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A visible illusion.
There were geese tonight, well past sunset; flying south, announcing themselves. I heard them but couldn't see them against the dark sky. They waited a long time into the day, into the year, to follow the urge for going. I can't speculate on why they waited. I'm going to be thankful I was in the right place to hear them.
Last Tuesday, on the night of the full moon, I walked past a cemetery. That which makes this a story and not a statement is that I didn't know it was there. A small Jewish cemetery tucked in between Fifth and Sixth avenues on Twenty-First street, an old relic and reminder of what the island used to be. For a long time, I couldn't remember the exact Ex Machina quote, and while I know it, I still like the version I used for a long time: "Everything in New York City used to be something else." But there's a few things that have remained what they've been long enough that they've created the feeling of having always been what they are. Standing at the gates of the cemetery, staring up at the full moon, a situation not usually occurring in a big urban city but happening in one just the same, I felt a bit of grace to be there.
Two weeks ago on the Eighth, there was a small event at the greenmarket where a cider maker set out samples of his orchard of heirloom apples. I sampled most of them, and in the course of the conversation, he said to me, "You really know your apples."
I've not been particularly present in my life. I've had a couple of job interviews, some in person and some over the phone. I've gone to dinner with friends and I'm trying to make plans to do so again in the near future. And I've largely been doing much the same as every day, with the routine shifting into monotony, and pushing a mild fear of change into my waking hours. Which came up in therapy last week. So there's that too.
I'm thinking of changing my default icon. I don't use it much, but maybe I should have it align with my Archive of Our Own icon. Icon slots still seem so important a thing to consider.
Last Tuesday, on the night of the full moon, I walked past a cemetery. That which makes this a story and not a statement is that I didn't know it was there. A small Jewish cemetery tucked in between Fifth and Sixth avenues on Twenty-First street, an old relic and reminder of what the island used to be. For a long time, I couldn't remember the exact Ex Machina quote, and while I know it, I still like the version I used for a long time: "Everything in New York City used to be something else." But there's a few things that have remained what they've been long enough that they've created the feeling of having always been what they are. Standing at the gates of the cemetery, staring up at the full moon, a situation not usually occurring in a big urban city but happening in one just the same, I felt a bit of grace to be there.
Two weeks ago on the Eighth, there was a small event at the greenmarket where a cider maker set out samples of his orchard of heirloom apples. I sampled most of them, and in the course of the conversation, he said to me, "You really know your apples."
I've not been particularly present in my life. I've had a couple of job interviews, some in person and some over the phone. I've gone to dinner with friends and I'm trying to make plans to do so again in the near future. And I've largely been doing much the same as every day, with the routine shifting into monotony, and pushing a mild fear of change into my waking hours. Which came up in therapy last week. So there's that too.
I'm thinking of changing my default icon. I don't use it much, but maybe I should have it align with my Archive of Our Own icon. Icon slots still seem so important a thing to consider.
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