Dear W—
Took a little Sunday ride on the ferry. Today I went fishing for angles, shadows, and a little humanity too. But while there, I also found what I almost forgot about. The wind that pushed itself up against my mask and sunglasses reminded me of it. The breeze you catch on a boat is not the same as the one that glides through meadows or mountains. It is air tinted blue with a pinch of salt and oyster.
Then I thought about barnacles on the underbelly, stickiness and glue, life that I don’t see. I’d missed the thick lacquer on benches, shiny wooden magnets that grip the sun. The warm bench in the shadow is the one the sun just left. Dream light crouches in corners and fabric creases, whatwith the wild wind flirting. Afloat on small waves, inching toward the port. I found luxury in the wind and the gentle ebb of a boat. During this brief ride from Manhattan to Governor’s Island, a memory of us on the ferry in the Stockholm archipelago floats by and in my mind, I wave back at us.
The tiny island from afar is here now, and not so tiny anymore. Walking down the ramp always feels cinematic. Pieces of a scene. I pan through a hyphenated sun-. Spots, rays, and glasses. Windblown hair, flip-flops, the metronome tk-tk-tk-tk-tk of bikes being walked instead of ridden, excited children pointing at things, lovey dovey couples, and picnic baskets. I zoom in on the popped collar in front of me, then cut to his girlfriend’s overbite as she speaks. She looks happy about whatever she’s talking about, but I don’t hear what she’s saying. Earbuds in, I’m listening to a playlist. “Post-Dream Float” is what I’ve named it. Suits the occasion while on a vessel that is doing just that. Floating.
Of the eight friends meeting at this location, I am the first to arrive. You and I have spoken about this before, and I already know what you’re thinking before I even write it. I find a shaded spot on a bench next to a trash can that has bees swarming around it, and I remember just then how much I dislike waiting. It’s not the act of waiting in itself; there are some things I enjoy waiting for, like tiny anticipations. But when waiting is paired with vulnerability, that’s when the air turns sour. Waiting, as in just standing there. Waiting, not as in impatience or the hastening of spirit. There is such a thing as arriving so early that it’s almost embarrassing.
Here are a few pictures I took while waiting, walking, watching. I hoped a purpose for walking would find me, and it did. The camera had been waiting at the bottom of my bag, so I took it out and let it watch along.
I see
the shine of an
old volkswagen truck
a shine so bright it reflects
through gauze.
The tent from arched branches
would not have existed
had the sun not slid into place
at this hour.
I see
rays beam through branches
translucent green bouquets
burst and flare
like sunspots.
I see
abandoned buildings
chipped paint and
blemishes.
Faded guardians
adored by climbing ivy
and rust-encrusted locks.
I see
tufts of grass
have filled the cracks
of broken pavement.
Not a tribe of blades
nor a crowd of lawn
just tufts.
And what I see
in all of these things
is that none of them
are waiting.
They don’t wait.
They bask.
