A Traffic Jam on Memory Lane

Tea: Mixed Berry Green

Music: Crimson Jazz Trio, "Three of a Perfect Pair"

Time: Night.

I'm sure it's not an original thought. But for years, I've repeated that the price of a good memory is a lot of bad memories. I don't mean that in the transaction sense. I mean that being able to remember lots of things in great detail has its downside.

I have perfect recall of my father pouncing on a giant cutthroat trout that I took out of Fish Creek in Montana, keeping it from flopping back into the water after it landed on the bank and threw the hook. I also can't erase the image of him pale and groggy in Intensive Care, waiting for open-heart surgery that failed to save his life.

I remember with utter clarity my mother waking me up just before midnight on Friday nights, starting when I was eight, so we could watch old horror movies on a tiny black-and-white television that she brought into my room. And I can't forget trying to make it through the school days, in December of my senior year, knowing she had gone into the hospital for the last time.

I don't have a choice. Everything's filed away in my head. But I do have a choice as to what I take out, dust off and revisit.

I can choose to recall being wiped out, overwhelmed and cranky when I arrived in New York for the first time -- or being revived by a huge, rich, comforting plate of oxtails.

I can make myself flinch, recalling the time I accidentally shut one grandmother's hand in our car door -- or think of the times we picked Concord grapes in her back yard.

I can keep ledgers of wrongs done to me, and scan the pages every day, or focus on the good things -- the better than I deserved things -- others said to me, gave to me, did for me.

Things will come up unbidden, as memories do. And it serves no good to pretend that things didn't happen. But I have a choice as to what I let linger.

It's up to her, New York, New York

Tea: Vanilla Lapsang

Music: Mott the Hoople, "All the Young Dudes"

Time: Night.

Another one of my clan is about to experience New York.

The soon-to-be-senior daughter's high school chorus leaves at some ungodly hour (translation: before noon) tomorrow.

She'll be back on her 17th birthday. While she's there, she'll sing at the top of the Empire State Building, visit Times Square and see a couple of Broadway shows ("Legally Blonde" and something else chickish, the title of which escapes me at present. Could be worse. She could be seeing "The Sca-REEWWWWWWW-uh TAY-puh Letters." Don't ask. It's a long story.)

She'll come home, as I did, with her world both expanded and shrunk. I'm interested to see if she falls in love with the city, too. I hope she does.

She'll

Here's to Hooks.

Tea: Assam with Ginger.

Music: Ace Frehley, "New York Groove"

Time: Night.

I had this song -- heck, the whole LP (remember those?) -- back in high school. (And yeah, I had the Ace poster with the smoking guitar on my headboard. Drove my parents crazy.)

Been years since I heard it, though. Until tonight, when I looked it up on (surprise!) YouTube. And there it was, in all its Russ Ballard-penned cheesy glory.

Timeless classic? Maybe not. Got to admit, though, that opening hook's a killer. And if you can hook 'em up front, you can make 'em sing along with just about anything.

Get Thee to the Park

Tea: African Brew

Music: Robert Fripp and the League of Crafty Guitarists, "Asturias"

Time: Yesterday.

(Because this would have been yesterday's post, were I not so fried at the time.)

My first visit to Central Park, and I spent a big chunk of it climbing on a rock and taking pictures.

(Of the rock, and the leaves in the rock, and all the cool stuff on the rock. Say it with me: Yeah, I'm weird like that.)

When I finally clambered down off the rock, I asked the ever-patient friend/writing colleague/kindred spirit Seánan Forbes if environmental artist Andy Goldsworthy -- to whose work she introduced me several years ago -- had ever spent any time (translation: done any work) in Central Park.

She couldn't recall any. I couldn't find any on the Net, but did find something related to and inspired by Central Park.

Yeah, um, not the same thing. Get your butt to New York and get to work, dude.

Steve's Adventures in Overloadland

Tea: Black Tea with Black Fruit

Music: King Crimson, "Neurotica" (Live)

Time: Night.

Yeah, I still love New York. (Got my introduction to Central Park today. It's gorgeous, what I saw of it -- which was only a fraction. Took some pictures of a rock. Go figure.)

And yes, I still keep meeting great people (sometimes two at a time, as with the hilariously delightful couple at Alice's Teacup) and have prospects for meeting more.

