July 1, 2018:
Sweltering on a 5th Avenue bench beneath the shadowy coppice of Central Park trees, waiting for a friend who will be 1 hour late...a fully clothed man is doing pushups on the other side of 5th Avenue. In the nuclear meltdown sunlight. Vigorously. Impressive as it is ... insane? Who am I to judge. I've done stupider things...North to South, men wearing cargo shorts walk by topless. Some in breathtakingly athletic shape; most beer-bellied to the point of prepartum imitation. The women are fully dressed without exception. A colorblind bee inspects my gray jeans with pollinating interest...the cry of a bluebird--there it is, not 10 feet away. I love bluebirds because I am no good at identifying birdcalls, except bluejays and crows. Hymn....nope, no crows about. This moment as sound montage: the high, happy pitches of tourist girl-children singing, sluggish footsteps of all types on hexagonal paving stones, perpetual car traffic like the desiccated howl of sandstorming winds. And all this time, the chirping of I can't count how many birds that I cannot name. Indeed, I don't even know what to call the totality of these experiences. That seems a good enough reason to stop recording them.
Sweltering on a 5th Avenue bench beneath the shadowy coppice of Central Park trees, waiting for a friend who will be 1 hour late...a fully clothed man is doing pushups on the other side of 5th Avenue. In the nuclear meltdown sunlight. Vigorously. Impressive as it is ... insane? Who am I to judge. I've done stupider things...North to South, men wearing cargo shorts walk by topless. Some in breathtakingly athletic shape; most beer-bellied to the point of prepartum imitation. The women are fully dressed without exception. A colorblind bee inspects my gray jeans with pollinating interest...the cry of a bluebird--there it is, not 10 feet away. I love bluebirds because I am no good at identifying birdcalls, except bluejays and crows. Hymn....nope, no crows about. This moment as sound montage: the high, happy pitches of tourist girl-children singing, sluggish footsteps of all types on hexagonal paving stones, perpetual car traffic like the desiccated howl of sandstorming winds. And all this time, the chirping of I can't count how many birds that I cannot name. Indeed, I don't even know what to call the totality of these experiences. That seems a good enough reason to stop recording them.
