A sunny day. Windowpanes, such solar panels seemingly powering Chinatown: boiling noodles, glazing naked fowl, fueling the perpetual language machine.
( I had to get out of that apartment and went down to sketch the Brooklyn Bridge. ) ( I walked down Ludlow, with only the superbrilliant rhythms of Spring to keep my demon pet from dragging me back to the stench, poverty and darkness. )
Below the Manhattan Bridge A pinball labyrinth of commerce rebounding flesh, hair, bone and stained teeth, which when revealed sometimes look like a tombstone fence; the fence that divides; the fence of centuries; the fence that philosophers drag their sticks across; the fence that can be seen from the heavens.
( I had to wait for the merchant to sell me the beer for it was a Sunday. I felt as if I was in that scene from " Brave New World " - for the alcohol felt so useless, so primitive and slow. )
Behind me was the blocky apartment complex, the only colors coming from the playground and in front of me, my 3 for 1 deal:
A portable toilet sat to the left of the immense span, a wonderful little troll to place in my sketch. The group of sweater clad Asians gathered to take a photo, parking their car alongside the fence. The Bridge, massive, and like a true, oppressive giant it smashed all the remnants of clichés from my thoughts. )