I am slowly going mad.
I like being alone. I like choosing to be alone. To be alone because I can be nothing else is. . . too much, not enough. Not nearly enough.
How are you?
~~~
I used to walk at night, when I was younger. I walked around Falls some, but this really took off when I lived in Madison. Over to Lake Mendota, out to Picnic Point, or back behind Breese Terrace, looping around the chancellor’s house, sitting on swings in dark parks in neighborhoods built for kid-kids, not college kids.
This continued in grad school, Minneapolis. Walks through Loring Park and the sculpture garden and down Nicollet and to the river, bridges over the river.
I wasn’t well, then, but I can’t fault the nighttime roaming. And my sorrows got some airing-out.
I still walk, of course, but in New York, the walking is always to and fro, from here to there. And almost always during the day.
~~~
But I am, as I said, slowly going mad. I have work—teaching at a distance and still the second job (also at a distance)—and we are not literally locked down. I go across the street for milk and yogurt, over to Flatbush for bagels.
We can still run. I still run.
Here to there, here to there, and home again.
~~~
So, tonight, a night stroll, just around, just to see.
I live near central Brooklyn’s hospital complex. I’m used to ambulances, so I can’t say if there are more; there are plenty, regardless.
East down my street. There were few of us out, some of us masked, some not. The closer to the hospital, the more scrubs, the more masks. Across the street from an ER, in one fast-food place, everyone, workers, customers, wore masks; in the other, none did.
Further east. It’s so quiet. Usually in a damp night sound carries, but tonight, the silence carried.
Turn north, past black women in blue scrubs, bonnets, masks; past the psychiatric buildings, high fences all around, light in every window.
There’s a school, half-lit and empty, classrooms above in a long slow curve around the side, like a weary spaceship waiting for its crew.
Down past the handball court, I notice the one-story railroad apartments. This is low Brooklyn, hidden behind the height of the hospitals and the arch new buildings for the nursing students and medical residents.
I pass a couple of men, one offering the other gloves. Nah, man, he says, holding up a roll of paper towels, I got this. I lose that thread as I notice a building that looks abandoned, but there’s a red blip for keyless entry.
Crabwise, west now. A man stepping off his stoop smiles and says “Make it home safe, mama.” I half-say “You, too,” before realizing he’s leaving his home. “Have a safe night,” I call instead.
Down Nostrand, the noise picks up. The usual ambulances, and the one alarm, a block away? that sounds like a whole building yelling out a London OO-EE! OO-EE!
The women waiting at the bus stop wear masks. I check the driver; he’s wearing a mask.
My laundromat, usually open, is closed, gates where windows would be. Gates up and down the street.
I forget to look up to the sky before heading in.
~~~
I have to remember, there is more than just me, more than the texts and the emails and the voices in the radio. We are not abstractions.
Brooklyn is right here, it’s all around me, a real place.
It’s easy to miss this, during the day, when it all seems like a backdrop, mere scenery on my way to somewhere else.
I forgot that I can see so much better at night.
AbsurdBeats 