“The plague is no worse than death by mediocracy, mediocrity, death by commercialism, death by corruption, which surrounds us.”
Artaud, on the plague and the theatre, Anais Nin, Vol. 1, p.192

“Moderato cantabile is a modern restatement of the incompatibility of individual passion with the orderly mechanism of social decorum.”

Walking to Think Coffee in the morning, before work, I feel a sad deprivation, a calm coldness without shiver, an absence of libido. I haven’t felt sexually excited all weekend, and in consequence I wasn’t able to concentrate or find any inspiration. Maybe it is my propensity to perpetually seek a sexual context, and in the absence of it, I feel impotent. I flirt and the boredom of the day disappears, a joy captivates my heart to see her smile. I stare and the light of the flesh uplifts my heart. The muse of womanhood incites a awe of imagination in me that I can believe in. I have always been civic about my sexual urge, I have always been selective, another disposition that is not always the most beneficial perhaps.
This weekend I panicked to think I would never sleep with a woman any more for the rest of life. I was satisfied to innocently flirt, even just talk, to feel a gentle hug saying good bey, or even be near a woman distantly. There would be something to do then still. My loving eyes are scanning the streets for a beautiful doll, it is not even lust, but the pleasure of beauty, the yearning for romance evoked at the first sight of a female’s face. The studies say this feeling exists independently from the attachments people form. I confirm that this shallow craving that possesses the body as well as mind, is like the wind that blows in the sails of a boat on a calm sea. It is not a rudder that sets the course, it is not an anchor that ties one down to the bedrock.

A winter day, cold and clear like an autumn day. Shielded from the bending trees, the wet air, and the pavement, reminders of the morning hail. I stare outside the window, as a far observer. As the the day is lost, in nothingness, in goalless passing, I slowly grow aware of the opportunities that exist here to create a viable commercial product. Maybe I too have grown and excelled in the last months. Admitted, I am not determined by nature, maybe my late age of opportunity is a potent and clear signal of that. A silent witness of a wasted load, I realize my aim. I have always felt destined for something, I have always felt to have enough innate predestination, talent, and I also never felt ready, never felt sufficient, there was always another step to be made, there was always another day until tomorrow. I realized I was not in the right circumstances, not in the perfect moment, to reach and grasp, and to create the opportunities that were possible before me. There were too many imperfectly matching pieces in the puzzle, too many dust particles in the beams of light. Caught between these, I saw such immature possibilities. I am not a total loner, not among the notes of music at least, too one sided in my own capacity to follow a single line, my own except, and so I am in the hands of the unfinished time, unclosed circles. I am waiting for the lips to be in sync with the words that are spoken. When I am almost ready, my soul is silent. The tracks never run parallel and I wait. I wait for the musical singer to fall back in line with the choir, on the right beat, but realizing this will occur only by coincidence. Each moment that I awaited disappears again.
But now I am no longer dependent, in contrary, it is me who is the dependency, if the perfect chain breaks, it is because of my fault. My friend T. is faultless in the right opportunity to work out right. Of course I believe my own path leads me fastest to my goal. My niche is colored by its own light. My niche is to write neo-classic nihilist pamphlets that express the post war type of optimism that characterizes me, rallied by a strong will to survive the destined fate that we cannot escape, to enjoy, the seek pleasure, to undergo the experiences like a self-objectified subject, the mirror image within us. This remoteness of the self is a clear and inseparable identity of strength. In a new language, I speak, still looking to find the right words, the right tone, the logical sense for the meaning and form that will define me.

Rocco’s is one of those typical Italian pastery shops in New York whose cookies, cakes and pasteries are incomparable to any anywhere else and you ought to go taste them if you are in New York, it will change your opinion on and attitude toward obesity for good.

The train ride from New York to Beacon on the Hudson Line goes literally only meters away from the waterside of the Hudson, past Spuyten Duyvil, Yonkers, and Garrison. North of Manhattan rise up the high peaks of the Englewood cliffs, but then the softer hillsides on the Jersey side dominate the landscape. The most impressive sight is formed by the view at the historic bastion of Westpoint’s citadel, which stands tall and sheltered by its own remoteness on the top of the cliff across Garrison Landing. At Garrison station the first year cadets that will form the elite of tomorrow’s American army attract attention with their obligatory uniforms, their gray tops and white hats. Here is the history of the nation being conserved.

