but the Krupa Grocery, on Prospect Park West, is a very special store, very individual, the best candy selection on the strip, durags, a few local "artisanal" t-shirts (look up) and the usual lotto heavy bodega fare. You can also get indian stuff there, mehndi paste and exotic kinds of hygiene products. It is adorned with metaphysical messages posted in odd places. On the door it says "That art thou, " which I take to mean "Thou art that," but I'm not sure. In my case, it would have to mean "Thou art that stupid that you paid $2.50 for something that goes for 50 cents somewhere else." Ow.

Here's something else that hurts. I pocketed the coin I had fished up for the meter when we got to Save on Fifth, it appeared we'd inherited a sweet 35 minutes. We must have been having too much fun shopping, because later I found a ticket on the windshield. $35 dollars. Time and space has nailed me again, as it will all of us. Meter time and parking space.

(here, a brief interruption from my inner numerologist/schizophrenic: 3+5=8, 3+5=8. Hello again 88. What are you doing here?)

What sweetens these injuries to my feelings of competence and thriftiness? The memory of the free candy they put in the bag when I bought the school supplies at Krupa. They are some of the most friendly store owners in Brooklyn, go see for yourself. Just don't get composition books there. I wonder if they still have that interesting and fun music selection and those $2 packages of pungent spices.

For anyone who cares, notice that a man wearing clothes that coordinate with my subject once again enters the picture. What's going on! Oh, Brooklyn, I love you so. Are you a White Stripes video? My inner skeptic points out that red and white are popular colors. Well, they are no doubt the colors of the week for me. I took home some of the red and white carnations from the altar of the meditation session I went to last night at Devi, thanks Buddha, and after went to Amin around the corner, a sea of red napkins on white tablecloths. And delicious Indian food.

Bacon Tattoo

Sweet Tooth

My son was driving me nuts, mad for candy. Always asking for the next gumball, jonesing for the next werthers, the next icee. I find this vexing, this constant craving ever tormenting the boy. My grandfather was known for his sweet tooth, my grandmother made him refrigerator cookies, she kept a loaf of fresh dough in the ice box, in the afternoons might slice of a few slabs and cook them in the toaster oven. They were ginger flavored. He also used to eat bread with tomatoes and sugar. I'd be thrilled if any of my kids would go near a raw tomato. I'm even thrilled that I can spell tomato.

Anyway, I kept feeling as if my son were having a problem with sugar. One thing that helped was when I read somewhere that Queens born wonder box artist Joseph Cornell had a sweet tooth. How else could he have cooked up such fetching candy for the eyes. So then I thought maybe the sweet tooth is a good thing, predicts good judgement when it comes to editing experiences. Who knows.

I wonder which of his teeth is the sweet one. The thing I should wonder is, is there some way I can have more confidence in the child?

Smith Union Market

I think I took this picture to remind myself that Target didn't invent red and white. I hadn't been in the Smith Union Market in maybe 8 years, not since my daughter went to Sunflower Daycare and we would hang out at Carroll Park afterward. She had her third birthday party there in that park that I love, it was a double (September is so thick with birthdays!) and that's when I learned that double parties are very tricky.

My 40th party was a double party, great fun, but minorly inconvenienced when the basement flooded while the karaoke was underway, people kept singing as their socks got wet, dancing around with the kids' stuffed animals. I knew I should have just invited the water, so it wouldn't have to crash the party. But then again, this led to my very special birthday present, my first insurance check.

I've had many moments lately where something I've wanted to see has been obscured at the crucial moment, very frustrating. Passing by, something looks really interesting, a tattoo for instance, and then at the point when I could really see it, something gets in the way. Kind of feels like a slap, the feeling is the opposite of the feeling of grace. Sort of feels like a reminder that I'm giving the world a little too much power over me, I've slipped back into thinking I would really find deep and lasting satisfaction there, some amazing significance, by knowing some trivial thing, or seeing some beautiful thing. The moment is over so fast. And I'm just left with longing.

I didn't want the guy in this picture, above, but let it slip because his red and white checked shirt fit in so well. He obscures the view but adds to it. Plus he has his hand up to his right ear and so does my son. I'm sure you can picture the shot without the guy though, that's the shot I really wanted. I wonder who is this guy, who spontaneously and no doubt unconsciously wandered into my shot, frustrating me and adding so much of his personality to it. Maybe he always makes his calls there, it may be his special phone call place. His appearance reminded me of something valuable; all summer, I've been trying to learn that the mess and mix-up has more to offer me than the organized arrangement, it's a better reflection of the state of the mind/world and the complications of the unconscious than the barrenness my ego and angst contribute. Life without the bleach.

