no editor

Writing from a poetic standpoint–seeing events as metaphor and hearing dialogue as verse–isn’t always possible when I sit down to write, like now. Sometimes, the muse hasn’t arrived yet, but I know I want to and *should* write, just to keep the muscles from atrophying.

It is forecast to be above 50 degrees today, though the wind will bring it down to the mid-40s. No mind, I’ll try to get out on the board in Central Park, listen to William Orbit, feel the concrete beneath my wheels and the cool but warming air on my skin. I don’t want to leave a warm apartment but am always glad to be out there. Never disappointed after a session.

The birds are starting to be heard more frequently in the courtyard. In the “donut hole,” which is threatened by real estate development around town. “Town.” That’s what my parents called it in the 70s. That’s what “Town & Country” magazine calls it. Will “city”–as much as I love the future state of that idea and even the present energy of it–take away the donut hole and the sparrows, blue jays, cardinals and red-tailed hawks?

I am not going to edit this.


Waiting for the movie to start

He held his right hand toward her, palm up, like he expected her to deposit her understanding in it any moment. Moving it back and forth like a bayonet toward her chest, he spoke in staccato speech, as she looked from side to side as if for an exit. They were just inside the lobby at AMC Lincoln Square, waiting for a movie starting sometime after 9:30, as I was.  Hard to tell how long they’d been together, or how long they’d stay that way.