nyc, shoes

nogs


lysonne and leess

nyc, Red

quite the spectacular play about Mark Rothko

nyc, bed-side table

nyc, hudson river

nyc, cooper

nyc, nogs

nyc, the armory show

nyc, eye contact

nyc, lara and brunch

ct, the train

books, stop-time

Perhaps children remember only waiting for things. The moment events begin to occur they lose themselves in movement.
- Frank Conroy, from the memoir stop-time

nyc, legend of a suicide

A conversation that I surely never had with my dad (father and thirteen year old son hiking in Alaska):

It was overcast and drizzling, the waves indistinct, the waters shifting, surging. They walked along the steeper coast that they rarely hiked along, around the opposite point and on farther to the next in silence until his father said, I don't think I can live without women. I'm not saying it isn't great being out here with you , but I just miss women all the time. I can't stop thinking about them. I don't know what it is. I don't know how it is that something is so thoroughly missing when they're not around. It's like we have the ocean here and a mountain and trees, but actually the trees aren't here unless I'm fucking some woman.
-David Vann, from the short story Sukkwan Island

Slightly sadistic, but a beautiful allegory:

Late night, I wandered. At the gates of the hatchery, I spun the lock, slipped inside. I took hundreds of fingerlings by net, dumped handfuls in my pockets, walked along cliffs above the roadway, bare rock cut in grooves, and held out the fish one by one in an open palm. The miniature salmon leaped each of their own accord, a tail flash into the night, glint of silver, sixty feet of twisting, and an inaudible slap to the pavement below. Waiting, then. For water, for some new rule, new possibility, that could make pavement not pavement, air not air, a fall not a fall.
-David Vann, from the short story Ketchikan

ny, pallisades

lisa between trees


manhattan


Yonkers

nyc, steam

mtl, curls

Greenwich, waiting

books, midair

Reading a collection of New Yorker short stories I discovered Frank Conroy. I thought there was something perfect about the following passage describing an interaction between father (Sean) and son (Philip).


"Why were you crying?" Philip asks.
Sean stops at the top of the stairs. His first thought is not how the boy knows but if the knowledge has scared him. He goes into the room, and there is Philip, wide awake, kneeling at the foot of his bed, an expectant look on his face.
"Hi." Sean can see the boy is not alarmed. Curious, focussed, but not scared.
"Why" the boy asks. He is six years old.
"Grownups cry sometimes, you know. It's O.K."
The boy takes it in, still waiting.
"I'm not sure," Sean says. "It's complicated. Probably a lot of things. But it's O.K. I feel better now."
"That's good."
Sean senses the boy's relief. He sits down on the floor. "How did you know I was crying?" He has never felt as close to another human being as he does at this moment. His tone is deliberately casual.
The boy starts to answer, his intelligent face eager, animated. Sean watches the clearly marked stages: First, Philip draws a breath to begin speaking. He is confident. Second, he searches for language to frame what he knows, but, to his puzzlement, it isn't there. Third, he realizes he can't answer the question. He stares into the middle distance for several moments. Sean waits, but he has seen it all in the boys face.
"I don't know," the boy says. I just knew."
"I understand."
After a while the boy gives a sudden large yawn, and gets under the covers. Sean goes downstairs.

okimo, chairlift

nyc, lovely smiles

nyc, at ps1

by jonny of ashes to flame

nyc, in the pool

nyc, jonny

nyc, Jacques

nyc, kelly