Moon...and Orbs!

Sebago Lake was Nice

Ambiguous Yellow Things on 11th Avenue

Saturday morning surprise, corner of Prospect and 11th Avenue.
Coffee, tea or pee?
























A block later. Festive fungus or tattered ribbon.

School Shopping

It went OK. Had to park in the P2 level of the underground garage at the atlantic center. my daughter kept asking me if it was called the atlantic terminal, I kept saying it was the atlantic center. children are fun. we found a map that allowed us to share a sense of authority, turns out the building that houses the Old Navy, etc. is the atlantic center, and the building across the sky bridge, as I like to call it, is the terminal.

3 kids in one dressing room is daunting. But luckily since the beginning of the summer my smile has improved so it helped me win the kindness of the fitting room attendant, who gave us the minivan version of the dressing room. everyone was so excited to try on their pants, i got embarrassed after a while, they had come up with some kind of a new variety of song about butts, which everyone could hear them singing, so i told them they were probably scaring everyone out of the store. this didn't make a difference.

I don't know who to thank for my improved kindness, maybe the buddhists, maybe the shaman, maybe some invisible guide. I don't know. maybe my therapist(s). maybe its the fact that i'm not working (aside from 25/7 mommierge service). maybe i should thank my enemies for teaching me generosity and humility and compassion. whatever the cause I enjoy the look of relief on people's faces when they see I am not fake or distrusting person, a look that says, OK, I guess you are all right, i don't think i have to hate you. still, i know it is as if i am the tiniest figment in people's dreams, an insignificant detail in the momentum of their struggles. but that's fine. i hope each story turns out beautifully. sometimes i think god created the world simply because s/he enjoys a good narrative, a quest story. me, i'm in the mood for vampire tales.

Back to Brooklyn

I wouldn't say I came back to brooklyn with a refreshed mind, but I did notice some things I hadn't before. For instance, on the drive from the Whitestone Bridge to Brooklyn, I saw a black building with an enormous green logo on it that said Octagon. From my view, it looked like the building may or may not have had 8 sides. It was dark and we were going fast. The building gleamed like a black tourmaline crystal. I'm wondering, is the octagonal prism among the platonic forms? I don't think so.

I noticed there's a Buffalo Ave. in Brooklyn. For some reason it made me really happy that there would be a street named after this animal, a symbol of this continent's native abundance. But then I realized the street was named after the city, not the animal, because as we drove down Eastern Parkway we then passed Schenectady, Rochester, Troy. Then the little segments of streets named after NY cities ends and you get to Nostrand. Who was Nostrand. It is a word I am trying to like. Reminds me of nostril, which I don't think is a first rate word, although I realize it refers to a significant body part.

I'd been on Eastern Avenue before, but never really felt how long and enormous it is. It has grandeur, well before you get to the Museum, one of it's most punctuating focal points. Hundreds of thousands must live on that street. How many churches on that one thoroughfare, alone?

The last thing I noticed myself noticing was a cycle on my washing machine that I never use. It was as if the knits cycle hadn't existed. As if I bought a new washing machine with this feature. The feeling reminds me of when I have one of those dreams that I discover all these rooms in my house that I hadn't noticed before. Driving down 8th Avenue to pick up the boy from camp- something that I did 20 times in the month of July, I started to get that feeling, I'd notice buildings I'd never seen before, as if the Avenue had opened like an accordian.

Donuts Too Fresh

Today at a Dunkin Donuts outside of Boston my two-year old mooned everyone at the counter. People laughed hysterically, then felt guilty for encouraging her. I had just been chatting with the women there, telling them we were from Brooklyn. I guess she wanted all the attention. Or maybe she was pulling a publicity stunt. I had never, never seen her do anything like that before and had no idea she was capable.

I was mortified but it seems there's some poetry in it. Perhaps we should bag nursery school, I'm afraid she might not be a great influence on her peers, and get her stand up career started. She doesn't seem to miss a beat. At a Japanese restaurant, I asked her brother to say "No thank you" to the waitress in my normal, uptight way, when she loudly chimed in "No thank poo!"

No mercy for me. What am I doing wrong? Apparently I was severely potty-mouthed myself as a wee tot, and I do remember mooning someone. If you can't beat 'em....maybe you are them.

I saw this comedian talking about how white people never beat their kids, so when they take them into public places, malls, etc, their kids show very little self control. Wander around willy-nilly. My toddler is the prime example of that. What this man was saying really grabbed my attention because it seems so so true, but no, I'm not going to start beating the kids. I'm sure there are white people that beat their kids, and "non-white" people who don't beat theirs, but I'm exactly the kind of white parent this guy was talking about. Seemingly ineffectual. NOT SCARY. Long term? We'll see.

