Back from Brooding

It’s difficult to start writing again. It’s funny to say that; since I write every day. I write in my journals. There are the endless emails of various significance. There is the writing that I do for work. And then there are my fiction writing projects — I always have at least one novel going. For me, the hard sorts of writing are personal correspondences and blog posts. These are the more immediate, more raw, forms of writing. They reflect the writer’s immediate emotional state (at least they do for me). And, in particular, they reveal the provisionality of thoughts and feelings. That is not always comfortable. So, sometimes I draw in on myself and step back from the more immediate forms of communication.

I’ve always been a bit of a brooder. I tend to think things over and over in my mind. Sometimes this is accompanied by melancholy . . . but not always. Thoughts and feelings linger with me even when I am happy and joyful. So, when I say I ‘brood’ I do not mean this entirely in the negative sense of the word (Webster’s dictionary on my phone frames the word in ways with which I do not completely agree).

A friend of mine from many years back used to tell me I was the perfect example of a ‘cancerian personality’ (she was very fond of astrology). ‘You sit there on the bottom of the ocean and brood.’ I smile when I think of her saying that to me.

I often stop writing for a while during times of joy, times of sorrow, and/or times of change. Even my journals are oddly thin during some of the most interesting periods and seasons of my life. So it has been for the past several months . . . more than a year, actually. It has been hard to climb up out of the depths and put my fingers to the task of recording words. This has been a long period filled with joy, sorrow — and a lot of change. So, I have been brooding; keeping to my thoughts and digesting reality as it forms around me.

I’ve gone a lot of places during those many months. I went to Seattle and loved it. I took their mass transit and walked up steep grades to my hotel. While I was there, I caught glimpses of the mountains and thought how easy it would be for me to live in a place near such beauty.

I went to Old San Juan, Puerto Rico and fell in love with the place. I love cold parts of the world — so I was amazed to find myself thinking, ‘I could enjoy living here,’ as I walked the cobblestone streets. The use of space is very different there. Most windows are shuttered — not covered with glass. Decorative iron bars guard windows and private corridors are watched over by iron gates. You walk by and hear intimate conversations, smell meals being served, etc. It is a different sense of public and private. Always the watcher of people, I treasured the things I observed as I walked down the narrow streets of the old city.

I also delighted in the massive stoneworks of the two castles. That they were fortifications designed as outposts of empire did not please me. A walk into the confines of a dungeon underscored that not everyone who walked along those walls was happy about being there. Nevertheless, the views of the Caribbean Sea were beyond words. The colours of the ocean, the waves, the sea air — I found myself content to be in that place, just breathing, looking, and listening. More than once I thought to myself that I could have stayed there all my life and been happy.

I have gone many places that I have considered beautiful. There are many places where I could happily live. Still, my four days in Old San Juan stand out in my mind as a time of extraordinary peace and contentment. All of a sudden, I recalled some of Ernest Hemingway’s writings . . . and his relationship with the Caribbean . . . and I felt a new connection with the mood he caste on the page.

During my months of brooding, I also moved to a different part of Brooklyn. I now live in the Bushwick neighbourhood (previously I was in Williamsburg). I went to Williamsburg because it was a community filled with artists. In just two and a half years, I watched it gentrify. Artists attract the ‘chic-minded’ who, well-equipped with money, surround creativity with their fashion-à-la-mode (like moss growing on the trunk of a tree). To the horror of some of my friends, I am not all that interested in fashion. I prefer seeing artists whose hands are covered with paint (artists who may have had to make the painful choice to buy a tube of artist’s colour rather than a meal). Bushwick is where the new artists are moving, now. Williamsburg is too expensive. Bushwick will be, also, very soon. But, for a short while, it will be the home to painters — some of whom have something to paint.

A few doors down from my new apartment I regularly see a man emerging from his place covered in paint. Sometimes I see him carrying stretchers, canvas, and other supplies into his space. He is not fashionably dressed. But he looks passionate about his purpose. I like that.

I share my new home with a friend who paints and does photography. Our living room is a painting studio. Actually, as things have evolved, almost the whole apartment has become a painting studio. He paints large — I still mostly paint small. I’ve begun work on some decent-sized canvases. Truth be told, however, I have always had a fondness for small paintings. In particular, I like painting small portraits that still manage to look very big. Since moving to Bushwick in April, I have continued work on my Blue Portrait Series.

Our’s is a two bedroom apartment. One bedroom is on the front and the other bedroom is on the back of the building. They are the only rooms with windows. Mine is the bedroom that looks out over the ‘gardens’ (in other places these would be called ‘back yards’) behind the buildings on the block. During these green months, it is a jungle of trees and vines. Beautiful. After two and a half years of living in a basement room with no windows, I find myself just staring outside for long passages of time. I watch the birds flit from clothesline to clothesline. Sometimes they land on the fire escape and I greet them with a smile and a gentle word or two.

It surprises me that I can be happy in so many different kinds of places. I love wild mountains, farmlands, seashores, . . . and even great cities. I am happy in New York (I never would have guessed that I would be). I am happy there because of the people and the bits of nature that claim their rightful place in spite of concrete, bricks, steel, and smog.

Right now, I am home in Michigan. I had a couple weeks of vacation. I’ll be here a while longer (working remotely). I can do my job pretty much anywhere. That’s a luxury and a joy. In fact, I often am more productive when I am away from the City. Still, I find myself thinking of Brooklyn and Manhattan when I am not there. I think of my neighbours playing in the spray of fire hydrants. I think if the constant noise and music — the ceaseless grilling of food and sharing of company together. I think of the neighbourhoods in Manhattan where I walk . . . of art galleries and the community that migrates from one gallery opening to another. I think of my mostly-Korean church home and my delightful ‘misfit’ status as a part of that community I have come to love.

I’ve said it before — I have many homes. I think I collect them. And, wherever I am, they all come together in my heart and mind. They are my treasure — the people and the places. I am ever so thankful.

So, this jumble of words, piled together in no planned order, brings me back to you. Each of you has been a part of the constant gathering of dear ones and wonderful places that live in my thoughts. Each of you have stayed with me in my deep-water brooding. Still, it is time, once again, to write.

‘Self-Portrait’ 2013 Acrylic on paper. 3″ x 5″

Brooklyn During a Hot Summer

This place seemed so alien to me when I arrived here almost two years ago. New York and Boston are on the same Atlantic coast; but they are in different worlds. This is true most clearly in terms of culture. Bostonians are beautiful, kind people with a cranky and introverted crust on the outside. New Yorkers are beautiful, kind people with a I’m-not-taking-any-crap-from-you extraverted inside and outside. These are generalizations, of course. But, on the whole, I think they are fairly accurate.

