Search

There are far fewer people on the streets here in Bed-Stuy than there were in Williamsburg. What people there are on the streets at this hour aren't on their way to a destination.

"If we have to rehearse, we might as well do it out here."

These singers, Gary and Amy, rehearsed standards from the back of their truck parked at the watery end of Van Brunt street, near the Fairway parking lot exit. A couple danced along. 

I had two CouchSurfers, Joan and Jackie, drop by for a night. They were two gals coming in from New Jersey to attend a wedding in Prospect Park. They didn't want to drive from Jersey directly to the wedding, since the hours of travel might wear on makeup and wardrobe.

On my way out of the W4th Street Station, I saw fresh posters being hung in the corridor leading to the exit. I'd read about this last week.

To properly process or understand anything, you need a brief reprieve or escape from it. Grief is no exception. 

After saying goodbye to the family in Wexford and packing for the trip back to NYC, I drove into Pittsburgh.

Following the reception, Grandma waited for her ride home with the flag from Pap's casket in her lap.

"That feels just like Pap," I said to myself when I gave his arm a hestiant pat to say goodbye. "He's all bony." 

Somehow I moved to Stuyvesant Heights from Williamsburg last week. This is my new subway stop. 

I'm still trying to adjust to the commute to and from my two day gigs at Medidata and Dunvagen. My time on the train is double what it used to be.

I underestimate New York City. From my perspective, a tractor is a foreign contraption from a bygone day, an otherworldly device used to do things to dirt on a farm.

I'm in DC this weekend to help my sister pick out an apartment. Originally my mother was supposed to be here.