Lake

Our last day at the lake was Saturday. The wind was really strong all day, and the lake had beautiful 2 foot waves crested with froth. In the family, we call these white caps. I wonder if other people use that term. You could also call the water extremely rough. The coarsest grade of sand paper, good for abrasion. Not the kind you use for polish.

I was wondering if the lake was going to "turn over," my sister and I used to notice that when we got in the water after a storm, the warm water layer had flipped underneath the cold layer, the reverse of how it usually is. Hard to figure how those layers could stay cohesive with the ruckus going on on the surface.

Last year when I was at the lake, I dreamt that I was in the water near the dock. The water had a milky opalescence and luminosity. There was a man near me with red hair, a figure that's turned up in other dreams. I was standing on my hands in the water and the man was telling me OK, now turn over. In reality, this would have been very easy to do. But in this dream for some reason suffocation seemed like more of a possibility and the depth of the water was exaggerated. It was as I imagine being snow blind would be.

I interpreted it as something with a spiritual meaning, something indicating that my values and priorities were all wrong. I was worshipping the wrong gods. But relieved that by the strength of my arms I could find reorientation.

This year, the first time I got in the lake, it felt like a garment hanging around my waist, 2 miles across and 11 miles long. What a big skirt. This was when the lake water was as smooth as glass.

The people who look forward to boating on the weekend must have been very disappointed last Saturday. I feel a little bit bad for them. It is fun to speed over the water and explore the lake, troll in front of Frye's Leap, maybe jump of the granite cliff into the depths below. But I felt glad that the wind had elected to forbid boating that day, so the lake got to clean up a bit, was spared god knows how much fuel residues. One brave man was wind surfing, it was astonishing to see how fast he moved across the water, as if he didn't touch it at all. He managed to come about, i.e., change direction, at least one time before he went down. My grandmother in her wheel chair saw the man as well, she told me that she surfed like that, in her chair. It seemed like she was smiling, but I couldn't quite tell if she were joking or delirious.

Notes about Maine

This morning a bald eagle flew over this house where we are staying on Sebago Lake in Maine. I've been coming here my entire life but have never seen one here before. This bird was flying real slow (really slow), so we got a good look at it. It wasn't very high above our heads and it carried a fish as if it were an accessory. It landed in some trees down the shore, and sat there in a large pine tree, not eating the fish. Nearby, crows were cawing, as if the eagle had gotten them as stirred up as it had me.

When I saw it, I was too startled to speak, and had to pound the leg of my daughter, who I'm sure regrets having been sitting next to me. I went so nuts I think I pulled a muscle or overtightened a ligament.

I like the story about how Ben Franklin wanted the wild turkey to be the national bird. An animal who not only appears to be bald, but actually is. Apparently they're very intelligent, and so delicious that during the depression they were hunted nearly to extinction. They've recovered however, well, this is what I read in one of the local papers up here yesterday, in an article written by someone name "Diggy," who complained in his article about how some women wear bikinis who shouldn't. You'd think if someone were enlightened enough to appreciate the wild turkey they'd also have an appreciation for freedom of style, but then again, people are always full of surprises. Sometimes you couldn't be more wrong. Savory paradox.

There's someone I know who has extreme difficulty with men wearing shorts or shoes that reveal their toes. Why do some of us let ourselves be such bitchy spoiled fascists? In wartime, when we are united in contempt, I wonder, do we demonize fewer of "our own" for fashion choices that make us feel...uneasy? Or are we just as ornery as usual. Hide, turkeys, hide.

Diaper Bag of Tricks

For some reason, we've often received diaper bags from work acquaintances. Really nice ones, ones much better than we'd ever get ourselves. We don't know from bags, even diaper bags, we're not bag people. Although that photo essay in the NYT styles section comparing the look of hand bags to various dog breeds was in my opinion brilliant reporting. Radar magazine online ran a similar photo essay comparing bags to various cultural icons, for instance, there was one that looked like Yoda.

A writer and bag officionado once gave my husband a really special diaper bag, and because I'm a simpleton I can't remember what breed it was, but my husband reminds me it was by Fred Segal. We left it sitting on the passenger seat when we were parked in front of Mary Van Vleet's house on Stratford St. in Ditmas/Prospect Park South when she was having a trunk show. When we came back to the car, someone had broken the window and snagged the bag. Whoever perpetrated this crime didn't get anything but diapers, unfortunately not dirty ones, but they were probably more than pleased with the swankiness of the bag. I'm sure they appreciated it more than I could have.

