Tag: Snippets
I am in the parking lot of Hovey park that includes a pond, in Glens Falls, NY. A young boy, about six, is with an older man who appears to be his grandfather. They are loading fishing rods into the back of a white Chevy pickup.
“It wasn’t a very good day of fishing, was it Poppy,” the boy says.
“No. No it wasn’t,” Poppy replies.
“It’s okay, Poppy, don’t worry,” the boy says: “we can come back another day.”
Overheard during an online Self-Realization Fellowship conference, as reported to me by my “Darlin’ Companion” who most definitely gives me “peace and understandin’.” (Cue the Lovin’ Spoonful…)
A young man was determined to undergo the arduous training to become a monk in a certain silent order. The focus was meditation and accompanying study. Every ten years, monks in contemplation were allowed to speak two words to the Master.
After the first ten years, the monk had his audience with the Master and spoke his two words.
“Food bad,” he said. The Master nodded, and the monk returned to his silent practice.
After twenty years, the monk had another opportunity to speak.
“Bed hard,” he said. The Master nodded.
At the next opportunity, the monk told the Master: “I quit.”
This time, the Master replied.
“I’m not surprised,” he said. “You’ve been complaining for thirty years.”
Here I am sitting on a concrete barrier near the waterfront in Red Hook, Brooklyn, smoking a cigar, after having walked across the Brooklyn Bridge and back. I have my camera and am on my way to photograph Lady Liberty from the pier. It is a nice, sunny autumn day, a little breezy, not too hot. My favourite time of the year.
If I were back in Toronto, I’d smoke the heater in a park, but in here in New York, Bloomberg managed to ban smoking in parks, and naturally the tyrannically inclined majority went along with it. This follows the principle, noted famously by Mark Twain: “Nothing so needs reforming as other people’s habits.” And so, rather than a luxurious park bench under the shade of a big maple, with an expanse of green in front of me, I am perched on top of a construction barrier beside a gritty street near a bus stop. But it is okay. It has its charms.
To my left is a construction project that I think involves drainage from the Gowanus Canal. The canal itself is a survivor from the great industrial age, and what looks like water in the canal is, in fact, toxic swill. Back in the good old days, you probably could light it on fire.
To my right is the harbour, and across that, if you walk around the corner from where I am, there is the skyline of Southern Manhattan, including the comical and beautiful Gehry Tower and the new incomplete World Trade building, that monument to resilience and resistance.
Drive past me in the more-or-less southerly direction, and you will hit the entrance to the Battery Tunnel. I think officials tried to rename it the Carey Tunnel, but it didn’t take.
Not a bad perch overall, despite the occasional blue and white city buses roaring in with a cloud of dust trailing. Interesting people to watch. And the cigar is good, too…Nicaraguan. Quite tasty if you are bent that way. I have no worries on my mind. A great afternoon, all in all.
I look down, and right at my feet I notice something I had not seen when I hopped onto the barrier: a pair of lovely satin panties, with delicate lace trim. A nice wine colour. Quite pretty, I would say. They are in good shape, though quite obviously they have been worn.
Now, how did they get here?
I am riding along in one of the wonderful red streetcars. These streetcars are enough of a reason to live in Toronto. There is nothing quite like riding in one of these – the older ones that is, with the windows open and the breeze on your face. It is like being at the midway, only it is everyday life.
I am on Dundas Street, heading west, near Bathurst. This streetcar, an older “CLRV” model, is bumping and grinding along, wheels and tracks squealing, people talking, the bell clanging, windows open, cars outside honking. It is a hot August day. The streetcar is crowded, and I am standing.
It is 2010; I have just returned to live in my home-and-native-land after thirty-five years in the States. At sixty-three, I am feeling good. I am broke and have no prospects, but I am free. I have lost fifty pounds eating sardines and walking off the anxiety of my marriage ending, and the decision to leave my secure career and change countries once again. I can walk twelve or fifteen miles without getting tired. I look like I have a six-pack – that is, unless I take off my shirt; then it is altogether a different matter.
Anyway, I am standing there, feeling good, feeling happy, feeling strong. I see a very attractive, young woman staring at me. She is probably about twenty-five. Obviously, she is very taken with me. I look away, of course, and then look back: she is still watching, looking me right in the eyes.
I am thinking: Hey, yea, I’m looking good, alright. I’ve got it going on. Still got the magic.
She stands up from her seat and moves toward me. Obviously, she is going to chat me up. I’m smiling at her.
Sir, she says, would you like my seat?
Overheard in a diner, now gone, on Court Street in Brooklyn, NY, a few years ago. There are two servers chatting by the counter, young women in their mid-twenties, one dark-haired, and one blond with an Eastern European accent.
Server # 1 (blond): So, I met my ex-boyfriend and his new girlfriend last night at the bar, it was fun.
Server #2 (dark hair): Oh yea? I thought you hated him.
#1: No, that’s all over. I forgive him. It’s normal. It was fun, I like his new girlfriend. We danced late.
#2: Nice. Did you go home with them?
#1: Yea.
#2: Did you have sex with them?
#1: No. I was too tired. I just watched.
#2: Oh, nice.