It’s easy to make a surrogate family here. There are so many people from so many places. As a city of immigrants (both from different countries and different regions within this country) it is a place where many arrive in need of connections with others. That extraversion of the polis means that reaching out to make relationships with others is a normal thing (not suspect like it is in Boston). Two years ago, I mentioned my astonishment at being called a ‘New Yorker’ by a native New Yorker — after just two weeks of living here. And well I have come to understand that — no matter how much it surprises me — I have become a New Yorker (and probably always will be . . . no matter where I live).

I have my world as a regular at a café, a coffee-seller (no café; but a great garden in back), a natural foods market, and another coffee counter (see a theme here?), and a pizza place. At the latter, they have memorized my order. ‘How you doin’ today, boss?,’ one of the men says to me in a Brooklyn accent I thought only existed in movie dialogues. He gets me a drink refill for free if I want it (it costs a little if you’re not a ‘regular.’). When babies are born, pictures are brought in to share with us regulars at these establishments. When joys and tragedies befall us — we share. This isn’t the cold metropolis I imagined from my far-off vantage-point growing up in the Great Lakes Midwest. When, back in my early 20s, I watched a couple of my friends run off to New York (and never return), I wondered why. I imagined a dirty, hot city that was full of strangers. Why would anyone want to be in a place like that?

New York is a dirty, hot city. In spite of the fact that my neighborhood’s business association pays a man to spend the whole day going up and down the street with a rolling trash barrel, a broom, and one of those mechanical claws, . . . it is a never-ending battle against ubiquitous filth that is never won. I’m not really sure why. I don’t see people tossing trash on the street. But it is always there! Nevertheless, the battle goes on.

But this is not a city of strangers. It is a city of some of the most welcoming people I have ever met in my life. As a native of the American South, where we pride ourselves on the values of hospitality and neighborliness, I am at pains to admit that New Yorkers give stiff competition to the best one can hope for south of the Mason-Dixon.

What is true is that you have to make the choice not to be anonymous. New York will let you be invisible if that is what you want to be. With millions of people in this small sea of humanity, there are plenty of people who will be your friend without having to put effort into dragging the shy out of their shells. This extraverted city takes some extraversion to get the relationship going. You need to smile. You need to talk. You need to be willing to speak with people when spoken to. If you don’t, they’ll leave you alone. And in a town of millions, alone is very alone.

I go to my café for a meal. During the summer, owing to its lack of air conditioning, I call it ‘Café Inferno’ (and when my patience with the climatic discomfort flares, ‘The Hellish Hearth’). My friend, Jared, greets me with a hug (as he almost always does). He takes my order and brings me my customary carafe filled with ice water . . . with an additional cup filled to the top with ice. I like the food; and I especially like the staff. I’m there for a while, writing in my notebook after my meal, sticking to the pages as I sweat profusely. The owner comes in and greets me with a smile and a volley of jokes. I see him most days when I am there. About a year ago, he said, ‘Glen isn’t a customer — he’s part of the family.’ It feels like that a lot of the time. But it is still summer and miserably hot in the café. This is the second year I have endured sweating there — the second year I have been promised, ‘Next year, I am putting in air conditioning. You will like it. You will see.’ I have developed a family insider’s doubt about the veracity of the promise. So, when the owner comes to me that day, as I pull my arm from the page to which it is stuck, he asks me, ‘Where have all my customers gone?’ I respond — ‘Somewhere where there is air conditioning.’ He gives me a sour expression and continues in his Turkish accent — ‘No, I am serious. They are all moving away. Where are they going?’ Again, ‘They’re all moving somewhere where there’s air conditioning. It’s too hot in here.’ The servers behind the counter suppress the urge to laugh.

I have become a man who will not take crap from anyone. I have always tended towards plain-speaking. I am a West Virginian by birth, after all. But now there is an immediacy to my bluntness that I would have found shocking years ago. Recently, a friend of mine said, ‘You don’t waste any time getting to a point anymore, do you? You’ve become a true New Yorker.’ I told him, ‘Life is short — even if you live to be 107 — that’s not much time. May as well say what needs to be said.’

This summer, when I’ve not been travelling, I’ve been here . . . spending as much time in my Brooklyn neighborhood as I can. I read and write on a circuit between cafés, a shared work space, and my apartment. I get more work done when I can work in two or three places each day. Offices are useful things to have; and seldom where reading and writing gets done — and this summer I have been getting a lot of work done. I am thankful for that.

New York is a good place for creativity and creative productivity. Seems like most of the people around me are writing books, making films, painting pictures, etc. It is a place full of busy people. It’s good for inspiring productivity in me.

The summer is coming to an end. I will not miss the hot weather. This year (unlike last), I hope cold weather actually comes here for the season. The heat has worn on me. I will be glad to see it go.

I am thankful for my time in this great, dirty, hot city. I am thankful for my Brooklyn neighbors. I am happy for this season in the metropolis I now call home.

Thanksgiving Week – Taking a Vacation from Work – to Work

'Door to Autumn,' Greenpoint, Brooklyn, New York - November 2011

I spent a week in Williamsburg (o yes, . . . and Greenpoint — that’s OK; it’s attached). I added a couple vacation days onto the Thanksgiving holiday and made a week out of the office. I went no farther from home than my feet could comfortably take me in a half hour. There were no runs into Manhattan. No subway rides. I stayed in one place for a whole week. It was delightful. It was a ‘working vacation.’

It’s very near the end of the year — which means evaluation-time at work. Last year, in December, I was instructed to come up with a list of ‘measurable goals’ for the year to come. This was silly on a couple of levels. First, I was new to the job. So, how could I possibly know what I should hope to accomplish in the coming calendar year. Second, ‘measurables’ is a non-sense expectation for many kinds of work (mine included). I don’t make widgets. I don’t paint houses. I don’t do things that measure well. But, somebody in Nashville appears to have read a book or two on management (doubtless written about successful ways of running a widget factory) and they decided that all of us should have ‘measurables.’ Sigh.

So, after having ploughed my way through mountains of work assigned to me (that do not measure well, I might add), I come to the end of the year with a pile of ‘measurables’ still needing to be done. Of course, I get absolutely no credit for the equivalent of months of work that were heaped on me in an unmeasurable fashion. But, I’ll not dwell on that too long, lest I sound bitter.