Even so, the diaper bag I have now is one I should wish someone would steal from me, because it's so tricky. But I like this bag. It was given to me by someone I used to work with at ABC Carpet and Home, Susan Perl, also a fellow in mommy hood. It was swag she scored from Domino Magazine, and like a domino, strictly black and white. It has a striking pattern, intersecting staircases, or perhaps you could call them tessellated Andean crosses. It is wonderfully roomy, which means I can find things in the bag I tend to over pack. It is waterproof, I can wipe out all the nasty things that have fallen into it, like ginger ale.

The problem with the bag is that whatever you put in the inner pocket slips down to the bottom of the bag because of the faulty lining, and even knowing this, I still lose things. At Robert Moses beach, my husband's wallet and keys disappeared when it was time to hit the road and head back to Brooklyn. We looked everywhere. I even checked the tricky diaper bag. We left in a cloud of unknowing. Later on, at home, once we'd recovered from exposure, my husband checked the bag more thoroughly and there they were, laying between the bag's two thick layers of vinyl. We forgave the bag. Why? We forgave ourselves. Why?

And my mother forgives us. Last night she took our 3 kids to Chuck E. Cheese outside of Portland. I volunteered she take the domino bag, only packing it with a few things she would need if the little one had an accident. At home, after my husband and I had enjoyed the extremely rare night out (dinner at Local 188 on Congress Street, then Bourne Ultimatum at the (scary) Windham Mall,) my mother tells me they had a bit of a scare. The kids had played for an hour, and when it was time to pay for the pizza they ordered, lo and behold, no money in bag. Where's the wad of cash? No keys in bag. She had transferred important personal items into the trick pocket of the tricky diaper bag of tricks. They searched the entire Chuck E. Cheese, emptied trash cans, walked around whole thing, interviewed workers. No keys. AAA and security were summoned. When security checked the bag, one more time, just in case, they found the car keys and the cash wad.

It makes a nice lost and found story. Reminiscent of those tales where someone searches their entire life for treasure that lay in their pocket the whole time. What was preceived to be lost was right there the whole time. Such a nice feeling. But I think I'm enjoying it more than my mother.

Crime Blotter

Breaking News, North Windham, Me.

Bag of Chips Decimated by Family of 5
Officer John Cook responded to call, left voice mail requesting that family slow down on their brutality towards trans fat bearing wafers of salt and corny crunchiness

Small Bird Impersonates Tree Bark
Onlookers wonder what exactly this bird was trying to get away with in its suspiciously careful feather selection.

Brooklyn Mother of 3 caught Blogging on Vacation
Idiot, I mean, dumbass, doesn't she know how fast the time will go by?

Mosquitos Suspiciously Missing from Shores of Sebago Lake
Clueless vacationers don't know if the blame lies with skeeter spraying or local bat population. Investigation continues. Also missing; frogs, snakes, fish, ducks... but there is some evidence of looniness.

Preteen Girl Fresh from Camp BackSasses Mother
But later makes her mom a delicious orange slushy with whipped cream on top and all is forgiven.

Boater Honks at other Boater
Boat rage seen as growing problem, even in paradise

Children Caught Leaving Wet Towels on Carpet, Feign Deafness
Mother smashes head against stop sign.

Octagonality

Sometimes you just know you shouldn't ask for directions. It's just not going to work.

When we got to the rest stop on the Maine Turnpike, it was amazing how many people were there at 1 pm on a Saturday. All headed for vacation land. It had been renovated since last year, it was no longer a cave-like place where you go to mine for cinnabons, french fries, coffee, fried chicken. Now it has a central atrium, 8-sided, with a skylight, also octagonal, so that the design suggests the beloved lighthouses of the region, and why not? Under the skylight there's a small wooden gazebo surrounded by silk flowers for charm, fabric delphiniums, black-eyed susans, digitalis, fiddle-head ferns... They make me feel bad. On the north side of the atrium large photos of weimeraners hang, looks to be a Wegman work. Is he a Mainer? Are those dogs WeimerMainers? They're very New England in a Martha Stewart way, Cape Cod Grey, with a slight dusting of sugar lustre for highlight. (please, people, use the world "lustre" as much as you can - because that's livin'. )

4 TV screens are hung on the walls of the atrium, not in N, S, E, W positions but 2 on the east wall and 2 on the west wall? Why? I resent such screens, that have started to show up with more frequency every time I leave the house. At the bodega, on the elevators, at the rest stop. Is it really necessary, can't we go a few minutes without a screen to blank out into? You can't hear anything that's being announced on TV because of the noise, but I read the closed captioning, it says authorities want to insert a camera through a hole to view the victims of the Utah mine collapse. How horrible, to see what's happening but not be able to help. Why? Will something important be learned from this?

