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By midday the shore becomes clogged with people and I have to start being very still. I don’t like being still and I often start to count the hours. I listen for the sound of the shore and the laughter and crying of the children. The shore becomes second hands counting the day for me in specific increments. However, I know a hcildn’s cry meets the end of high noon.

Before I knew it, it was summer. Children had begun to play under the pier. In the early mornings they would be silent. skittering around the edges of the shore, staying clearly away from me who had learned during the days of fog how to fold into the crevices of the pier and the shore. You would barely notice me Kate. I don’t even mean my appearance. Even if you could look past my skin and the scabs and the smell, you still would have a hard time finding me. Long ago, would you have started to pass me by as the sun reached high noon in my estern town. You would walk past me and all the rest of the gentlemen under the pier. Our clothes long ao had lost hteir color. Our skin had become the same hue and the sand and we long ago learne dto be quiet when thechildren skittered along the shore. No, Kate, you would have long ago forgotten what I looked like and certainly, I know, you would have lost me with our family as you passed by me under the pier on the shore for I had learne dto be lost. I saw you a number of times though. I saw you there, with him, lost with your children. Avoiding my little nook and cranny. I saw you. Even if you didn’t see me

Coney Island. NYCSummers underneath the boardwalk would be easy. I noticed this the first time that I ever set foot in Coney Island. I stepped off the train into the foggy streets of southern Brooklyn and stepped into a ghost town, something out of an old western. The boardwalk provided the perfect liminal space, perfectly flat, a desert of concrete with the square buildings of the Freak Show and Nathan’s hot dogs inviting you out from the fog. The fog separates out this little town on the edge of the Hudson River. It buffets it from the rest of Manhattan with the walls of the Cyclone and the Freefall, along with the amateur baseball stadium acting as garrisons from the impinging commerce that inevitably surrounds Manhattan and Brooklyn. This little world unto itself was where I knew my experiment would be most successful.So of course I headed toward the pier. I knew that there, along the underlying fog was where I would have the most success. I kicked off my shoes as I passed the public toilets, still quiet before the spring surge that inevitably came to Brooklyn each summer season. I kept this very notepad and a pencil. I knew I didn’t need more. The shore was what I was looking for, the gray crests matching the sky. The smell of sea was thick there. Lost to my other senses was the site of garbage. Nowhere in the sounds of Coney Island were the plastic bags, and the cans of soda. No. As I closed my eyes, I could only smell the salt of the sea, the sweet tinge of soaked wood and the ever present sound of gulls and shore. This would be perfect. In the fog. In the sea. I would fully understand what it was like.

 Now that I have moved back to New York, a city that I have explored quite a bit over the last few years, I am constantly coming upon shops and restaurants that I frequent often. Unlike my experiences in Argentina, I have old standards. which I go to again and again while I wait for whatever particular obligations that I have.

Such was the case this morning, when I got up, went biking throughout Prospect Park, and generally relaxed in my new Park Slope digs. I truly love the apartment I am in and will be sad to see it go in a few months, so I spent the morning just taking in the paintings around Brownstone, many of which are probably famous and I just don’t know it. Currently, my job of part-time teaching is spoiling me. I have so much time on my hands on a given Wednesday that I ended up not leaving my house until 2:30 PM. I hopped on the Subway in search of a movie near where I am taking classes on w. 13th St. in Manhattan. However, finding no movie theaters with available showtimes, I ended up going to a few restaurants and coffee shops and bars to pass my time between searching. So, that all being said, I thought I would start a new section of this blog, named above that would provide a venue for restaurants, places of interest and other recommendations based on my wanderings in a particular area.

Here are today’s recommendations:

Better Burger (178 Eighth Ave. at 19th St.) Part of an NYC chain, this burger joint used to serve, among other things, ostrich, which gives you an idea of the high quality of the burgers here. Still good for those who want something akin to ultra chic fastfood. And the food is pretty cheap.