It is also a well-confirmed fact that the office is a terrible place to get work done. People literally call up in the middle of the day trying to heap more work on me (always outside the ‘measurables’ and usually not in my job description). My theory is that they have annual ‘measurables’ that include something along the line of, ‘I will interrupt someone trying to work 500 times during the coming year,’ and, ‘I will add 10 projects a month onto someone’s work schedule that have nothing to do with their official job description.’ I can attest that there are a good number of conscientious people ticking off boxes on their ‘measurables’ throughout the year. So, I have to use an amalgam of vacation days and holidays to make a week in which I can work at home, not check my email, and get my ‘measurables’ done.

Seventeen writing projects.

What’s truly annoying is that I like to write. Also, it is the largest single line in my official job description. So, what sense does it make that I have to take a vacation from work to do my work?

The world has gone mad.

I know.

I used to work at the Post Office.

(This is a reference to a humorous button they used to sell at a store down the street from the Postal Contract Station I once managed. It said, ‘Has the world gone mad — or is this the Post Office?’ I worked for the good old USPS back in the days of a number of tragic postal employee ‘meltdowns’ that resulted in body bags and excessive television reports from dark parking lots. When they found notes. or former co-workers reported the screamed complaints of their fellow mailmen (was it really such a good idea to give a hiring preference to military veterans who knew how to use guns?), they often spoke of the madness of work quotas and other managerial nonsense. Funny how evaluation time brings my mind back to those days so many, many years ago.)

My o my, it seems like I am still complaining.

Actually, I am more amused by human silliness (of which I am sure I am a contributor in measurable ways as well — excellent! There’s a ‘measurable!’). In some ways I am very glad to have had a reason to spend a week as a recluse. It was a wonderful week.

As I said, I love writing. Like many people, I have always written at my best with a deadline looming a bit too close for comfort. I have a friend who wrote his dissertation and subsequent projects by assigning himself a certain number of pages to write each day. I watched him. He did just that. He wrote five pages. Went home. Came back, had coffee with me, and went and wrote five more pages. Went home. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

I suspect him of being a space alien.

If so, I should write a book about having a close friend who is a space alien. But, I’d have to write it my way.

Write seven pages.

—

—

—

A month later, write 39 pages in a manic fury.

—

—

Write two pages.

Delete 16.

Write 42 more.

—

Get the idea?

This is how I write.

I comfort myself by saying it’s my creative style. Writing five pages a day just wouldn’t work for me.

It’s a ‘measurable,’ after all.

It’s times like this when I allow myself a certain indulging pleasure in being a German American. Growing up in a neighborhood filled with such characters, I marveled at how they seemed to actually enjoy complaining and fuming about things that annoyed them. My ‘natural’ disposition is basically like this. Most of the year, I try to live with a more sanctified attitude. But, then there are those times when it is just downright fun to get up in the morning and say, ‘I’m going to get some work done IN SPITE OF THE REST OF YOU!’ (Imagine fist shaking in the air, and a satisfied smile inspired by an odd work-ethic defiance) Yes, I know — it’s strange. But I have plenty of German American friends who would sympathize completely.

So, I got up each day this week and let myself move just a little slower than on days when I must go in to the office. Even though I was on ‘vacation,’ I managed to get to my cafe at about the same time as when I am not. My wonderful friends their greeted me warmly and brought me my coffee. The chef came out to say hello. They treat me like family there — my family in Brooklyn. I love the people here.

Then, out come the notebooks and the pens. First, my journal. I literally have boxes filled with notebook journals from the past 20 years. As a historian, I am aware that someone may one day read them (I based a considerable amount of my own research on making my way through other people’s diaries, after all). So, sometimes I even address a remark to the poor researcher who may be spending countless hours in an archive far from this ‘when’ trying to decipher my loops and squiggles. Of course, I am not really so grand an ego as to think anyone will much want to look at what I write in my journals. But, much of history is made by happenstance evidence — so, just in case, . . . best to leave an explanatory note about this or that remark, lest it be baffling for a doctoral student in 2290. When I pen such notes, I often laugh. I also know the statistical probability that, not long after I shuffle off to the next world, my journals may be heaped and bailed into a dumpster by a building super who curses me for having piles of books and boxes of journals that he has to clean out before the next tenant can move into the apartment. Some people buy insurance against the odds that they will meet a demise (enriching their heirs). I buy insurance against the possibility that my scrawls and scribbles may otherwise be misunderstood when my biographer is busy transcribing what I wrote at 7.27 in the morning before my first cup of coffee had given sufficient lift to my brain to make it fully functional.

After the journal, I open up one or another notebooks that I carry with me. I have small notebooks with elastic closures, steno notebooks with metal spiral bindings, and large A4 notebooks from France. I write in whichever format that ‘feels’ right at that moment. It’s a trick I learned a long time ago. After observing my behaviour for years, I discovered that I am picky about the types of notebooks I like to use (I now no longer even attempt to use a notebook with a spiral binding down the side, for instance). But, I am fickle about what format suits me on a given day . . . or even time of day. So, I carry two or three of the styles of notebook that are ‘comfortable’ for me. When I start feeling ‘cramped’ or blocked in one, I switch to another. What makes sense of it all is that I can use my iPhone to photograph the pages and add them to a unified file on my computer (and tag them in such a way that they are easily found later).

I open the A4 Clairefontaine notebook. I decide to draw a diagram in proximity to a bullet point outline of an article I am about to write. I switch from my usual fountain pen loaded with turquoise ink to another identical fountain pen loaded with blue ink. Later on, I accent the diagram and list of ideas with a third pen loaded with red ink. It’s all about productivity — the tricks I have learned that keep my ideas flowing.

I have surmised that the creative part of me is still in love with fresh boxes of Crayola Crayons. I love colours and paper that remind me of art supplies. I’ve never actually written a formal paper in Crayola Crayon . . . but there have been times when writer’s block has tempted me to give it a go. Some years back, I had a woman who turned in an essay in Crayola Crayon. One of my colleagues was horrified and said it was completely inappropriate to hand in a paper like that in graduate school. I suspended judgement until I read the essay. It was brilliant (I am not exaggerating). I handed it back to the woman with a note that she could turn in papers written in finger paint if they were all as good as that. She came up, surprised I’d not scolded her. She explained that she’d been battling writer’s block. I understood completely.