Later I wonder about stop signs, they are octagonal too, why? Is there a reason they aren't square, circular, triangular... The day we left for Maine we drove by a bunch of teenagers hanging out on the corner of 16th St. and 11th Avenue in Brooklyn. Some of them were climbing a sign post and smashing their heads against the stop sign mounted on it. I seldom see any teens in Windsor Terrace, they are a very mysterious bunch. And when I do see them, I see this?

At the rest stop in Maine, I'm wondering if there are more octagonal buildings here because of the lighthouses. What part of the earth is densest in octagonal structures? Perhaps places where for some reason it proves too challenging to make cylindrical shapes? I'm wondering about the minerals up here, Maine is rich in them, how many sides do those black tourmaline crystals we used to find up here have? They are all lost now, as are the enormous industrial grade garnets and huge sheets of mica I used to find in a mine, open to tourists, up 302, past Naples.

For a while, I hang out next to the toy grabbing machine that my children are amused by, my son is getting mad because I don't give him money for it. He wants to hit me. Suddenly there's a couple in front of me. On the woman's arm there's a tattoo that looks to be a Manhattan skyline, rendered beautifully in a grey palette with subtle gradiations. The focal point is a detailed rendering of the Chrystler building, and I get a little choked up for some reason, as if it were the Christ-ler Building. It's just so beautiful.

I bite the bullet and seek directions over at the Z Mart. I get access to the cashier and ask her how I can get to N 35. Do I have to go around the rest stop, I ask her. She tells me I'm already at the rest stop. This is going nowhere.

OK, What else is on a Plane?

The picture of the marmoset/spider monkey (which is it?) is from the 1010 wins article on the subject of the primate, now nicknamed Spirit, who traveled from Lima to New York under a man's hat, then perched on his pony tail, and once discovered, politely on his lap. Gothamist posted a picture from the Curious George series - nice. I had that idea too, really I did. Also thinking about it in terms of the story Caps for Sale, one of my favorites. But that picture book is about frisky monkeys, not smugleable ones.

You monkeys you, you give me back my caps!

One thing you can be sure of, I am traveling Monkey Express at the soonest possible opportunity. How about petting zoo/ plane service, what a value! It's hard not to make light of this story. But I hope everything gets straightened out soon for the monkey and his man with a hat. And for airport security.

Where's My Sleepy Husband?

On Tuesday I took the car (picture minivan, not SUV) into the Giuffre Autogroup in Bay Ridge for a tune up, the airbag light was lit, the engine light was lit, and we will be needing to drive to Maine at the end of the week, so it seemed like a good idea. I got there later than hoped, at about 8, and already the place was well in swing. While I waited at the desk, I could see that the people who work there were overwhelmed. Someone called, and the man who was helping me took the call somewhat reluctantly. I know the feeling, sometimes it just feels like it's too early for other people's agendas. The call was quick, a man asking when his car would be ready. Then suddenly the guy was talking to another person on the phone saying "Yes, Mrs. Roberston, he's here, don't worry, he's just taking a nap, he'll be home soon."

I really wanted to know who was at the mechanics taking a nap at 8 in the morning. He didn't mind telling me. "That was this old woman, looking for her husband. He is always either at OTB or here, napping." I was wondering where someone could snooze around there, and then I started noticing all these weird little lounges and meeting rooms.

So, if you need your car fixed, and you want to nap while you wait, now you know where to go.

Today I picked up the car, and while I was trying to examine the bill, my son was singing a song to his little sister, which went something like "My darling, my dear, I hope you survive our life." Made it pretty hard to concentrate.

Plant Stories #2

Purple Coneflowers at the beginning of July and the beginning of August. Looks like the July sun subtracted some major cyan. By October, the tattered petal tutus will be gone and they'll be black balls of quills, perfect for a witch's bouquet. Carefully wedge your finger into the spur and the seeds start to come apart by the hundreds.

Once, a few years ago, I came out of my house and an old man was gaping at the coneflowers, transfixed. He asked me what they were, said he had never seen such strange flowers before. He asked if he could take one to his wife. I screamed at him "Whassa matter with you, ya romantic. Now, get outta here!" OK, I didn't. I just wrote that because I've been up for 2 hours in the middle of the night afer receiving a painful mosquito bite.

Actually, I gave him one of the flowers with great pride, happy that he hadn't been too ashamed to ask.

Greening Pains

We've fallen into a bit of a rut. My son loves the vending machines, the ones at Key Food, the ones outside the deli on the corner of 16th and Prospect Park West, the one down from Thai Tony's.

