The silvery globe's trajectory between 82nd & 83rd streets @ Central Park West seduces thoughts into words. Out on my stoop admiring the scenery; the empty street, quiet-like with interruptions of traffic on Columbus in the background and splashes of air conditioners dripping onto stairwells seemingly deafening. Pet owners helping their pets to relieve themselves (I've said all I can say on that subject). Fancy Cleaners across the street. Mrs. Kim a really great woman but I can't help but feel a sense of violation every time I drop off my laundry...
How strange it is to have strangers- well not anymore as I know her whole crew there, so even more weird to me to have acquaintances rummaging through my lingerie. Yes, I think you can learn a lot about a person by what they bring in to get washed. What do these people know about me? Well, they know I have a lot of lingerie. They might even
know it tends to be of French & Italian make. I find this even more disturbing. This is such intimate knowledge. Do they know my stories, my secrets? Do they not even care (best case scenario)?
There has always been some quality for me or idea that is something so sweet about hanging my laundry on the line to air dry. All that vital night air wafting through the layers. All the night blooms that scent the air & envelops & nurtures the cloth. Seductive yes. The key is to get to them in time before getting cooked by the afternoon heat. It is a zen-like experience to arrange lingerie on the clothesline. Sometimes a week would pass before I could get to retrieving them so a series of soakings and dryings filtered through them. Hmmm, the secret life of my laundry; this seems like the plot of a fantastic art house film.
So these are my thoughts on this. I will be happy to give up laundry service once I return to the jungle! I shall never be able to replicate how Mrs. Kim folds everything so neatly with even creases and it has been a pleasure to understand how this can happen...
The moon veers over 83rd st.
now and soon will be eclipsed by buildings. The bottom heavy luminous globe keeps dropping through the clouds to allow a brief glimpse here and there. Again I am reminded of Maui. I can't say I have seen 1 star and certainly not any clusters of stars since my stint in NYC began almost 3 months ago. This is the exchange. The new moon nears (August 20th) and with it a traveler from afar- too far- bittersweet far. Bittersweet prose, bittersweet performance art. Scent-sationalizing, captivating, mysteries turned realities soon to morph into memories of exquisite journeys. This is the meat of life. This is the reclusive artichoke heart awaiting discovery. An epicurean treat. I'm partial to the big hearts that take some time to get to, to get through.
I've had a bit of an art history lesson recently. The importance of genealogy never escapes me. There is an elegance in knowing one's past.
There is a seduction to knowing the story behind a creepy old painting of a distant relative resting in a decaying wood frame sitting patiently in the vestibule above the mantle until one day someone, someone that walks by this painting every day and finally one day, stops and looks at it and is provoked by it. Whatever the emotion that stirs, it is family knowledge, it is a heritage and a birthright. It is cool that's all.
I have felt this in Sporminore, Italy when the need to feel family descendants washed over me many years back. Tucked away in the Dolomite/Tirol mountainous areas in the north, I was overtaken by the beauty of the area: such a high
mountain valley ascending into the mists. The land of amazing apple orchards. There was the township- which took considerable effort to reach. As I was walking up the hill to the town; a library, bar/inn and church was all that I can remember distinctly. Nobody was around and I roamed the church grounds outside and there they were. All my relatives. All the epitaphs holding precious information that links me to my heritage. It was an honor to be the first descendant of my father's to pilgrimage to
this spot. This journey meant something to me, and to my father. It was silent knowledge we shared yet never discussed really. No need.
So I relived this experience of mine through my friend relaying their story. Their story that makes them unique in this world. It is beautiful. I felt beautiful just being a part of it because it touched me and re-touched me to my story. To my family's link to humanity.
The moon has passed to the far side of 83rd st. now.