These days, most of my writing is done on my MacBook Pro. I write using an application called Scrivener . . . a product of a company called Literature and Latte. They understand the need some of us have for a flexible working environment. It is an ingeniously designed product — flexible in a way that allows a range of working styles . . . from totally chaotic to rigidly outlined — and everything in between. The work I do in my notebooks is usually preliminary lists, outlines, scrap paragraphs, etc. Often a whole article is ‘there’ in the notebooks. But, it takes shape in prose when I am sitting here with Scrivener.

Back at the cafe, I alternate between two notebooks. I pause, from time-to-time, to check my RSS reader (called Reeder) on my iPhone. I scribble some more. Then I read the day’s Frankfurter Allgemeine and it’s coverage of the economic collapse in Greece, Italy, Spain, (add whatever other countries may also apply by the time you read this). Back to my notebooks — and back to turquoise ink.

The manager of the cafe has brought me my third cup of coffee (not to worry, it’s a relatively small drinking vessel). I am consulting electronic dictionaries on my phone — two fully searchable English language reference classics, two German lexicons, a Latin dictionary as well. Between my phone and my Kindle, I carry hundreds of books with me wherever I go. Everywhere is my library.

Two articles are outlined. It’s time to go back home and find my computer.

As I step out the door, however, I am struck by a whim. It is a beautiful autumn day. Since Yale has no classes this week, I do not have the chance to walk up Prospect and enjoy the trees on the way up to the Divinity school. I need the company of trees.

I turn the opposite direction from home. Then I turn again and head north to Greenpoint. About a mile north of my cafe, I pause to look up into the arms of one of the great Oaks along my path. The midday sun is infusing the leaves with a coloured glow that is nothing short of magical. Then, as a blessing, the tree releases a dozen of those leaves in a shower aimed directly at me. They fall around my face and the grumpy German in me feels the echo of a primal relationship with trees that predated our rescue from paganism by St. Boniface. A smile came over me that remained throughout the day.

I barely remember the walk home. But I remember the hours of typing, editing, and typing some more. That day I wrote seven pieces adding up to over 5000 words.

I live on my own in New York; so Thanksgiving Day was like all the other days of the week for me. I missed hosting International students for a feast (what I’d done for a couple years in Boston). I also missed pumpkin pie (I couldn’t find a place that would sell me just one piece). Still, I was happy. I walked a couple times that day, observing people running about with covered dishes and smiles on their faces. I love watching people on Thanksgiving. They are usually too busy to notice that I am gathering up mental images of them . . . fuel for my imagination when I sit down to write. My holiday time is Christmas. That is when I make sure to go home to my family and friends.

I skipped the bad Chinese food, this year. I decided instead upon healthier offerings from the organic foods market where my Nepali friends work. I was nearly knocked over by a loudspeaker playing Christmas music. Odd, since my friends are Buddhist. But, for many, Christmas classics are the hymns of commerce and the hope that they will do better this year than last. Economic times have been hard.

At week’s end, I had 12 of 17 writing projects done. That means that the next couple of weeks are going to be a little lean on rest. But, 12 is still a great pile of work done . . . the equivalent of about 35 pages of text. Given that I had to write them on a schedule, that’s even more impressive for me — O gosh! 35 pages in seven days . . . that’s FIVE PAGES A DAY! — I think I just figured out that I am a space alien!!

—

I’ve been giving thoughts to next year’s ‘measurables.’ So far, this is what I’ve got:

1) Drink 400 cups of coffee.

2) Pause for five minutes each day to pet the cats before heading out to work.

3) Give thanks in prayer for the wonderful people in my life each day.

4) Tell my administrative assistant that she is amazing — each morning as I come in the door (for, truly, she is).

5) Interrupt my coworkers at least five times a week to tell them a joke.

There. Now that I’ve been at this job for over a year, I know what is important and needs to get done.

—

I am thankful for each and every one of you, dear Readers. May you have a blessed holiday season. 🙂

Brooklyn — September 2011

‘After Playtime’ 2011 by Glen Aton Messer, II
(At least the picture was taken in Brooklyn)

Speaking of storms — I returned from Michigan to Brooklyn at the end of August . . . just in time to be there for an earthquake and a hurricane. To be honest, I never felt the earthquake. A woman I work with came through the office asking, ‘did you feel that?’ Feel what? We looked at her as though she’d gone too long without a break. ‘I think we just had an earthquake. We get them all the time where I come from.’ O yes, we said, compassionately with our eyes — you have gone far too long without a break. A short while later, however, the emergency intercom in our office building crackled with one of its near-unintelligible public announcements. There had, indeed, been an earthquake. Everything was fine. Phones were down. But not to worry.

I shrugged. Another co-worker asked if I’d noticed anything. I confessed that I was writing at the time and simply thought my phone had been vibrating. ‘I ignored it because I didn’t want to break my train of thought.’ She shrugged, too, and said she hadn’t noticed a thing.

Cell phones were disrupted in odd ways. I could send and receive text messages — but could not makes calls. My co-worker could make and receive calls — but text messages were out of the question. It was one of those reminders of how interdependent we are with our civilization and its technology. Doubtless, there were dozens of people in Idaho compounds who were nodding their heads and reminding us that they are right. They are, after all, always right.

Once the phones were working again and we’d all called to tell our relatives we’d survived the East Coast’s faux version of ‘the big one,’ life went on.

. . . And then came the hurricane. Irene.

She chugged her way up the coast and Northeasterners began to worry that perhaps it was another sign of the coming Apocalypse. The city’s mayor, who’d ignored warnings of a major snowstorm at the beginning of the year, decided to redirect New Yorkers’ attention to his prudent emergency management in the face of a hurricane. Evacuation maps were published. I looked and discovered that I was in an upland part of Brooklyn that they’d decided not to evacuate even if we had a category 5 storm. I am comforted to know I live in a place that probably will not flood. Nevertheless, if there is a storm of that magnitude, I think what is on the high land will still manage to break apart and blow away.

I live in a basement, so I was given to thoughts about how I was likely safer than most when it came to wind . . . But what about water? We might well escape ocean surge — but not the deluge of rain. I began mapping out my own plan for hoisting boxes to the next floor up, if necessary. Conveniently, I have not unpacked (even after a year). All I needed to do was decide what order in which to carry boxes up the steps. But — would that work? The next level in the apartment would probably lose its windows and be soaked anyway.

I had to keep it to myself that I love storms. It’s bad form to say so before you know what damage and harm will come from one. So, I set to observing my fellow New Yorkers as they prepared for Irene’s arrival.