I can relate. There's the joy of fitting one, or even two carefully designed and minted quarters into slots that fit them perfectly, metal to metal. Then the turning of the handle, the gears working slowly, a reassuring bit of resistance against your hand. After the gears have turned fully and the works release, you hear the little bundle of surprise bump down behind the door (hopefully). When you lift up the little metal hatch, there's always that hint of anxiety - will it really be there? The reward for the effort is retrieved (mine!) and then, usually, there's... disappointment. But still, there's the hope, the myth, that really cool stuff will come out of there next time.

Cool stuff, poisonous stuff. That's what I had to tell my son. We should no longer spend any quarters on these little prizes that may well be painted with lead and other poisons, that most likely come from factories that dump some pretty evil chemicals into their local water supply. Places where people are so desperate they have to blind themselves to the effects of their actions. For that matter, I tried to convince him, we should pass on the gum, too, because not only is it bad for you because of the sugar but it could be tainted with whatever poison residues might have been left in the machines from other things.

Yesterday was his last time to get a trinket at Key Food. He got a fake gold chain, which I took from him immediately, saying, that's exactly the kind of thing you have to watch out for. Fool's Gold. On the way to the ATM, we pass the magazine rack. I see that on the cover of the New York Times there's a story about the tainted trinkets brought here from China. I read the headline to him, a little too loudly.

Sometimes, it stinks to be right.

Who Tries to Walk in Brooklyn

These aren't mushrooms!



These pictures seem undramatic compared to the images of the atrocious condition of the Coney Island Boardwalk posted by The Gowanus Lounge (plus my shots just aren't very good.) Now that it looks like the Thor deal is dead, I'm hoping the powers that be will make like cyclones and FIX IT. Believe me, the people are worth it, even if not all can afford the expense of Sag Harbor in August.

In case it's not clear, these shots show the rusty and treacherous bases of metal signposts in evidence on the shores of Prospect Lake near the Vanderbilt playground. There's a bit of an erosion problem there, the unearthed tree roots make an interesting obstacle course for toddlers who come to feed the ducks, geese, sparrows, swans and pigeons you find mixed together there like olives at Fairway. Those roots also make curious seats from which to gaze at the lake and take in the breeze.

Too much digression; I wonder how/when/if these lethal weapons that jut from the ground will be removed. You barely notice them, they're camouflaged. I'd hate to see anyone fall on one of these bad boys.

Ghost Story

I saw it three times. In my house.

This was five years ago when I was pregnant with my son, our middle child. Our house keeper, Rosa, told me that pregnant women see apparitions more often than other people, maybe because they bear souls within them that lie between worlds.

The first time, what I saw looked like a little puff of grey smoke floating quickly along the baseboard in the boiler room. Very surprising. Something told me it was a dog.


I saw it again in the basement a week or so later. It didn't alarm me for some reason. I like having dogs around, and being pregnant, the hormones that allowed my tissues to soften and stretch seemed to be having the same effect on my brain.

I didn't like it so much when I saw the thing moving along the ground in the upstairs bathroom. Had it gotten lonely? Was it seeking company in its confusion? I also didn't like it when I became aware that it had come into our bedroom and was under the bed. All my life I've been scared of things under the bed. What's that about? Fear of subconscious conflicts, uncomfortable truths?

It was under my bed. I was talking to it in my mind. "Go on doggy, its ok , umm, go into....the light, good boy..." I heard it growl. This was the only time I ever heard it make a noise. And the last.

I have no dread of the ghost dog anymore. I wouldn't mind if it were around, I wouldn't have to worry about what was in the kibbles I was feeding it. But I haven't seen it since the night it growled.

I'm sorry for its confusion. I wonder why it was hanging around here, I wonder what it was hoping for.

To Bear the Bell

My neighbor runs a literature review, Small Spiral Notebook. A few times a month she leaves a pile of books in front of her house; it never stays there long. When it's there, the pile has become a bit of a landmark, at least one person has come to rely on Felicia's discard stack to keep her well dressed in reading materials.

I always pass up the stack, mainly because I only read self help books. I've been reading "10 Days to Self Esteem" for the last 3 years. Yesterday though, because I'm becoming more interested in American history, and maybe because I no longer dismiss anyone who lived in the past as somehow made of wax, I picked up FS's edition of American Poetry from the 17th and 18th Centuries.

Ben Franklin's Drinking Song from this collection seems like a good choice for August. It is not a pretentious work. It uses a charming anachronism "to bear the bell," which I think means, as Martha Stewart would say, "to be a good thing." In the song, which is more of a rap, Franklin clearly seems to prefer the vice of drinking to those of greed, lust, and in my favorite part, power:


If this does not fit ye, let's govern the city
In power is pleasure no tongue can tell;
By crowds tho' you're teas'd, your pride shall be pleas'd,
And this can make Lucifer happy in hell!

then the Chorus:

Oh no!
Not so!
For honest souls know,
Friends and a bottle still bear the bell.

