Monday, August 08, 2005

You and me and the moon

I love this half-finished studio. I love its exposed pipes and mottled cement ceiling and cheap latex-painted floor. I love this building, w/ its creaky elevator, its layers of weird tagging, its busted-out windows and floor-to-ceiling ivy, its varied cast of characters, from the freaky IT dude who hooked us up w/ wireless to the 30-something woman I just met in the elevator who, in seeing my seahorse necklace, recommended an exhibit at the Coney Island Aquarium. I love this neighborhood. I love its heaps of decaying garbage, tossed car parts, bike wheels, old batteries, 151 bottles, beat-to-hell couches, shredded lawn chairs, surprise coffee shops, wine bars, creperies, and bodegas that pop up every few blocks amidst deserted storefronts w/ 60s-era signage. I love imagining how Sorley's Family Thrift did back in the day, what kind of business Frank's Corner Auto pulled in, the stories told w/in any one of the long-gone drinking holes around here. On a good day, that is. On a less-than-good day, the whole scene disgusts me and/or makes me sad. Yep, that's my early analysis of my new neighborhood, insofar as how it impacts me personally. Mood depending, I either love it or, well, hate's too strong a word, so I either love it or I love it a lot less. More often, though, I love.

Running around here has been really engaging; I've definitely run down Kent Avenue more than I've crossed the Williamsburg Bridge into Manhattan, and w/ good reason. It's plain interesting. The other day I found myself in the heart of Greenpoint, which is a predominantly Polish neighborhood. Two blocks later, surrounded by Japanese folks. Ten more minutes and I was thick into brownstones and heavy tree canopies. Neat! I've also gotten a lot of pleasure in walking home around dusk, along either Kent or Wythe avenues. Kent, closest street to the water's edge, runs for blocks w/ nothing but quiet loft spaces--large windows open, leafy palms moving in the breeze. The occasional gallery pops up, lit softly from w/in, the back of a person visible, brush in hand (really). The blare of the city is hardly audible, making these walks some of my most peaceful since moving here. People stroll past every so often, sometimes alone, sometimes w/ a companion or w/ little dogs in tow. They almost always smile and say hi. I have yet to feel threatened, as--thank you, Hassids--security cars flank the sidewalk at regular intervals. This morning, rising at a godawful 4:30 a.m. for a 20-miler, I watched my neighborhood wake up. Actually, I watched it yawn--preparing to wake up, you might say. A half hour later, Manhattan's who I really got to see, and let me tell ya, she's no Seattle. No lazy, hazy, *I need my latte before I turn back into a human* for M, no siree. M wakes w/ a start (if she ever truly goes to bed), horns blaring, people shouting, dogs yapping. All this, sans double-tall extra-foam. Quiet is very, very short-lived here. Which is fine, as I'm learning to appreciate it all the more.

Another bit about crossing from dark into light while running: I've done it a few times, typically w/ the pa at my side, and it's--there's no other word--magical. It tends to stretch the experience backward, such that you feel like you've been running all night long, and moreover, that you've acquired a secret shared w/ your companion, if you've one, and maybe, maybe, the moon. Try it.

Posted by princess kanomanom @ 7:38 PM