I was mostly pleased with what I saw. There was an atmosphere that appeared to be a mixture of giddiness and just a touch of panic (for seasoning, I suppose). People mostly waited until the day before the storm’s arrival to start loading up on water and food. Cars pulled up in front of stores and neighbors helped one another carry and load supplies. It was very different from a couple years before when I saw Bostonians silently hoarding water in an ‘every person for themself!’ approach to getting through a huge water pipe break that left part of the city without water for a couple days.

I decided to document the whole experience in a series of email letters to some of my family and friends. I included pictures of the latest weather maps and reflections on what was going on around me. I expected to lose power at some point. Thankfully, however, that never happened. Irene did most of her damage along the coast and farther ‘Down East’ in places like New Hampshire and Vermont.

The storm and earthquake got New Yorkers to talking about how things had changed since that horrible day in September a decade before. The anniversary was approaching and people were weaving the present-day events into the mythology of their lives since 9-11.

They shut down my train when 9-11-11 rolled around. It was billed as maintenance — but there were lots of shut-downs of major infrastructure at that time. It appeared that maintenance was paired with security measures. Or, so it seemed.

I am not one for television. I am also not one for wars and vilifying enemies. I take seriously that Jesus teaches us to love enemies . . . and I’d been sickened by the reported extra-juridical execution of bin Laden. Whereas I was happy to be out in the hours before Irene, I had no interest in being out and about during memorials that filled the city. I couldn’t escape them, of course. Church bells rang. People sat glued to their television sets, listening to the reading of the names of the dead. It all made for mood that saturated everything.

I was glad when the anniversary was over.

Soon, the first signs of autumn were upon us. I love fall.

The trees have been slow to turn this year. Still, the temperatures have been dropping a little lower almost every week.

My allergies are pretty bad this time. My eyes are swollen and sore. And, I’ve already had a slight bout with pneumonia. I am looking forward to winter and hope we will have a good, hard freeze (the only way I get any relief).

In the meantime, I enjoy my time in the garden at the Porto Rico Importers, where I sip an iced coffee drink and write in my journal. I go there two or three times a week. I’ve attained ‘regular’ status. I reflect upon how much I’ve come to love New York and the borough I have made my home.

A friend of mine gives me regular updates on his observations of Occupy Wall Street. He participates as often as he can. Even before this, he was one of my favourite people in the City.

New York’s beauty is in its people. The world comes together in one place . . . and we live in a beautiful world. May it soon know more of justice and peace than it has known in a long while. May we build memorials of mercy and liberty that are worthy of the Creator who blesses us all with life and love.

A Month in Brooklyn

I’ve spent a month in Brooklyn. This is only the second time in nearly a year of living here that I’ve been in New York for four consecutive weeks. It’s been so good to ‘settle in’ . . . even just a little.

The past month has mostly been ‘terrible hot’ (as my paternal grandmother used to say). About three of the weeks were spent in the high 90s and even up over 100 degrees. It doesn’t matter where I live in weather like that — I wilt. If you’ve been reading this blog regularly, you know that I love winter. I thrive during the cold months (that are so hard on other people). And, for me, intense sunlight and high temperatures sap energy and motivation. If I can, I find a cool, dark room . . . and I hide.

Mostly, I come out in the evenings. Tonight, for instance, when the sun was going down, I made a visit to one of my (new) regular spots, the Porto Rico Importers [sic] (an excellent coffee-seller with a very good coffee bar at the back of the shop). It’s the kind of place that stands dozens of sacks of fresh beans on the floor, open and filling the place with an aroma that inspires joy in those who love fine coffee. During the warmer months, they open up the garden for customers to sit, drink coffee or tea, and enjoy a quiet space. I’d seen it mentioned on the sign . . . but, for reason of habit, I did my sitting elsewhere. That was, until my usual sitting place advanced into blast furnace temperatures. Brooklyn is a place where air conditioning is a concept that has infrequent buy-in from local businesses. In Manhattan, that is not so much the case; and this is one of the many subtle differences between the two boroughs. One of my friends recently told me how wonderful this must be (they don’t live here) . . . like living in a time before ubiquitous A/C. I think they were actually very patient with me — enduring my rants and yells about how stupid their remark was. I pointed out that I’d been born in West Virginia in a time when very few people had air conditioning and we had to take pointless trips to department stores to mingle among aisles of merchandise we had no intention of buying in order to cool off just a little bit. A story I’ve told a number of times recently (but which deserves telling again and again while the streets are broiling this summer): Another starry-eyed soul, several months before, painted a romantic image of sitting on porches and drinking iced tea. ‘What did you do during the summertime,’ they asked dreamily. ‘ABSOLUTELY NOTHING,’ I told them (restraining my hand from a desire to slap them). ‘We went to whichever porch wasn’t getting direct sun at the time, and we did NOTHING. We couldn’t even stand to talk with each other until the sun went down. We were miserable. It was inhuman.’

Those fond memories of my childhood are daily rekindled as I try to eat a meal at my favourite cafe. The owner of the place comes to greet me. He complains that business is slow. I nod and say, ‘Yes, it’s the heat. It’s very hot in here.’ He doesn’t get the hint. He’s not the only one here in Brooklyn who doesn’t get it.

So, on a hot evening not too long ago, I finally opened the whining metal door that led out onto the garden of the Porto Rico Importers here in Williamsburg. And, though ‘miserable hot,’ I caught a breeze and decided it was better than sweltering at my cafe. So, I went and sat down under a patio umbrella at one of the tables.

It was still hot. But the breeze found its way there more often than it was able to penetrate the Hades-like environs of my cafe. I also enjoyed the lovingly cared for pots of flowers — and the birds that came near to see how sloppy I might be with the crumbs from my carrot muffin. As it turned out, entire chunks of it made their way onto the garden floor. We fellowshipped with one another; and I delighted in their chirps and conversations as they flitted from one part of the garden to another.

I’ve taken to going their and writing for a while. It is a very quiet spot; a secret place of beauty in a big city. I also very much like the people who work at the shop. Like my friends across the way at the Cafe Inferno (or so I shall call it until cooler temperatures return to me), the people there are intelligent, kind, and creative. They’re fine examples of what makes New York — and in particular, Brooklyn — a wonderful place.

I chose Brooklyn, and my neighborhood of Williamsburg, because I want to be around people who are drawn to create — to make things of beauty. All around me are artists of every age. In the evening, when I walk my neighborhood, I see painter’s studios. Sitting inside cafes (or outside of them), I see people with notebooks or computers. Many of them are writing plays, novels, and other such things. It makes me smile.

