Around Here

My body serves and betrays. It rises to the occasion of virtue or sin, and falls into scrumptious sleep and inexorable decline. My soul as well... no competent princess, bastilled in my flesh’s indolence and babble. She, too, mints sin and transmits light, before the morning coffee’s gone.

We were college freshmen, not long in New York. Smart-ass lookers, we had more attitude than wherewithal, but we didn’t know that. 20 year olds never do. It was the summer of 1972; we had lucked into an apartment. It was on east seventh street, between Avenues C and D. The rent was $74 a month. Larry was from Pennsylvania, and studied design at Pratt. I was in my first year at NYU and had a part time job at an art gallery on Fifth Avenue. I often walked home from the Bleecker street subway stop, meandering through the East Village, always on the lookout for curbside cast-offs that might be useful or decorative. It was quite possible, especially for young fashionistas like us, to furnish an entire apartment with such stuff back then, which is pretty much what Larry and I had done. Most of those acquisitions were junk, but frequently appealing junk, imbued with a history whose benevolence our apartment absorbed, whose particulars deferred to our own. But this time, it was a literary find...

Inspired by Logophile’s recent flash fiction, I thought I’d attempt a few. I’ve limited the stories to 64 words, in honor of the bit depth halfway between 32 and 128. The setting is New York. “It wasn’t a lie,” she said. The last of the company had gone. Glancing out the window, he saw Phil and Barbara walking slowly to the ferry. “You sighed when you saw the photo of London.” The whole autumn had had such a meandering quality. He smiled at what he knew she was about to say. He switched on the TV. Letterman had Couric. The July sun pierced the sycamores, spraying the lawn with golden coins. Music played. The bride was radiant, and it was apparent there would be no rain. Elaine was halfway to the ladies room before she noticed the napkin she had been carrying, now wadded and rebuking, and discarded it on an empty plate where a bee was feasting on a smudge of frosting. That summer they played badminton on the roof. They never kept score. Rich rushed the net for a shot but his wrist went...

Here's the quietest street in Lee County. As you can see by the bullet hole in the bottom of the sign, mention "snow" in Florida and some people lose their sense of humor. I love snow; it's a wonder of nature, and a planetary feature that may be unique in the universe. I like the winter Olympics better than the summer games. As a kid I lived to skate. I like stopping by a wood on a snowy evening. Christmas in Manhattan, snow-dusted and cornucopia-spilling, is a jewel of civilization. I love when it sticks on my nose and eyelashes. And I like, most of all, remembering it fondly.

My friend Bobby made dinner here. Well, we both did. He made grilled pork chops and roast potatoes. I made my over-the-top sauerkraut, and pineapple white cake whose only wet ingredient is egg whites. Then we had coffee and lay around listening to assorted playlists and pets. He wants to write a cookbook. It has only one recipe: spaghetti sauce. The book is mostly about shopping for the ingredients... in Greenwich Village. A couple of items take him as far away as Mott Street or 14th, and lead to danger, history, possibly Philadelphia, and assorted odd diversions. It's based on a true story - his. It’s a great recipe, by the way. A rich Bolognaise sauce. Good with a new cabernet, but then what isn't?

Shining on the lake falling in the rain lapping at my heart you are here again surging like a wave lifting me upon your wake Heart forever kind grace like falling snow calling out the stars blowing through my soul palladin of peace lover from the end of time Aching in a smile smiling in a tear love that makes me cry stay forever near trembling in a leaf whisper to my heart a while...

...when more commercial work lands on my desk. I'm not complaining, mind you. Here's a shoot I'm working on: One must eat. I owe my career in photography, and later in journalism, to sibling rivalry. My brother won a camera in a contest, and at seven years old, I had to have one too. So I worked, saved, cajoled, and conned my way into getting one. Jimmy Olsen was my hero. I never strayed very far from that myth or career track. Though my work, since I left the dust of battle, has been a bit less, well... gritty.