Of Hardscrabble Wilderness and Wives
Dagnabits Archive July 2009
Farewell, Gene
Gene McCarthy told me a couple of week's ago that he was taking a "change-of-scenery" assignment in Fleetwood after serving at the Hastings-on-Hudson post office for 16 years (minus a couple of years misspent elsewhere). I thought at the time that I ought to take his picture and write a little something about it, but ideas like that fly through my head all the time. Something, however, drew me to the P.O., out of the blue, a few minutes ago.
I waited until Gene's line was clear and showed…
Could I Modify That? No? Okay, Thought I'd Ask.
There is a book out
that quotes me.
I remember saying
what it says I said,
but I don't believe
I said it.
Then the Crows Came
"My son says
the subway doors
are not quite
an E flat
when they close,"
she said.
The man
who tunes pianos
smiled knowingly.
"He will have to learn
to make accommodations",
he said,
"because the world
is not
in perfect pitch."
Then the crows came.
So bleak.
So scrawny.
Compared to what?
Smaller birds squawk
apocalyptically
at their presence.
But they are not hawks.
They perch
rather than swoop.
They natter and conspire
rather than act.
They are malevolent
not amoral.
Their arrogant…
Same Old, Same Old River ... But Different
Sublime Seredipity
On the way to the river, I chanced upon an outdoor concert by the Hastings Bluemothers at the Hastings Station cafe. And wouldn't you know that the second song they played, even as I decided to try out the video capabilities of the Canon PowerShot from across the plaza, was a Van Morrison classic? They do a nice set and are worth catching if you're in the area.
Take Me Out To The New Stadium
The World's Most Perverse Copyboy
I lured Jim Meehan, a copyboy crony from 35 years ago or so, out of his Nyack lair to fulfill a 20-year ritual of falsely promising each other that we'd get together at a Yankee game.
(Jim last week: "I don't know. Doesn't anyone else want to go? I'm not much of an athlete." Thom: "Don't worry. They're not going to ask you to pinch hit." Jim: "Call me if you can't find anybody else." I ignored him, knowing that he'd accept after consulting with his brain trust, Debbie.)
Jim (see photo below), it turns out, has been preparing for the Goose Gossage lookalike contest that, alas, wasn't actually held yesterday. Maybe in 2029.
Down to the Shore
I felt drawn to the river this afternoon. When I got to MacEachron Park, a couple of kids who were picnicking with their extended family scooted ahead of me and staked a claim to the south-facing flat rock that I usually sit on. So I moved about ten yards upriver and sat on a smaller rock facing west and let the river come to me for a couple of hours. And it did.
Mostly I listened to tunes on my iPod, and then did a trance induction and sucked it all in. But I could not resist a few pictures,…
Shades in the Rear View Mirror
Her hair darted
and was slammed down
like a wrestler on the mat.
It fluttered and sprang back up
and floated like a wisp of smoke
above sizzling twigs.
Her shades
caught a glint of sun
and seemed to dissolve
in the rearview mirror.
I was mesmerized
and the chase was on
for miles and miles
on the twists of the Taconic,
a boxy, grey CRV
trailing a sleek Mercedes
its top down,
like a low-cut dress.
My interest peaked,
like a tomcat prowling.
but all I wanted
was to watch her hair
flailing like…
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