Two tween boys walking down the street pass a newly installed holiday display. One grabs the other’s arm, points, and in mock horror says, “Oh my god, WHERE is that bear TOUCHING him?” They both crack up and walk on.
I love New York.
Forty-fourth Saturday, from Indianapolis, four days late
War memorial. Hidden inside cannon's mouth Sparrow peeks from nest. Cascading water Splashes into blue-tiled pool Darkening pale stone. Green leaves yellowing. Tiny lights wrapping brown bark. Wind is soft, but cold.
Chinggis is my homeboy
Chinggis Khan would roll over in his grave if he heard me say that, except chances are he was never put in the ground. In his day people of importance often received “sky burials” — their bodies were taken to a high mountain and left for the birds to devour. It was an honor.
Chinggis is everywhere in Mongolia. The best vodka is named for him, and the best beer. Whatever it is, if it’s best, it’s called Chinggis. Outside Ulaan Baatar they’ve built a giant, by which I mean giant, statue of Chinggis on his horse, ready for battle. Stainless steel, with actually quite a good museum in the underground base. (Click on any of these to see more on Flickr.) You can go on up in it, like in the Statue of Liberty. How big is this thing? Back in the day they used to cut the horse’s manes short so they’d bristle. The bristles in the mane of Chinggis’s horse here are people.
The man himself.
Royal hand with scepter and distant gers.
He’s got his eye on you.
There is one problem, however. The place where you emerge from the statue into the light is perhaps not as well thought out as it might have been. Here’s me, emerging.
It’s the latest it’s the greatest it’s the Library
Anyone remember that jingle? It’s from so long ago I can’t even say when. I’ve always been a big fan of libraries, especially the New York Public Library, my hometown system. Never as much as now, however. Because of construction in the apartment above me, I’ve been forced to flee and find other places to write. That’s how I discovered Malcolm Gladwell’s café (no, he doesn’t own it, he just writes there) and some other fine spots around the city; but by far the best is the DeWitt Wallace Periodical Room at the 42nd Street Library. The building where the reservoir used to be (there, a fact for free) with the lions, Patience and Fortitude, flanking the steps outside. You sit here surrounded by other hard-working people — some of them actually reading periodicals — and by carved moldings, high windows, and frescoes of NYC buildings, with faux-marble frames. What writer couldn’t get something done here?
carved ceiling 30 feet above our heads
high window and hard-working people
fresco with faux-marble frame
Forty-third Saturday
Single gray timber Stands in thick brown piling field. River rises, falls. Five helicopters Strumming separately south. High up, plane heads north. White-and-blue ferry Crosses paths with yellow tug Passing fading hills.
Bouchercon basketball
This year’s game was great — good gym, good bunch of players. Herewith, some photos.
Team photo.
Setting up the teams. (Which involves me running my mouth yet again.)
White scores.
Black scores.
I block out Colin Campbell.
Official scorecard.
River report
The grass is still green and thriving, but the leaves are fading, crisping brown at the tips, or turning glorious colors as they variously will. The air is cool, though not yet cold. The wind has started to raise sharper waves on the river. The gray slate pathway is dotted with gold and tan, this leaf-trickle soon to be a flood. Many of the migrating birds have come and gone. The local mallards and Canada geese are still here, as are the local cormorants, though bands of cormorants can be seen overhead heading to their winter quarters. Yesterday, to my surprise, a sloppy V of Brant geese raced chaotically south along the river. Way too early for them in the usual way of things, but climate change being what it is, they must have had a good reason for leaving the Arctic this soon. I hope they find a welcome where they’re going.
Forty-second Saturday
Gull turns head, looks back,
Sits like floating crescent moon,
White on blue water.
Bright sun, chill north wind.
First time in this waning year
Jacket feels too light.
River’s sharp ripples,
Helicopter’s rattling thrum,
Shaking, fraying leaves.
Forty-first Saturday, from Raleigh, NC, one week late*
Sweep of brown oak leaves
Rustling along red walkway
Past black café chairs.
Apple muffin crumbs.
Small brown birds hop hopefully.
Steam rises from tea.
Sun bounces off glass.
Brick-paved plaza’s split in two —
Light here, shadow there.
*because I only just located them, that’s why
Up early, and up to no good
Margaret Maron, Laurie King, and me, being nefarious at the Sisters in Crime breakfast at Bouchercon, Raleigh, NC.