But six days away from home, moving at a different pace in a different space, have me a bit discombobulated. It's a short post and an early night, and tomorrow's another day.

Sleep well.

The Faces of New York

Tea: Earl Grey Bluestar

Music: Autumn's Grey Solace, "Eve"

Time: Morning (tea)/ Night (writing)

So many faces here. So many colors (skin, eyes, hair.)

It could be overwhelming, if I let it. Sometimes it threatens to be overwhelming, whether I let it or no.

What saves it from being so is the humanity of this city. I expected masks, focused on getting from Point A to Point B with neither time nor inclination for interaction.

It's both humbling and gratifying to admit that I was so wrong.

I've seen so many smiles here. Genuine smiles. From sidewalk vendors, from a guy on the subway with the greatest hoodie I've ever seen (it was red, with a skeleton on the front, back and hood). From an Iron Chef, who shook my hand.

(I have to credit the often-mentioned friend/collaborator/kindred spirit Seánan Forbes for that. She took me to Morimoto for lunch, then bounded over to ask if he'd say hello to me after he walked in near the end of the meal. I was too much the fanboy to say hi.)

And those are only three of the faces. There have been hundreds. More likely, thousands.

And I'm here until Saturday.

I really never thought I'd say this ... but I think I just might love New York.

Hello, Hello, Hello, Is There Anybody IN There?

Tea: Golden Monkey with Honey

Music: Too much to list. Make me pick one, and I'll choose a sung section from the Book of Common Prayer.

Time: Night

Okay, so let's see if this works. I've more than a week of posts stashed somewhere, and (grrr) have been unable to actually -- oh, you know -- post them.

So, to recap (I'll catch up later, if this works).

My Hallowe'en costume kicked butt.

I'm in New York right now, for writing (and learning about writing) purposes. Earlier posts dealt (or deal, if I manage to get them up) with the panic (and occasional joys) of preparing for the trip.

The guy playing the title role in "The Screwtape Letters" should insist the director be fired. Oh, wait, he is the director. He still should insist the director be fired. Karen Eleanor Wight, who played Toadpipe? Keep her.

I've found a church home in Brooklyn. It's an Episcopal/Anglican church, sparsely attended, the congregants largely immigrants from the West Indies. I'm a white Baptist from Kansas. Go figure.

Since this was going to be my post for the day, I'll elaborate.

My branch of the Christian tree has lost something by de-emphasizing rite and ritual and concentrating on teaching and personal experience, I believe. There is something -- well, sacred -- about treating a service as something both joyful and solemn.

There was rite this morning, but no rote. The Book of Common Prayer was not script, but a link to other congregations around the world united in the same purpose and intent. And the light that shone from those people's faces ... "divine" is an overused word, but it suits here.

My branch is still my branch. But it's good to know I can light and rest elsewhere. When I come back to Brooklyn, and I will, you'll know where to find me on Sunday mornings.

Now, I'm going to hit the "publish" button and see if this works.

Cup II: Lovely, blue-sunny day for Jayhawks and dinosaurs

Tea: Pu-er Poe/Jasmine blend

Time: Midmorning

Music: Bill Withers, "Lovely Day"; Jayhawks, "I'm Gonna Make You Love Me"; Adrian Belew, "Big Blue Sun"

It's a bit of hopeful thinking, perhaps, this whole loveliness thing. It's supposed to be 90 out today, and I am not in favor of this. Summer is all right after dark, but I still think of it as a bad opening act for fall.

But ... how can you listen to "Lovely Day" and not start nodding your head? Follow that up with "I'm Gonna Make You Love Me," and the prospect of a sunny day doesn't seem so bad after all. Complete the trifecta with Belew's Beatlesque ditty (even if my copy plays at a crummy 96 bps), add caffeine, and voila! Instant happiness, or at the very least a big plate of cheerful bemusement with a side of motivation.

It's also hard to remain blah when drinking the daily cuppa from a mug with a picture of a T-Rex skull on it. It's from the American Museum of Natural History in New York. Never been, but I'm going to NYC for the first time this fall for a series of writing classes and workshops. So, time permitting, I'll get to go.

In the meantime, here and here and here are pictures of other impressive dinosaurs.

Yeah, they're all meat-eaters (or fish-eaters, in one case). Face it, carnivores rock. When was the last time you saw a kid pretending to be a placid herbivore?

OK, maybe one of these. Because big horns are pretty cool, too.