My own creativity is enlivened by the place. I’ve not done much painting (owing to the fact that I have no windows in my room) — but I’ve taken to drawing almost every day. And my writing is now in a period of productivity (and quality) that may never before have been matched. I am writing two novels, now — and making plans to harmonize and edit my decade-long project, The Boston Trilogy. I am also thinking my way through a re-write of my 1993 novel that I’ve always liked (but know needs a lot of work). I have often confessed that I’ve loved writing — but not felt a great need to publish. That is changing. Oddly, I think I prefer to begin making work public after its had some time to ‘stack up’ and season into a style of its own. Years before, I was the same way with my visual art.

I am deeply appreciative of you, Dear Reader. I hear from some of you sometimes, and I am pleased that a number of you say you enjoy following this blog. Your emails and personal remarks are a special joy for me . . . most of all when you engage an idea or image and share your own thoughts and feelings with me. To each of you who takes the time to read this, I say thank you.

For as jarring as it was to move here so suddenly a year ago, and for as much as I had to adjust to a new life and environs, I can say I have found — and made — a new and wonderful home here. I am thankful for this chapter of my life. I am delighted by the creative energy is raises up within me.

Back in Brooklyn (written on 8 January 2011)

Willburg Cafe

I came home to Brooklyn on 3 January. I’d only been away for ten days – but it seemed like much longer (in a good way). The visit with my family and friends in Michigan was wonderful. And it was good to reconnect with the land. Place is very important to me and always has been.
That said, it was also good to come back to New York. The airport and subway here have ceased to feel strange to me. I am ‘wearing my ruts’ in this city . . . building up the familiarity that makes it one of my homes. Brooklyn also became more of a home for me because of a visit I had during my first two days back in town. A close friend of mine from Boston stayed with me at my tiny apartment. We walked around my neighborhood and spent time in ‘my places’ here in Williamsburg. I like introducing friends of mine to each other. It is like weaving the threads of my life together – making me feel more whole than frayed.

We began our two day visit at the Guggenheim. He brought two of his friends with him (whom I met for the first time). After getting our passes from the membership desk (a ten minute wait instead of the 45 minutes to an hour at the regular admission desk – thank God I paid for that membership last fall!), we began our climb up Frank Lloyd Wright’s spiral gallery. One of my friend’s friends had been to the museum more times than I. The other was new to the place – but didn’t care for European and American paintings after the 19th century. O dear. That gets us up to about the second floor. That’s not far at the Guggenheim. I also was aware that my own work falls outside the parameters of her preferences. Sigh.

I did my best to be charming, as the optical experiments of the Impressionists gave way to more and more abstraction. Kandinsky seems to have been the one who did in my new-found acquaintance. She suddenly disappeared from the side galleries and was completely undetectable for about half an hour. My friend sent her text messages to try to find her. It took a while before she responded. I hoped she was not balled up in a fetal position near the elevator on one of the levels below us. Who knows what traumas and tortures my beloved artists on the gallery walls were inflicting upon her. I am not without a measure of empathy. The large, billboard-sized canvases with a single drip falling at some thoughtfully selected spot (masterpieces from the early 1970s) have a similar affect on me. Someone paid money to purchase those! God help us! . . . She might say something similar about the paintings I love. It is painful to be in a museum when someone is having an allergic reaction to art that makes your soul feel delight. It just goes to show that aesthetics are a language and not everyone speaks the same dialect.

My friend, however, seemed to be transfixed by Kandinsky. From the other side of the gallery, I periodically glanced back and watched him reading the paintings. I say ‘reading’ the paintings because he was obviously analyzing what he was looking at. As a gallery, the Kandinsky at the Bauhaus section of the museum is one of the strongest at the Guggenheim. My favorite paintings are in a gallery a bit higher up – but that gallery as a whole is a mixed bag of masterpieces and really fine pieces by masters. We moved slowly up to the top. I have a visual stimulation limit of about an hour to an hour and a half in a museum. So, when we stepped out of the Guggenheim two an a half hours after we arrived, I was exhausted. But it was a great time. I love going to museums with other people – especially friends.

We spent the evening at an establishment that sold Korean chicken and alcohol of various sorts. For years I have heard my Korean friends tell me how wonderful Korean fried chicken is. It took until that night to get me to try it, though. In an admission that is culturally embarrassing for someone born in the American South – I now confess that I don’t generally like fried chicken of any sort. Please don’t tell anyone. I think I run the risk of being denied safe transit below the Mason-Dixon Line. However . . . I found I really DID like the Korean-style chicken. The batter is not as thick; but it is more flavorful. Add an assortment of sauces and my taste buds registered delight instead of the usual, ‘O my God, this is greasy!’

I spent a lot of time talking with my friend’s friend whose Calendar of Tolerable Art runs out of pages in 1899. My friend’s other friend parted company before dinner and now we were three for the evening. My friend jumped up to take a phone call and I had the chance to have a long and enjoyable one-on-one conversation. I remember we laughed a lot. I was struck by the fact that this was a change in my life from a year before. When I was living and working at the university, I always felt like I was ‘on duty.’ I had to measure every word and edit how I behaved so I never failed to present myself in a professional manner. But, since I literally lived and worked at the university (overseeing school-related housing) there was nowhere that was someplace to truly relax. In coming to New York, I intentionally put a 45 minute commute between me and the office. When I go home, I go home. And so, when I visited that night, I was free to laugh uproariously. Funny, when I left the university for my current position, one of the things people kept mentioning at my farewell party was how much (and how loudly) I laugh. What they did not know is that my laughter (minus considerations for ‘professional dignity’) is MUCH louder.

When my friend came back from his phone call, somehow we slipped into a theological conversation. That was fun, too . . . but there was less laughter. Yesterday, someone made reference to a quote attributed to Voltaire. I vaguely remember hearing it before. The quote states that God is a comedian playing to an audience that is too afraid to laugh. Yes! And I thought similar thoughts as we dove deep into a theological conversation over chicken and beer. There were so many comments I wanted to make, and so many times I wanted to laugh . . . but I restrained myself out of concern that my words and laughter might be interpreted as not taking the subject or my conversation partners’ ideas seriously. That is not the case at all, however. For me, humor, theology, and laughter are all sacred and interwoven. Perhaps in time I will feel I can share all the dimensions of this with more of my friends. But, in this one area of our time together that night, I ‘behaved myself.’

We walked my new acquaintance to Penn Station before I took my friend to my tiny apartment. I felt so blessed to walk the street with friends. After reducing our number to two, we found the L train and made our way to Williamsburg. We were both tired. But we were still talking. We kept talking for a couple more hours – and it was wonderful.