There's something delicious and strange in thinking about a founding father taking up the quill to express his ardor for drinking (with friends.) I don't handle liquor well, people who know me might think I'm being a posuer writing about this. But I do like things that bear the bell, like Felicia and her book pile, those Gowanus oyster people, purple coneflowers, the pizza at Little Tonino's, those Gowanus Loungers who've been protesting the shameful neglect of the Coney Island boardwalks and heartless evictions, the look of those Quadrozzi cement trucks (!!!) the fact that Matthew Reichers is back from England and ready to talk Buddhism, the astonishing weather today, among other things...cheers!

M'Ladee, S/he Rocketh the Queensboro

To rock, what does it mean?

We rock babies to sleep...hmmm... an earthquake rocks a neighborhood,
someone rocks my world....causes disorientation, and in that shift, the grip of a new orientation, some new rock to cling to...inspires enthusiasm, a fresh refuge from meaninglessness.

Thanks, Psychic TV, for the beautiful show at PS 1, for all the encores, for your courage and generosity. For the mix of sweet and bitter notes with which you brew such potent medicine.

More to come about this....

Artist Arrest #2

On Thursday my neighbor was arrested leaving the Key Food on Prospect and 11th Avenues. He had just bought some cereal, fresh mozzarella cheese, olives, tomatoes, basil, assorted other things.

He told me he had neglected to take his trusty box cutter out of his pocket before shopping (art students like him use them to cut illustration board, canvas, etc.) and when the police officers, who were standing at the exit when he left the store, detected its clip sticking out of his pocket, he was thrown up against the wall and taken into custody, where he remained until yesterday.

I don't know much about law. Did he commit a crime? Or did his tattoos, piercings and ear plug things scare people too much? Does anyone know anyone he could talk to, like a lawyer or something? He is being advised to plea bargain. Should he?

Too bad he didn't have the forethought to call the press before transgressing. I don't imagine Duke Riley would have the time to offer a course for artists seeking publicity. But it's a good thing, because then the police department would have no rest.

But it might do a lot for NYT circulation. The shot of Sir Riley emerging from "The Acorn" on page A8, sans tall boy, is such an unusual image for the NYT. Salty bare-chested urban bohemian dreamer/prankster myth-making golden pin up boy emerging from 8' orbalicious ovoid. Glad to meet ya.

I joined the navy, to see the world, but what did I see, I saw the sea....

Red Hook Submersibles

Terror strikes! For god's sake, where is the olive bar, it used to be right here? Oh my god! What happened to the Fairway olives? Fear, I feel it, and longing. Not to worry, there it is, it moved, not only did it move, it doubled in size! Not knowing what olives to get, and being a gourmand, I mix all the mixes together in my container. Tuscan, Greek, 5 kinds, 8 kinds, other kinds, not Mexican, maybe next time.

I read from the newly installed signage that Fairway tends to its olives with great care. Is this called husbandry? As in cheese husbandry? Always loved that expression, it makes me feel hopeful. Who doesn't need husbandry to keep flavor delicately nuanced and texture carefully protected from the agents of entropy? The flavor of many of those olives reminds me of the experience of trolling around the hook, the rich juxtapositions, which include the sense of salaciousness mixed with civility one experiences when reading the words "Happy Hookers" painted on the fire station. The rustiness, the freshness, the iron, the salt, the brick, the siding, the open spaces, tiny houses, plant nurseries I haven't had the chance to visit. hmmm... Flanked by brine that invites the hardy, those that don't mind a long walk to the subway, those fearless types who yield to the lure of homemade sea vessels.

I'm so jealous. I'm jealous of the fun and adventures of those involved with the launching of the Bushnell Turtle - is that what it's being called? The only therapy I can imagine is to reenact the slide show I viewed on their flickr sight, in my bath tub, using a cantaloupe and action figures. And eat some olives.

August Bears Down

kinds of hot

afraid to go outside hot
the polyester drapes are melting hot
liquid lipstick hot
gritty neck hot
become nocturnal hot
can't wear my hair down hot
cauterized ambition hot
singed hydrangea hot
can't sleep can't eat hot
fire would cool me off hot
flip flop fused with the asphault hot
my tears will cool me off hot
brain's a panini hot
smell the dust toasting hot
spontaneous combustion hot
loin cloth only hot
don't touch metal hot
prickly heat hot
check on your elderly neighbors hot
don't leave pets or children in the car hot
ride the subway all day hot
singed eyelashes hot
parking lot hot
put that sandwich on my face hot
hallucinating oasis hot
hinge-melting hot
odor overload hot

finally install the air conditioner hot?

what have I left out?

