Fire and Nail Polish
I took this place in great part because it has a fireplace. So it is early May, the first in fact, and it is still cold and rainy, God damned global warming. Anyhoo, I light the fire every night, and it not only takes the chill and dampness out of the air but gives me something much more. Movement. Life. Burning. Something not stagnating. Indeed, something in constant motion, its nature is to change, to grow, to burn, to feed. Since I was a kid spending weekends in my Grandparents house in Vermont, not far from Mount Snow, I would spend hours watching the fire. The flames, never repeating themselves, constantly licking and reaching upwards. Never a pattern. Fire is life itself, as it should be. Like the ocean, in constant motion, tides in and out and in and out and up and down and water where it shouldn’t be and where it’s not supposed to be and moving always, to please itself. Not governed by anything. I could watch the water forever, I have always been drawn to fire and water, but for the last ten some odd years I can’t remember the last time I took it upon myself to go to the beach, which is two minutes away, (except on the weekends, when Old Greenwich becomes the fucking Hamptons), I can’t remember in recent history when I prioritized what I have always known as a return for me to peace and harmony. Why? What happened? I took the kids to the beach on the weekends feeling like I was not a member of this club but a visitor on someone else’s account. But I GREW UP THERE. I smoked hash every day on that beach, and I should feel like it’s mine. It is mine. It is not theirs, those yuppy scum clogging the tiny concession stand with their impatient attitude directed with contempt and palpable disapproval verging on hate at the poor high school kids just learning about having a job, something these rich fucks don’t instill in their BMW spawn. And here on this beach, once my sacred land, because it sits on the sea, and because it raised me, as I traversed it’s trails in my acid induced un-reality/reality, grasping for life on a deadwood walking stick, thinking of everything, feeling everything, but mostly absorbing the essence of the earth, the reverence of it, the completeness of it for me as a human visitor to it’s timeless truth….these beasts of consumer burden made me feel shame here because I didn’t make enough money.
I blame myself for letting them get to me. I will never make that mistake again. That’s my water, my trails, my lost deer looking for some scrap of undeveloped land, sometimes swimming to their death in hopes of finding it.
I would go with them now, into the water, to certain death, rather than staying on these tainted shores.
Let us swim away dear deer, away from the talk of Luis Vitton and pedicures.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Sunday, April 4, 2010
What's the Point
What’s The Point?
I had my kids here today at the villa de disseverance. We had a very very good time. My son my son is just thrilled with the idea that I have a place for us to just be us, without the commandant issuing orders. We had lunch from Garden Catering, a little fried food joint right around the corner. They have a pineapple as a logo, but trust me, they don’t serve them. We then went to the little beach in Byram, a beach for the less fortunate. Old Greenwich has a beach down through town. It’s been open only to residents of Greenwich since 1940. Tod’s Point became infamous when a lawsuit garnered national attention due to a class warfare scandal involving Brendon Leydon, attorney at Law, who sued the town on behalf of the downtrodden and Beachless. He won, and it was opened to the public. The town hadn’t received any money other than from residents since it had bought it from J. Kennedy Todd in 1925. Actually, when Tod died in 1925 he gave the 147 waterfront acres to the Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital where it was used as a nurses’ retreat. Finally in 1940 the town bought this most pristine sanctuary from the Hospital for $550.000. As I say, Greenwich has never asked for any money from the government since then for hurricane and flood relief and whatnot; an anomaly for a town in any state; but that didn’t stop the liberal rhetoric, and the fear and accusation of racism won as it tends to and it was opened to the public. Of course, this is Greenwich, and they just made it rather expensive and mildly difficult to get in. But back to Byram. The “other beach” on the other side of town, near here, Chickahominy; in the undesirable underbelly of Greenwich. But when my kids and I got there a funny thing happened, it was deserted. I very much doubt the Old Greenwich beach had anything less than a thousand moms and nanny’s and little Tylers and Tiffanys. But most people in Chickahominy work, so there isn’t as much leisure time here in bluecollarland. As a matter of fact it’s quieter here than in Old Greenwich, because people who live here are blowing the leaves of the rich. Old Greenwich is the nicest little trailer park in the Universe. 1/64th of an acre with a salt box on it is worth two million. But in the summer it is LOUD. The second class citizen lawn crews wreak havoc on the peace and tranquility the Hedgies thought they were buying into. But here in Byram and Chickahominy (virtually sister towns), it is quiet as an urban church mouse. So we played at the playground with the background of Long Island Sound, and we threw the ball, and we ran around in the sand, and it was magical. There was no sonic backdrop of rich white women loudly proclaiming their manicure dilemmas. There was a noticeable lack of Hedge fund dialogue. An aside: I was at the gym yesterday and two Hedgies were in separate stalls in the shower, loudly promulgating that you could still find a decent townhouse in Greenwich for one five. Maybe one six. The timbre of these voices echoing in the gym bathroom was cocky and yet pathetic. They must suck their thumbs in a dark corner of the trading room floor. Back to the beach: We came home, here; View Street, and their mother showed up for dinner. She darkened the mood significantly but that is understandable. So we ordered food from a great Italian Deli right across Hamilton Ave even closer to me than Garden Catering, and got a pizza and some salad. My wife’s mood continued to be dark, and I asked her to quit it. She did her best, but our relationship is so damaged, and so elongated, that it is hard to see this thing as a means to get back together. But here is the part that kills me: when it was time for them to go, my daughter broke down. She is four. She has never cried to stay with Daddy before and she wouldn’t stop. My insides wanted out. My heart broke completely, and I felt like dying. And this is what we do in the name of passion for ourselves. Of course she’ll survive, but did we just imprint a terrible memory into her that perhaps we will repeat again and again? Will this in some way define her, and is that acceptable? The truth is, I’m here, and there is no going back. And what will be will be. But when my daughter asks for a Daddy snuggles tonight she won’t get one.
