Onward March

Thanks to Anthony of 17th Street, my most gregarious neighbor, for the marigold seeds. He said they'll grow into bushes, not like the squatty store bought ones. I'm supposed to plant the seeds one to a hole, no ganging up. Meanwhile my composter is already half full and I've only been using it for a month and a half. Let me remind myself that it's the magic of the cycle that's the point, not the quantity. I love adding the scraps to the pail, it makes me feel sane, and I'm no stranger to the generosity of soil and the sweet smell of its breath.

So far the composter has stood up to the local fauna, except on one occasion when I found the top had been tossed aside. We'll see what happens when the weather warms up.

Wheelchair Stolen on 17th St.

Although after last week I would really love to spend a few days in a wheel chair I promise I didn't take it. Perhaps it was you, did you plan to take it for a spin around the beautiful slap-me-in-the-face, I-can't-believe-there's-really-a- roller-rink-in-Brooklyn Lola Staar palace of wheels? If so, you can turn yourself in at the number posted above. There there, that's a good citizen.

Walt Whitman on 17th St.

I'm always wondering where and when I'll run into Walt Whitman, I think of him as the spiritual father of Brooklyn although I know there are many I don't know about and never will.

I was heaving my way back from Manhattan when I came across a box filled with books about photography. One of them was Reading American Photographs, which I snagged. In it are amazing photographs of Shoshone Falls and many other astonishing images. I found this daguerreotype of Whitman known as "The Christ Likeness." There is this look of love in his eyes, perhaps that's where the name comes from. If someone wrote something today called "Song of Myself" would they be accused of premium narcissism? How can you love yourself without being full of yourself? I guess by loving the world as much, as his lines in "Song of Myself" attest:

I believe a leaf of grass in no less than the journey-work of stars,
And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg of the wren,
And the tree-toad is a chef-d'oeuvre for the highest,
And the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven,
And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery,
And the cow crunching with depress'd head surpasses any statue,
And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels.

How lovely to love the world that much, even the hinge in one's hand. Many blame God for all that's wrong in the world, but it rather seems that God has given us ample gifts that we somehow manage to ruin or dismiss in pursuit of those things we think we need. (I am speaking for myself here).

Come hither love.

Fish Tank Find

A week or so ago I slipped out of the house prior to my daughter's weaning party, (that's right, weaning party, the milk-aholic has kicked the habit) ostensibly to get her some flowers, but actually, to get whatever.

The theme on the streets was extra large fishtanks. On 17th St. there was one that looked like it could hold quite a few gallons, replete with stand. In front of my house there was a small pile of things, perhaps courtesy of our author, foodie and rockstar neighbor Felicia Sullivan. Felicia published her memoir, The Sky Isn't Visible From Here, recently, and the thing I don't understand is why I'm not reading it this second. I'm so proud of her, but I have no right to be, really, she's not my daughter or sister or something she's my neighbor and I hardly know her.

But she does leave a fabulous selection of books in front of our house, and that day about a week ago I suspect it was she who left an oriental style paper lantern and extra large fishbowl in front of the house. I left the lantern but snagged the fishbowl because it's not so hard to imagine that one day we'll get some kind of fish, people do it...

Or maybe I snagged it because fish have been on my mind, at least on a subconscious level. I've been having so many dreams about fish, carp, salmon, blue ones, white ones, ones with bird's wings, angel fish, striped bass, alive ones swimming around, big fish eating smaller fish, dead fish on ice, fileted fish... I really don't spend my days thinking about fish so I wonder why my nights have been filled with them. My nights have been a little like the book "Go Dog Go," except concerning fish.

It should come as no surprise that when I saw my daughter had filled the enormous fishbowl up with water and dumped half a bottle of glitter in it I would want to dump one of our toy fish in there, and the sea anemone prop we've had around for our amusement, and spend some time taking pictures of it.

Perhaps the tanks are one of the more frequent curb finds because often the fish don't last all that long. Maybe one day we'll get a real fish and find out for ourselves. But it won't make such a good photography subject as they tend to always be on the go, and I'll have to restrain myself from dumping glitter on it.

No More Siding

This house in Windsor Terrace on 10th Ave at 17th St. lost its green siding recently. I'm not sure if the bricks they're using on it were underneath the siding or if they came from elsewhere, but they are very nice bricks, in the sense that they have character, texture and history. Some are fairly uneven, and the masons seem to need to go heavy on the mortar to compensate for the irregularity, and it's looking like they're doing a really good job. It reminds me of a cozy hand knitted sweater.