Bar Six (502 Sixth Ave. at 14th St.) Great place if you want a classic NYC cafe. There’s a little bit of everything for everybody and strikes me as a place for New School students, professors and travelers into the village.

Spain Restaurant & Bar (113 W. 13th St. at Sixth Ave.) By all means one of the best local hangouts I have found thisarea. Spain provides just about everything that you want to hangout with your friends. Head immediately to the bar for cheap drinks and to be plied mini-appetizers, all on the house, for hours and hours and hours.

Cinema Village (22 E. 12th St. image care of warsze flickr) A great local film center with adorably small theaters. It’s a classic place for indie flicks of all sorts and often shows at least one highly recommended movie each week.

Well the truth is that I am moving out of Rockland County, a suburb just north of New York City, into Brooklyn, NY starting June 1st. Hopefully, the move will be permanent. So with my last few days in the ‘burbs, I have wanted to take advantage of nature. While many will unfairly deplore the state of the nature in NYC, it is true that mountains, trees and dirt paths are somewhat lacking, so I hopped in my car and headed up to my friend and bandmember’s house in New Paltz, NY to take advantage of the spring, the sky and all that New Paltz has to offer.

I spend an inordinate amount of time in New Paltz, so it is likely to be a fairly constant addition to my Study Abroad section (along with Montreal and actual trips I plan on going on) but today I thought I would address the wonderful bike trail that runs through the outskirts of the little town.

The section of the trail that I took extended about 8 miles north to the town of Rosendale. Most of the trail is leafy, quiet, and made of gravel or dirt. It used to be an old railway (hence the name) and runs right past the semi-farm houses of New Paltz.

By far the best part of the trail was the end in Rosendale where one is led to a wooden bridge overlooking the town.

From that vantage point,  with the wooden bridge and the mountains, the tranquility is nearly palpable.

I highly recommend biking down into Rosendale to the Rosendale Cafe which supports a very decent menu

It’s incredibly hard to believe that it has been a year since I have posted to this bloody blog. In a year so much has changed, as might be expected. A year ago, I was in a long term relationship. A year ago, I was incredibly depressed due to an incredibly difficult job and a year ago I was living in the Lower East Side of New York City with two buddies from High School.

Now, in May of 2009, I am single, though not by own choice, and have been dealing with that in any way I can, staying up late with friends, playing my music in a band that is now a year old and has opened up for at least some moderately big names. I live nowhere, am in constant transition from NYC to the Hudson Valley and back. I am moving soon back into New York permanently, striking it on my own for better or worse to reclaim a city that has been lost to me and I need a venue to vent.

That’s where this dear blog comes in. I imagine it still stands as a place of record which people may come to read, but I imagine as of now has a readership of few to none. Frankly, I have been thinking a lot about keeping a highly personal blog, a place to remember some of the people and places I have lost over the last year, so that I don’t forget them completely. Lately, I have been obsessed with remembering every moment in every way that I can for better or worse and to cherish the immediate moment rather than worrying about past or future.But, despite the melodrama, I am not sure if that much has changed. I am still an explorer, trying to understand the nuances of a city through its enterprise: it’s restaurants, graffiti, theater, music and life. I just hope to turn this venue into an all purpose log for all of this, so that I never look back on my life with regret, or, even worse, simply not remembering it at all. So expect hopefully the best and I will certainly enjoy writing.

A band that has become famous due to their music videos on their TV show have now released their first music video… how odd.  

In a previous post, I commented on the use of ekphrasis in the Bob Dylan bio-pic “I’m Not There.” I tried my own example of this long before I even knew what ekphrasis means. See it below:

All Along the Watchtower

“There must be some kind of way out of here,” said the joker to the thief. The joker’s bushy brown hair was very greasy, but still seemed full-bodied despite it. He sat at a table in the tavern, in clothes that weren’t filled with the bright colors and life of a joker, but rather the plain and shabby clothes of a traveler, a nomad trying to find the answers to life, or at least trying to get money. His skin was already starting to wrinkle and his small eyes were eerily bright next to his pale skin. As usual, stubble was starting to grow on his face. A man like him could not shave often.

