05.02.24
Two blog posts in a week? Seems like SOMEBODY just finished a book she really loves about being an artist.
I sit at the counter at the Chipped Cup, facing the wall. I think this is the only place I can get anything done anymore (though really, as long as I’m not in my apartment, I stand a chance of being productive). I would have sat outside, but I wasn’t sure if it was raining. I made the outstanding slides of my long, retrospective Instagram Story of our last Apartmentville, choosing the perfect lengths of song snippets and complementary color palettes that no one will ever notice or care about. I posted them all, made a highlight of them labeled “003,” gathered my things, and again walked uptown, this time to the tune of the Apartmentville Master Song Possibilities Playlist, trying to think of ideas for songs we could do at our next show, yet unplanned, yet unbooked.
Yesterday I walked up Broadway, straight to the subway, but I felt compelled to walk in a place where I used to walk when I lived near here in my first years of living in New York, through the early years of the pandemic. I would wear a crop top and cloth mask and sunglasses and walk through Highbridge Park, listening to music and wearing through sneakers, crossing over to the Bronx and looping back, stopping on the way home for a lap around the Morris Jumel Mansion, maybe grabbing an ice cream cone from Mister Softee if I had cash and liked the sound of one.
I’m always interested to see my once-common sights after a long stint away. The uneven cobblestones up Sylvan Terrace feel familiar, even a few pairs of new Keds later. I remember times mistakenly coming out of a subway exit that was further away from my building, on St. Nicholas Avenue. I didn’t come this way too often, but I did sometimes. More often than now. The Rite Aid that used to be there was my pharmacy for a while, but now it’s a discount furniture store. Was it this supermarket where we fell in love, or was it the other? With the brim of my hat in my periphery, I realize I’ve never worn a baseball cap here before. I wasn’t really wearing them yet when I would walk here. I wear them all the time now.
There are gardeners at the entrance of the mansion, but the gates are open. I mosey past them, settling on a bench and knowing the serenity will soon lend itself to leaf blowers and hedge trimmers. But the leaves are starting to pop out on the trees, and the sky is a pleasant, soft blue. Hot pink flowers speckle my field of view, and the sun comes out with some confidence after a shy morning. I used to be here all the time, and I’m not anymore. The birds sing, planes fly overhead, you can hear the cars on the West Side Highway faintly. The wind rustles the plants gently. The buildings across the way are pretty and the mansion is grand, if in need of a coat of paint. I’ve never been inside.
I leave the mansion grounds (is that the word? Sounds too Hogwartsy…) and walk where I used to walk, but can’t remember if I would circle the mansion first or last on my outings. The playgrounds look new and some areas look repaired since I lived here. Since I am violently unemployed, the only time-sensitive thing I have on the docket today is watching the Mets game at 1:10pm, but I have time to wander through Highbridge Park and get back to the train and home in plenty of time. I allow muscle memory to guide me over the river and back, up the stairs. It’s harder than it used to be, but I was running a lot then. I didn’t own any of the clothes I’m currently wearing, or yet have anything I have in my bag, or even have the bag itself. But the sun still hangs the way I have only ever seen it here, in bygone morose of a different color, and the tower by the bridge doesn’t have scaffolding around it anymore.