From behind the high doors of the Star of Bethlehem Baptist Church on Main Street, Beacon, loud cheering and singing can be heard on a brisk but sunny Sunday morning. The black folks of Beacon unlike their white citizens are not enjoying the country western performances at the Harvest festival, but they’re praising the Good Message of their Lord. Down at the river side, the harvest theme prevails in the autumn bouquets, the embroidered children clothes and the Halloween pumpkins. There is nothing like American segregation, although there is little openly talk about it. On the side of the gas station up East Main Street, three hooded black teens hang around killing their boredom, as three old guys in their fifties on their Sunday’s Harley Davidson bikes rumble by the Yankee Clipper Diner toward Route 84. Man, the glory of America is faded away in these provincial towns. The abandoned premises of the Unico Special Products factory at the Fishkill Creek offers a bright sight of a dim America in autumn. In 2003 still listed on the list of The 888 most dangerous workplaces in New York State, now closed down. The autumn foliage is changing the leaves and trees along the water, alternating the slope of nearby Bald Hill in a colorful spectacle. The broad water of the Hudson river washes it all away, down to the Hudson Bay, to the Long Island Sound, to the Atlantic.

View a video impression of Westpoint’s Citadel from the Hudson Line train:
high [0.34 sec - 23.2MB]
low [0.34 sec - 0.44MB]

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Fish at 280 Bleecker street is a simple but charming fish restaurant, which by the way offers great happy hour prices from 12 to 7 pm with PBR for only $1.50 and tab beers for only $3.00. Their menu ranges from Chilean sea bass, sword fish, red snapper to Chatham cod fish. On the unfinished brown stone walls of the interior hangs a collection of sea resort paraphernalia, like crab traps, direction signs of red painted capitals on a small dry wooden board, spelling the name of a long forgotten or imaginary fish restaurant, pieces of net, and classic beer advertisements, surrounding the dark tables and chairs along the bar and fish display window, where fresh fish is cooled on packs of crushed ice that covers half of the glass sides. On our table a polished set of metal forks and knifes rest on the white cotton napkin along which side runs one azure blue stripe, in the white porcelain shine and the crystal reflection of my beerglass flickers the white wax candle. I ordered Spinney Greek steamers, steamed in PBR and jalepenos for starters and grilled Chilean sea bass. The meals are good in their simplicity and you should stick to the sea menu, but it is a good place for a discussion over dinner with affordable drinks in an authentic atmosphere.328

The heavy dresser behind the bar counter at Enid’s conveniently serves as the liquor stands, holding the almost antique looking cashier and many drinking glasses. As looks the whole of Enid’s as a conveniently improvised cafe, where the eclectic collection of chairs and tables is a perfectly natural motley crew of furniture. So may it be forgiven, that the music being played is as odd of a mix from seventies to nineties pop to alternative guiter rock.

The cafe is located in the middle of Greenpoint, the Polish neighborhood, and across the street from the Polish National Home, Warsaw.

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http://www.enids.net/

A jerk threw Catherine’s head backward, while her eyes opened wide and her hands fell forward to correct her balance. ‘Oh my god, I keep stepping in these holes,’ she added apologetically peering down at her heels. She pulled her heels out of the rubber mats that were spread across the roof top of the penthouse as apartments on the highest floor are called in this section of town. ‘You should have worn flats,’ Sarah giggled, kicking her black velvet slipper up. Sarah was a short girl with straw blond hair over her shoulders, and who studied for her MBA Masters.

‘You know my family are from Russia, or at least my grandfather moved to Belarus at the beginning of the war, because my family is Jewish, searching a debtor in Canada, but then ended up staying in Montreal, then moving to America later on.’
‘Good move.’
‘Well that’s an understatement, he would have been dead like the other half of my family.’
‘So, you’re Russian then?’
‘Well, my mother’s family actually comes from Germany, my grandmother used to tell me how they went to Baden-Baden, you know the spa resort…’
‘Yes, of course…’

‘Although, my family is from everywhere, you know we were able to trace down our family until the 15th century. They were traders who lived in Venice, Morocco, all over Europe. I was in Prague last year, and my mother told me I should go to the Jewish cemetary and look for the biggest stone.’
‘Ah, I went to see it, but you had to pay an entrance fee, so I only peered through the spiles.’
‘Well, I was with four friends and looked for the biggest stone, and it was actually pretty silly, cause I don’t speak or read Hebrew any more, so we couldn’t read the grave’s epithets. But it was nice, to pay our respect we places some pebbles on the top. But then we saw another stone, and we were like ‘hey I think that one is even bigger’ so we placed another stone at the other one too…’
‘So how many pebbles did you end up placing?’
‘Four, but I thought, hey, it is a sign of paying your respect, so in the worst case, we paid our respect to three other dead men.’

I looked at the stars, at the table full of half empty wine bottles, rose, white and red, plastic cups and Pinot Noir/Burgundy glassware. The city streets aligned with yellow streetlights reflected the dim lights of the sky with a surreal brightness. This city was a brilliant home under the stars for Sarah’s tales, this night absorbed her tales without objection.