10 November 2021
[Above photo: My living room, since I have no more recent photos. Note the 15′ wide original 1850’s pine flooring.]
Getting to the Portland Transportation Center was a challenge. Google Maps sent me deeper and deeper into a hotel parking lot with no exit. Once arrived, it was a smooth and pleasant ride down I-95 to Boston’s South Station on a quiet and comfortable coach. Next, I boarded the Acela and quietly sped along the Connecticut coast, crossing the Mystic, Thames, Quinnipac, Housatonic, and Connecticut rivers and dropping me at Moynihan-Penn Station. Finding the uptown subway 1 Line was a slog, but I was warmed by its gritty similarity to the IRT of the ‘60’s. Exiting at 79th, it was a short walk to Harold and Connie’s on West End.
They have a spacious and graciously appointed apartment, cleverly designed so that the guest bedroom seems in a separate wing. There are views of the Hudson and of penthouses with small potted forests. And the wonderful rooftop water towers/tanks allowing for a constant flow, despite upstream vagaries. I was welcomed and fed and we planned our moves for the next few days of my visit.
Since my sleep has not been sound, I was done by 10 and slept, with the usual interruptions, until 8AM. And I dreamed of being in a room with friends and colleagues when I suddenly saw a myriad of black dots in the sky. Upon closer inspection, they were crows, parachuting ominously into the neighborhood. Associating to it, I recalled the hundreds of crows who would gather nightly in the huge eucalyptus grove at Ginnery Corner in Blantyre, Malawi. At first, it seemed miraculous; later I saw them, aggressive survivors and carnivores, as wicked. In Yangon, the only birds left in the city are crows, pigeons, and little house sparrows. I then, for some reason thought about Hillary’s “deplorables”. How did they get that way? How did I get to be how I am?
Long story shortened, I took the subway and walked to The Strand, New York City’s huge used book emporium where I quickly located a copy of Freud’s Civilization and Its Discontents. My thought was that, for many reasons, the sacrifices we make to sustain civilization—I’m angry at someone, there will be a payment if I whack him. She’s tantalizing, but I cannot just possess her or Big Trouble. That shiny object beckons me, but it isn’t mine to take.—are no longer worth it for many to whom the promised rewards have not come. Rules and values of the rich, educated, and priviledged. So, we abandon truth and lie with ease. We incite and enjoy violence. Honor and civility aren’t valid currency. Restraint, art, logic, science, and intellectual pursuits take a back seat to superstition, impulse, greed, avarice, tooth and claw. My thesis becomes hazy on awake inspection, but. I swear, it was lucid in my post-dream reverie, lying in 800 thread-count sheets with a lovely duvet keeping me warm. I’ll approach it with more rigor later.
Harold and I went to the [new] Whitney and wandered through the immense Jasper Johns retrospective. Not so much my kind of art, but it was an impressive oeuvre and the museum itself is magnificent. We then cruised up the park along the Hudson to his apartment, joining Connie on the roof for a glass of wine.
Off to Marcy’s 80th birthday, 7 of us, at Genaro’s where we feasted and feted. Toasts included her brilliance, her beauty, her friendship, and her incredible persistence as she has fought, much of it singlehandedly, for 50 years to preserve the riverine west side of Manhattan from the developmental depredations of a series of massively rich and powerful men. Barry Diller managed to best her with his little erection at pier 55 but she has outmuscled the others. She is one rara avis.
The next day I spent with Erica, seeing her new place, doing some minor installations there, and walking with Chloe to Barney Greengrass, the Sturgeon King. He knows—well, knew—his sturgeon. As, later, we moved to meet her publisher and executive editor at a bar, we sought a cab. An Uber would be $45. Why, you ask, for a 12 block ride? It was NY Marathon day and every spot on the Upper West Side was overflowing with celebrants, including those wrapped in blue ponchos wearing medals. We grabbed a bicycle rickshaw at $7/ minute. Wait, red lights? I won’t reveal the final fee but it was a pleasant ride and our cyclist was happy at the payoff. Erica’s editor has run 85 marathons. At 60yo his time was under 4 minutes. His mitochondria are ridiculous.
Our appointed restaurant where we’d meet H & C had cancelled the evening: “a plumbing problem in the block”. We slipped around the corner to an old standard that they all liked but had forgotten (perhaps because they only accept cash) and settled into outdoor seating. Suddenly a long string of ambulances and other be-sirened vehicles rushed by. Had there been a bombing? We never learned but had a wonderful meal, including mussels flown in that day—so said the proprietor—from Portugal? Italy?
The energy of New York, the sheer juice of the place, is like nowhere I’ve been. I imagine Shanghai matches it. The train trip up the coast the next day was, again, sedate and effortless. And there was my ancient Subaru, waiting to ferry me home.
Glasgow seems disappointing so far. China threatens Taiwan. Biden gets his infrastructure bill passed. And Paul Gosar broadcasts anime of him killing AOC and attacking the President. What a descending path into depravity our Trumpers have taken. Desperate, primitive, they seem willing to do anything to regain power.
Meanwhile, I watched “Lorena, Light-Footed Woman”, a wonderful antidote to all the terrible nonsense, on Netflix. It is about a young Mexican woman from Chihuahua who is an unassuming ultramarathon champion, running in her traditional skirt and sandals. Refreshing!
A Psychiatrist in Myanmar 