Next morning, I brought my friend to ‘my’ cafe. It was a joy to introduce him to my friends here. (I am writing in said cafe, right now, in fact.) Then, we spent the day exploring the basics of oil paint. I showed him a few things and he took to the medium as though he was made for it. He is the first person I have ever seen not make ‘mud’ when he made his first effort at moving oil paint around on a canvas.

That evening, we met up with my friends who live in another part of Brooklyn. Again, it was a joy to introduce the people I love to each other. This couple’s daughter – an amazing child (I am not biased, really) – chose that evening to imitate (mock?) me. She copied my postures and gestures intermittently throughout the time we spent in the restaurant. I love her smile, her laugh, and the joy with which she lives her young life.

My visitor and I made another trip to my cafe for breakfast the next morning. I was so thankful for the time he shared with me. Somehow his being here makes this place fit into my life even more. It helps bind me to this new home; because it adds more of a human connection that reaches out into other parts of my life. Now, if I can get my family to come visit, too. (Hint, hint.)

We went partway along my subway commute together. We said farewell at 6th Avenue and 14th Street station. I took a 3 express train and he took an M for a few hours at the Museum of Modern Art before taking Amtrak back up to Boston.

I was back in a dress shirt and jacket. A short while later, I had my security badge hanging around my neck and I was in my office. I was struck by the fact that a good life is made up of multiple parts that need to be carefully tended – like a garden. There needs to be a balance. People, place, and creativity are all ingredients that, when mixed appropriately, can be made into a recipe for joy. As I turned on my computer for the first time in several days, I said under my breath, ‘Keep the balance. Remember your loved ones. Remember your vacation.’

Brooklyn Botanic Garden

At the Brooklyn Botanic Garden

Two weekends ago I went with friends to the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens. It was about a week after a rare tornado ripped through the borough and damaged a large number of trees. Indeed, the storm’s visitation was in evidence all up and down the streets adjacent the botanic garden. Having lived much of my life in Michigan (where tornadoes are not a rare occurrence) I was all too familiar with similar sights.

Inside the garden, the storm’s ravages were visible – but already managed. The garden is a wonderful wedge of land in the midst of the borough of Brooklyn . . . planned gardens of trees, flowers, shrubs, and other plants. It was a beautiful world contained within the city full of worlds that is New York.

It was Saturday morning and the gardens were open free of charge to anyone who could muster the energy to make it there between ten and noon. We made it in time (a small miracle, given that not one of us is a morning person).

We were treated to an amusing (and concerning) sight on the way in. We first attempted to park on a nearby street before going into the gardens. But then we noticed a laser printed sign (looking very much homemade . . . as though a neighbour had cooked them up) that declared there would be no parking on that day and that a temporary tow zone was in effect. There were no official seals. It purported to be an ‘NYPD Notice’ – but that was it. Was the sign to be believed? Or was someone simply trying to make their wrestling with a moving van a bit easier? Then came a police car that went up and down the street telling people to move their cars or they would be towed. The officer paraded back and forth with a bull horn for about half an hour.

We parked on an adjacent street in order to avoid the misfortune of a towing experience. On the way to the main gate we discussed how unfortunate it would be to be one of the people with a car on that street. It looked very much like they’d received no prior notice of the ban on parking.

Then a man came up and nervously enquired if it was alright to park on the street where we had just parked our vehicle. ‘Yes, we think so. There were signs on that street . . . but the ones on this street are for dates last weekend.’ He shook his head and expressed a lack of confidence that we were in the clear. ‘This is New York – they do [crap] like that all the time. At least I know that if I get towed you’re screwed too.’

Ah yes, the essence of solidarity.

We still heard the policeman with the bull horn as we watched the goldfish in the Japanese Garden.

My favourite part was the area laid out with rows of cherry trees. It reminded me of images I’ve seen of royal gardens in Europe. It was the perfect combination of trees and green grass.

There is always wonder in seeing the magical, miniature worlds that New York contains. The Brooklyn Botanic Garden is one of those amazing places. If one were to visit New York as a tourist it would not likely be one of the spots on the travel itinerary. But one thing I am learning is that the places most worth the time to visit are generally those that never occur to tourists. There is hidden treasure in this city. It is all around . . . and concealed in plain sight.

I Fell in Love at the Guggenheim

Guggenheim Museum

Yes, I fell in love at the Guggenheim.

. . . And I fell in love at the Metropolitan Museum of Art . . . and again – and most definitely – at the Museum of Modern Art.

They were all there (Well, almost all of them, anyway) – so many of the paintings that I have known and studied from afar. So many of the paintings that have not only shaped my art – but also who I am.

The painting that first made my heart race was one by Franz Marc. His colours!! As I stepped into the door of the gallery I couldn’t help but exclaim, ‘O my God, how beautiful!’ The guard, to my surprise, did not roll his eyes or give me an, ‘O not another one!’ look of dismissal. Instead, he stepped back a bit in order to clear my line of sight. I stepped partway into the room and paused, still looking at that one painting. My soul was energized with the certainty that I was on holy ground. Temples, churches, and monuments cannot surpass the emotional impact that being in that room had on me. Then my eyes turned to a large Chagall. I almost lost my balance. I did teeter on my feet a little. Did I look as though I was drunk? I stepped to the side once to reset my footing. I uttered another remark of astonishment. I had never liked Chagall (to the horror and irritation of some of my friends). But . . . confronted with that painting, standing face-to-face, I was moved to the very center of my soul. Then the Kandinskys. Then the Picassos. I had loved most of these paintings most of my life. Still, I fell in love with them anew.

One of the reasons why I delight in paintings is that the truly wonderful ones are magical. They are infused with the life and power of the creator . . . and of the Creator who inspired them. My encounters with those works of beauty propel me into my own timeless youth; in which my own creativity is boundless and unencumbered. In the presence of wonderful paintings I feel the life in me that never diminishes with age – and that is stronger than any energy drawn from mortal existence alone.

I spent a week (my first week living in New York) making pilgrimages to these museums. It was a series of reunions with old friends who I was meeting for the first time. No love from youthful years ever surpassed those that came alive as I stood before the alchemical wonder of paint, canvas, and artist brought together. These great works remind me that art and religion have often been twins in cultures around the world. The wonder of a created picture can speak to the majestic mystery of the Source of All Creativity.