Crossing Sol Goldman Swimming Pool

The Red Hook Pool is otherwise known as the Sol Goldman Pool, named after one of the big-time landlords of NYC history, and a major philanthropist. The thing that touches me the most about him was a certain lack of pride.

As Iver Peterson wrote in 1988 "on Oct. 20, 1983, Lillian Goldman moved out of the Waldorf-Astoria suite she shared with her husband, Sol, and began a divorce proceeding. She asked for half of Mr. Goldman's $1 billion in assets, New York City's largest private real-estate empire.

Come back, Mr. Goldman told his wife, and I'll give you several million dollars beginning immediately, plus a third of my estate - free and clear, whether we are married or not - when I die."

This is kind of heart breaking.
But regardless of who he was, and what his life was like, could there be a better name for a pool?

Sol (sun)

Gold (gehl; yellow)

Man (solar)

Do you see what I'm saying?

There's a ramp that descends into the enormous pool, which is painted bright yellow for some reason. Kids learn to swim on the ramp because it's the only place neither too shallow or too deep. It is packed with elementary school-aged children. I wish I had snuck in a camera and photographed it but the rules at the pool are strict, and they have to be. The pool is one of those places where fun gets out of control very easily. Before you know it, boundaries are crossed that shouldn't have been. While I was there I heard one lifeguard utter the following dictate:

There will be no man to man, man to woman, or woman to woman contact in the pool.

I wondered if they left anything out. Can I give my daughter a kiss?

In the wading pool, I watched as my son bent the water coming out of one of the vaguely horse-shaped sprinklers, soaking a toddler who was standing nearby. I was about to express outrage, but then I saw the toddler was delighted. He jumped up and down, grinned, licked his lips. Skipped away, came back. I looked around for an angry mother but saw none. Lots of kids crawled along the bottom of the pool like catfish, seeking relief from the heat, and perhaps to activate some atavistic DNA.

The lifeguard, clad in orange with a matching orange whistle, Shwarzenegger-style sunglasses, kept having to get up and chase toddlers from the part of the enormous wadding pool that was roped off. According to this personable young man, they were short on lifeguards.

They seemed plentiful enough to me, and attractive. Not Baywatch hot, more Red Hook than that. Sol Goldman hot.

Sol. Were you a nice landlord?

I was able to persuade my 2 charges to go into the "deep pool" with me. Of course the only way was to carry one in each arm. I felt conspicuous but there was no choice. It was surprising that I didn't hear whistles blowing all around me.

Being a short person I had a moment of anxiety in the deepest part, but we passed by the weird 8-sided metallic crystalline looking thing that marks the middle of the pool without capsizing. It says "keep off" but I don't see how anyone could really get on it. Crossing back, we get behind some frisky teenagers and the seas get rough. The toddler in my left arm threatens to grab my glasses, the 5-year old in my right does his jungle-bird shriek in my ear. The toddler thinks that's hysterical and imitates him. I consider sending out an SOS.

To our right there's a gadget that is lowering a paralyzed man into the pool. A second man waits in his wheel chair, completely still. Several attendants operate the thing.

Strange. Beautiful. Rare. There's no diving boards but there's that. Cover the basics first.

Sol, this is a great pool.

Sun Sightings

Whenever I drive by St. Xavier on 8th Avenue this motif catches my eye. It has a strong feeling of the medicine wheel and the basic geometry of a cross. The diagonal diamond rays are exciting, I want to drag my finger along those ridges, they are like a cheekbones. The recessed point in the center of the circle is a little threatening, weapon like.

The motif appears to relate to artwork by tribes of the South West. I always feel like I've seen it before, maybe on jewelry, I don't know, I've seen it somewhere.

Strange to find one answer to the mystery at the visitor's center in Fort Greene Park, where the walls are lined with miniature versions of state flags. The flag of New Mexico has the same bones. From a tribe called the Zia, the design has 1 sun, 4 rays for each of the 4 directions. Each group of rays symbolize gifts given by - who else? the giver of all good gifts. "Bound by a circle of life and love, without beginning or end."

It was sad to read about the shootings in Brooklyn last night, 2 dead, 7 injured. Weird, I was lost on Fulton Street yesterday, near where a 33-year old man was killed at about 2:00 in the morning. I got lucky and found my way home.

Here is something interseting about shooting these kinds of images: the surprise of finding that the cross hairs in the viewfinder line up with the direction lines of the subject.