City portraits

I envy people who drink—at least they know what to blame everything on.

—Oscar Levant, The Portable Curmudgeon

Lady in White

She is dressed in white with a small narrow inch of her skin exposed between her long overwhelming white skirt and tight fitting top.

How tight?

Sausage casings are more forgiving.

Bone lady

In line at the meat counter, I wait for my number to be called.

Do you have any bones?

Her translucent white skin is a true whale white. There is evidence of bruising on her arms and neck, contrasting with the bag of bloody bones on the scale.

Do you have any bones?

Whistling Man on Bicycle with Yarmulke

Listen to layers in the sonic city din.

I bristle at the big city bustle.

I am offended by his breathy drone whistle.

I cross the street and keep walking until I no longer see him.

I can still hear him, whistling.

Is he waiting for the light to change.

I am trapped in his loop.

There is no audible end in sight.

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From the great John Cheever:

"When the beginnings of self-destruction enter the heart it seems no bigger than a grain of sand. It is a headache, a slight case of indigestion, an infected finger; but you miss the 8:20 and arrive late at the meeting on credit extensions. The old friend that you meet for lunch suddenly exhausts your patience and in an effort to be pleasant you drink three cocktails, but by now the day has lost its form, its sense and meaning. To try and restore some purpose and beauty to it you drink too much at cocktails you talk too much you make a pass at somebody's wife and you end up doing something foolish and obscene and wish in the morning you were dead. But when you try to trace back the way you came into this abyss all you find is a grain of sand."

John Cheevers

The Journals of John Cheevers