I had my kids here today at the villa de disseverance. We had a very very good time. My son my son is just thrilled with the idea that I have a place for us to just be us, without the commandant issuing orders. We had lunch from Garden Catering, a little fried food joint right around the corner. They have a pineapple as a logo, but trust me, they don’t serve them. We then went to the little beach in Byram, a beach for the less fortunate. Old Greenwich has a beach down through town. It’s been open only to residents of Greenwich since 1940. Tod’s Point became infamous when a lawsuit garnered national attention due to a class warfare scandal involving Brendon Leydon, attorney at Law, who sued the town on behalf of the downtrodden and Beachless. He won, and it was opened to the public. The town hadn’t received any money other than from residents since it had bought it from J. Kennedy Todd in 1925. Actually, when Tod died in 1925 he gave the 147 waterfront acres to the Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital where it was used as a nurses’ retreat. Finally in 1940 the town bought this most pristine sanctuary from the Hospital for $550.000. As I say, Greenwich has never asked for any money from the government since then for hurricane and flood relief and whatnot; an anomaly for a town in any state; but that didn’t stop the liberal rhetoric, and the fear and accusation of racism won as it tends to and it was opened to the public. Of course, this is Greenwich, and they just made it rather expensive and mildly difficult to get in. But back to Byram. The “other beach” on the other side of town, near here, Chickahominy; in the undesirable underbelly of Greenwich. But when my kids and I got there a funny thing happened, it was deserted. I very much doubt the Old Greenwich beach had anything less than a thousand moms and nanny’s and little Tylers and Tiffanys. But most people in Chickahominy work, so there isn’t as much leisure time here in bluecollarland. As a matter of fact it’s quieter here than in Old Greenwich, because people who live here are blowing the leaves of the rich. Old Greenwich is the nicest little trailer park in the Universe. 1/64th of an acre with a salt box on it is worth two million. But in the summer it is LOUD. The second class citizen lawn crews wreak havoc on the peace and tranquility the Hedgies thought they were buying into. But here in Byram and Chickahominy (virtually sister towns), it is quiet as an urban church mouse. So we played at the playground with the background of Long Island Sound, and we threw the ball, and we ran around in the sand, and it was magical. There was no sonic backdrop of rich white women loudly proclaiming their manicure dilemmas. There was a noticeable lack of Hedge fund dialogue. An aside: I was at the gym yesterday and two Hedgies were in separate stalls in the shower, loudly promulgating that you could still find a decent townhouse in Greenwich for one five. Maybe one six. The timbre of these voices echoing in the gym bathroom was cocky and yet pathetic. They must suck their thumbs in a dark corner of the trading room floor. Back to the beach: We came home, here; View Street, and their mother showed up for dinner. She darkened the mood significantly but that is understandable. So we ordered food from a great Italian Deli right across Hamilton Ave even closer to me than Garden Catering, and got a pizza and some salad. My wife’s mood continued to be dark, and I asked her to quit it. She did her best, but our relationship is so damaged, and so elongated, that it is hard to see this thing as a means to get back together. But here is the part that kills me: when it was time for them to go, my daughter broke down. She is four. She has never cried to stay with Daddy before and she wouldn’t stop. My insides wanted out. My heart broke completely, and I felt like dying. And this is what we do in the name of passion for ourselves. Of course she’ll survive, but did we just imprint a terrible memory into her that perhaps we will repeat again and again? Will this in some way define her, and is that acceptable? The truth is, I’m here, and there is no going back. And what will be will be. But when my daughter asks for a Daddy snuggles tonight she won’t get one.
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