Back

I'm back. I'm still kidless, but I'm no longer in suburbia. I'm living in Brooklyn again after almost a decade in CT.

The world outside my bedroom window is always awake. Two bars across the street spill noisy drunk people out into cold night at 3:30am Wednesday through Saturday. It doesn't seem to matter how cold it is. They mill around, screaming and laughing and sometimes, fighting. About six weeks ago an argument bulged out of control and I heard a woman scream, "put that shit away," and I've not been gone so long that I didn't know that she could only be referring to a weapon. So I pulled away from the window and immediately heard the shot. I knew that I should stay away, that people innocently watching TV or knitting by the window are killed by stray bullets, but I crept back nonetheless. I watched the two men wrestling in a sloppy, drunken way that almost looked like making out. Then there were five patrol cars all at once, lights and horns blaring, and I watched as four cops kicked the larger drunk man into submission and then almost politely settle him into the back a police car.

I could have done without that bit of urban theater. I've wanted to call the cops several times because of the noise, but the image of that man curled up on the ground being kicked from all sides stops me. Better to invest in a high-tech sound machine, like the ones psychiatrists use.

But I logged on after so much time not to complain about city life. How could I? I am back from suburbia, back where I belong. For better or for worse.

My apartment is a 15-minute walk from my parents' house. My mom and I have found a neutral zone: crafting. I've discovered that we don't annoy each other or make snarky comments (as often) when we are making things. So I thought that I would use this blog as a place to show off our work. We've been doing decoupage--boxes, tissue box covers. Next week I think it will be napkin rings. I have a new respect for art therapy. Below are some of my mom's tissue box covers. The idea came from not wanting to make anything that would add clutter to her home. There are already hoards of Costco brand square tissue boxes all over the house for my two nieces' ever-flowing noses. So we figured, why not make them pretty?

Returning to the metropolis has made has revived my creativity. I've been drawing with colored pens and pencils on graph paper and reproducing the images for cards and stuff. Here's a picture of the customized card and CD that I made for a friend and mentor at my new job.

The big rigs roaring past my window

on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway are a gentle reminder that I am not in suburbia tonight. I'm staying at my parents' house in Brooklyn, the house that I lived in from 1979 to 1993. My friend John Davey once said that this house reminds him of a cave, like the Hobbit's house. I'm not sure, but I think that he said it in admiration. John is originally from an upscale suburb of Detroit, where I imagine that the houses are as large as many of the prefab monstrosities in my Connecticut neighborhood, but much more solid and stately. I bet that John would say that he came to New York City to get away from solid and stately.

I think that an 18-wheeler just drove through the upstairs bedrooms. Great beard of Zeus, it's loud here. I'd forgotten.

I hear my sister's baby, Alex, crying through the monitor that is sitting next to the computer. My sister Amy lives here now with her infant twins. I hear Amy talking softly. Now, she's making a sort of grrr-grrr noise. Alex has stopped crying. Amazing.

It's strange to be in this 200-year old house. According to local lore, this four-story brick building at various times was home to a speakeasy, a grocery, and a whorehouse. This was all before Robert Moses built the BQE, severing neighboring Red Hook from the industrialized world. Some 45 years later, Red Hook is now home to an IKEA. The Swedes even offer free ferry and bus service for car-less Manhattanites. So things I suppose are looking up in The Hook, depending on how you look at it.

This post seems to be meandering a bit more than I'd like, but it's okay because:

a) I'm writing again, finally.
b) No one is reading this.

Good night, Brooklyn.