“There’s too much confusion. I can’t get no relief,” the joker added, raising his mug to his face. He then stared around the room. It seemed foggy with cigar smoke, almost unreal as if they were dining outside and the smoke was fog.

“Businessmen they drink my wine. Plowmen dig my earth. None will level all of mine. None know what it is worth.” It had been earlier that day when he had lost his job. He had been dismissed from his latest court. The prince had not been impressed with his work. He had seemed panicked, and had called the joker into his presence. The songs of the joker had then suddenly angered him. When, he had done one of the prince’s favorite songs, “John Brown”, a story of a man who went to war, the prince had started screaming at him. He said that the music was horrible. He seemed so apprehensive, and had exploded with insults of the joker and his music, as if the songs that the Joker knew the prince loved, had caused him to now see a ghost and make his apprehension peak. He had then told the joker to leave. He could never see the prince again. It was a pity. The joker had liked getting such attention for his songs before that fretful day in the prince’s court.

“No reason to get excited,” the thief he kindly spoke “there are many here among us who feel that life is but a joke.” The thief’s voice was gruff and low. His dark skin almost seemed to shine in the smoke-filled bar. He had hair similar to the joker’s but it was darker and a small moustache adorned his face. He had been through much with his friend. He knew the troubles of life, and took advantage of them. He was able to do the immoral and take from anyone, and use it to his advantage. He was the best and most unique of thiefs. He was now clothed in the riches of the nobles from which he had stolen.

“But you and I we’ve been through that and this is not our fate,” the thief added. He and his friend had traveled the world. He only wanted to remind his friend that they had seen much and that this was merely one problem that they could overcome. They could always overcome problems, as long as they were together. Even the poorest men, when they have friends, can overcome everything. “Now let us stop talking falsely now,” he laughed, “the hour’s getting late.”

They laughed together. The room seemed less foggy and clearer as they drank and joked. They stopped thinking about the past and got ready for the future. They would leave this town tomorrow. They had nothing left here. They would leave this place and start anew in a new town with a new prince and a new life.

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The guitars will blend together. They create a cacophony of sound that is beautiful, yet eerie. Listen closely to the words. They paint a story, a story that maybe had been told by many before it was recorded. Of course, there have been already two men to repeat this story that have been famous, first a joker and poet of America, and second his thief who changed the face of the song and of music. And there are millions of tales from the past, in the present, and future, that will continue to tell the tale of jokers and thieves, and of princes who must wait for an attack
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All along the watchtower, the prince has kept the view. All of the women came and went, barefoot servants too. He stood immobile, his light blonde-brown hair and lavish clothing covering his large stomach. He had a look of pain as servants left. Something was coming. The rumors from travelers, the courts, his advisors, they all pointed towards this, towards tragedy, towards legions and invasion. They were coming for him. He couldn’t handle it. He didn’t know what the world was going to bring to him. He had been selfish and now he waited alone for the attack. For the soldiers on He had been selfish and now he waited alone for the attack. For the soldiers on horseback, and his death. He had nobody to help him or comfort him in his time of need. In the past, he would have had the joker sing a song to him. However, even the joker’s songs seemed to laugh at his fear and tell him of danger causing him to explode that day and in anger he had dismissed his beloved jester. He stood, staring into the foggy black night, illuminated into an unreal oblique world by moonbeams, alone.

Outside in the cold distance, a wild cat did growl. Two riders were approaching, and the wind begins to howl.

Since moving to New York, my picture taking has increased quite a bit, and I can’t help but just popping pictures of things. I take pictures with phones, cameras, smaller cameras, video cameras, and it doesn’t matter if they are mine or not. I took this picture and emailed it to myself. I have no idea where it is from. Any faithful New York resident who stumbles upon this, please enlighten me?