This, I am convinced, is one of the main reasons why God has brought me to New York . . . to be taught and inspired by the art and artists who are here. Little wonder, then, that I have made my home in the Williamsburg neighborhood of Brooklyn – the present-day center of up-and-coming art and artists in this city. I drink in the energy here. And my own mind races with thoughts of images yearning to be created.

What will my teachers teach me? What a joy to live in the company of such wonders!

Big Transition

Williamsburg Bridge from the park at the end of Grand Street.

I thought I’d be in Boston for one more year. I knew that would likely be my last year there . . . but I was working on the assumption that my timeline would have me there until August 2011 (or, at the very least, until May of that year).

That wasn’t the way it worked out.

I’ve always fashioned myself as a kind of itinerant . . . even before I knew what a Methodist was. I spent my childhood and youth doing seasonal migrations between homes in Michigan and West Virginia. The road felt as much like home to me as either destination. Then, as I entered upon young adulthood, I felt drawn to the East Coast. I made my first move this way in the fall of 1986. For two months . . . two long months! . . . Philadelphia was my home. But Philadelphia did not live up to its self-congratulatory name and I found it to be an unwelcoming place for a young man with no particular experience at much of anything. People there wanted to be impressed – in spite of the fact that I found few who were themselves all that impressive – and I was not accomplished at much other than being a dreamer. So, a month in to my time there I decided to leave the city to those who kept it so closed to outsiders like me. I was glad for the experience, though. And, in spite of the lack of hospitality towards me, I liked the look and feel of much of the place.

My next big move came in 1997 when I relocated to Boston. I told myself it was only for three years while I worked on my master’s degree. That was the plan. But then came another degree and a job to follow that. The ironic thing was that, for a man who likes to travel and move, I was ‘planted there’ for longer than in any other season of my life. When it’s all added up, I lived in Greater Boston for longer than in any other single area. And the house that I just moved out of was the house in which I lived longer than in any other residence.

As I looked towards the end of (what I assumed to be) fourteen years in Boston, I thought of what I wanted life to look like when I left. ‘I want to travel,’ I said to myself. ‘I want to see more of this country. I want to see more of this world while I am still young.’ (May God strike you mute for a week if you try to say that I am past being young!)

Then it happened . . .

I applied for a position I’d never imagined I would have. And, one of the most important features of this job is . . . that I will travel most of the time.

It is interesting to me how God works in our lives. One of the reasons why I decided not to be ordained in the United Methodist Church is the fact that clergy no longer truly itinerate. They simply move appointments every now and then. To me the word ‘itinerate’ implies a lifestyle of travel. Then, having opted not to be ordained, God finds me a position of service in my church that truly does make me an itinerant! Amazing.

As I interviewed for the job – and when it was offered to me – it felt a calling to take up the position and the work it entails. It is a ministry that is at least as close to my heart as any other I have known in the church – maybe even more.

So, I moved. It was one of the decisive transitions of my life. Up to now, I would name each of my major moves as one of these: West Virginia to Michigan, Michigan to Philadelphia to Michigan again, Michigan to Boston, and Boston to New York. Add in one more move – from my high school in South Lyon to a prep school in Ann Arbor – and you have all of the major section markers in my life so far.

Saying farewell to Boston and all of the people I love there was hard. But there are times when you know something is timed correctly and that what you are doing is both something God is offering you and something you are willingly taking up. There was no hesitation in moving to New York . . . just as there had been none when I moved from Michigan to Boston thirteen years previously. I know that I will keep many of the friends I made in Boston. The connections of my life are not restricted by geography – and never have been.

Still . . . it hurt to leave. I didn’t let myself feel that until a couple days before – when my colleagues threw a party to say goodbye. That was a new experience in itself. I have usually fled from attempts to throw me parties of any sort. I have consented to very few over the course of my lifetime. I am glad I accepted this gift from my friends in Boston, though. It is good to say goodbye well. And they did a fine job of it. I told one of my closest friends that I felt as though I’d gone to my own funeral. It is a strange thing having a season (a long season) of one’s life laid out before you by others. How do they add up your life? What did they see? How did they know you? When I talked about the experience, he said, ‘You have something in common with Tom Sawyer, then. You both got to go to your own funeral.’ It was a strange and wonderful privilege. I hope the real one is still far off in the distance . . . but I find it hard to imagine it could be better.

During the days leading up to my departure from town, I met with a lot of dear friends to say my goodbyes. I am thankful to each and every one who gave their time to come out to see me. I did not get to everyone I wished . . . but I saw many and was happy for the meetings.

On 1 September, a close friend drove me here to New York. I had the thought that he was like an angel helping me pass from one existence into another. I was experiencing a radical transition (a kind of death without dissolution) and I was moved by the kindness of having company for the journey.

In New York, I was similarly blessed by the hospitality of friends who were already here. I chuckled at the thought that it was like loved ones welcoming me into the next life – like the stories I have so often heard of the life after death. My friends fed me my first meal here. And next day one of them braved the craziness of traffic to get me to stores so I could buy the items I needed in order to begin life anew.

Since then, I have been exploring my new city that, God willing, will become my new home. I have walked several miles around Brooklyn and Manhattan (I live in the former and work in the latter). I am still an anonymous ghost in this place. I will soon begin to knit together the relationships and experiences that make a life. It is an odd ‘in-between’ – but I have been enjoying it for its own sake. It is a great gift my new employer has given me; to be able to spend a week getting acclimated before starting up with my work responsibilities. I am doing the ‘homework’ assigned to me – to explore and discover my new surroundings.

Each day, I have ventured into new places to eat, to have coffee, and to sit and watch people. New York is a city that contains many worlds. I will make it my habit to always seek out a new one each week that I live here (or as close to that as I can manage).

Today, I walked down a street that cuts across the Williamsburg neighborhood of Brooklyn (my neighborhood). I walked from east to west and stopped when I reached the waterfront. There I found a park with a fine view of the Williamsburg Bridge that connects to Manhattan. I sat down at a table and wrote for an hour . . . working on the last novel in my Boston Trilogy. The words flowed with an ease I’d not felt in a while. The move is a good thing – it has opened up my creativity some more.

This ‘blog’ (by the way, I hope you will forgive me, but I DETEST that word . . . just had to say it) is my sharing with those of you who asked for me to write about the places I go and the experiences I have – and with some of the others of you who are also close to my heart. It is part of my investing in the connections that I believe are so important to all of us – in friendship, family, and adventure.

Be blessed . . . and keep in touch. I hope you’ll enjoy this journal of my travels (and of my time in New York).

-G2