Man-Size (man_size) wrote,

Red Hook Blues

Last nights post is why Live Journal's are egregiously embarrassing. My writing is terrible, almost incoherent, with so many nods to cliche's and pop-psychology that I should just stick to drawing and never utter another word or type another piece of text. But, here I am - again - farting in my nose and shitting in your mouth. Give me a decade and maybe I'll write something good. Until that day, behold my ill-literati.

Summation: dating is supposed to be easy -- the fun part of the day, right? I need to institute and practice a new policy, and that is, to not let opinions flare and rage into towering infernos. Instead, set debates at 5-minute bouts, pay taxes, and MOVE ON. Life cannot, will not, and won't be spent on static. Ill feelings make for wretched sleep and heart attacks. I've got a lot of living and giving to do.

So -- before hitting the drawing board and getting into penciling TANGLED WEB pp21, I started this morning by brewing Maxwell House and checking email. Soaked in last nights convo with SBX re: health/etc., I hopped on my bike. Rather than make my way down and up the hill of Union street, where getting "doored" is more likely to occur than not, just to take a spin or two around Prospect Park, I decided on a different course. Red Hook is my sister neighborhood and I'm a leap from the BQE (Brooklyn Queens Expressway). So, I curved around the BQE and peddled down Van Brunt street. I have only ever encountered Van Brunt late at night and on weekends. The streets are eerie, haunted with gangs and dread. Something I haven't felt since I was a teenager sneaking around Central Park, Riverside Park, or The Meat Packing District, armed with a pocket knife, a dozen eggs, and core posse back-up, waiting for the inevitable rape or mugging or murder. The things that makes you thrive, come alive and experience fear for. Even at 35, I try to capture that essence whenever I can since I feel it is important to balance the mundane with the insane.

Anyhow -- it was amazing to see Red Hook during the week day. One word, y'all: TRUCKS. Van Brunt is a mini-highway for trucks and blue collar workers with the occasional spotting of a hipster who couldn't afford Brooklyn's "Manhattan rent," walking lazily to their version of a cafe (when it's really a broken down diner) praying for a perfect latte, while real men are snapping open their second Meisterbrau of the morning, ordering their FRIED half chicken with pork FRIED rice, free can of Coke, and extra duck sauce/mustard "por favor," for the road trip ahead.

I weaved in an out of TRUCK mayhem as a light rain came down and slicked the pothole ridden macadam. I got to the very end, by the water where the warehouse turned art studio community stands proud, and I found that morning zen with the tide. I stood akimbo, chin-up, while the Statue of Liberty was holding up her end of the bargain. Two Chinamen were fishing off the broken rocky part of the cement dock and caught a fat one. Astounded, I asked if it was edible. They cracked big Chinese grins and nodded yes. A suspicious thought rang the back of my brain-pan as I wondered if these two happy-go-lucky fellas were Sushi chefs snagging today's "lunch special" from the East River. Blecchhhh!

The calm from the water, the light spray of rain, and the beautiful view, got me to call SBX on the Mac-a-celli. It was good to hear her voice. She was kind. I told her where I was and wished she could be there. She wished the same and told me she was trying to figure out a way to leave work early today so she could swing by my place for an afternoon excursion. The sentiment made me go coo-coo. The kind of thing that often never comes to fruition, especially under the circumstances, but is always a pleasure to hear. Knowing that the dream is only an inch above my reach.

  • Post a new comment


    Anonymous comments are disabled in this journal

    default userpic

    Your reply will be screened

    Your IP address will be recorded