Fence Details on 17th Street

When I was taking a picture of the grey peeling paint the owner of the house came out to shoo me away. He was so so old and he probably thought I was crazy. He might sit at his window all day watching every little thing that happens.

A Typographer Walks in Brooklyn

A lot of footwork went into Paul Shaw's article for AIGA, Lettering Grows in Brooklyn, published on Wednesday. It was with shivers of excitement that I took the virtual tour of the borough with Mr. Shaw, learning typographical references like versal, uncial, and batarde, feeling insecure about my monumental ignorance, but bolstered by the occasional typo. The article discusses 5 or 6 examples of lettering found in a wide smattering of Brooklyn neighborhoods including East Williamsburg, Bushwick, Greenpoint, Clinton Hill, Fort Greene, Downtown Brooklyn, Brooklyn Heights, Brighton Beach, Coney Island, Bensonhurst, Bath Beach, Bay Ridge, Dyker Heights and Sunset Park. (Next time drop by Windsor Terrace and tell us your thoughts about the George's Haircutting sign, oh please.)

It is not a surprise that someone would be driven to write an article which savors the craftmanship that formerly went into lettering as the newer examples are so lifeless. Paul Shaw notes that "websites devoted to ghost signs seem to be a growth industry," later expanding on that topic when he writes "Ghost signs are not only reminders of past products and services but they are examples of sign painting, a once-thriving profession that is now under assault. For the past thirty years the design and fabrication of signs has been increasing computerized." That is one valid soap box.

I found this article by way of craig's list; I noticed that someone living around the corner from me on 17th Street had a queen sized platform bed for sale. They turned out to graphic designers and writers who run an enterprise called Under Consideration, which offers several design blogs - Speak Up, Quipsology, (which linked to Shaw's article), Brand New and The Encyclopedia of Design. So the platform bed came with 3 drawers and 4 blogs. I love those craig's list extras!

17th Street Ghost

17th street is one of my favorites for some reason. When I went to the Brooklyn Ghost Society meet up group at the Connecticut Muffin, a woman told a story about a house she briefly lived in on that street. She and her husband moved into her husband's family's house. One day she was napping (always a good idea) and heard what sounded like someone rummaging through drawers on the floor above her. She assumed it was her husband, but when she looked for him, she found him in the backyard. They got the feeling that the noises were the spirit of her father-in-law, who was always tinkering around, fixing things up, digging through drawers to find a needed part.

That sounds so much like some of the people I know around here, especially first generation Italians like the ones that used to own our house: they knew how to fix things, and everything was immaculate. I am one hopeless clueless slob in comparison. When we moved into our house, there were 4 fruit trees, all bearing fruit, somehow wedged into a plot of soil roughly 12 feet square. How is that done? Those are the kind of things Maria's family could do. She was so funny and charming, but she would roll over in her grave if she saw the amount of dust accumulating behind our refrigerator and who knows where else.

Back to the ghost story: I hear stories like that, about spirits that think they need things, who continue to look for material things even after they die. One story involved a spirit who loved pepsi so much it possessed a college student who all the sudden started drinking uncharacteristic volumes of pepsi and watching TV non-stop. He eventually got shipped off for psychiatric help. I wonder if he recovered.

Sometimes spirits stick around to look after people. In the spring I was driving around Bartel Pritchard Square (circle) and the car in front of me had plates that read AUNTDODO. My own Aunt Dodo had died recently, so of course I paid attention in complete astonishment. How many Aunt Dodo's are there, and even if there's one, someone makes it their license plate? (Dodo is a nickname for Dolores) At the time, I brushed it off. But now I have even more questions about reality, and have been revisiting that moment with more of an open mind.

Someone concerned about me sent me an article from Skeptic Magazine today, debunking things like superstition and hauntings. I'm sure he's been reading this blog. It is terrible to be a slave to superstition and fear of spirits and things like that. I know. It would be nice to be a skeptic. But once you've seen a ghost, or a ghost dog, that's pretty hard to pull off.

Pray for Me

London Plane on 17th

A man noticed me taking this picture and suggested I go upstate to take pictures of the trees because they're so beautiful up there now. How wonderful though with our street trees that each silhouette has its own blue or grey sky to set it off, accentuating the drama of the tree's gesture. I wonder if they get lonely separated from eachother by the spacing of the tree pits. Sometimes you see branches touching in the middle of the street as the trees on either side create a canopy over the road.