A Guest Post
A Guest Post from the ever poetic Bill:
Red Hook Blog
I sit on a stoop on Van Brunt Street listening, watching.... scenes that are as foreign to me as rivers and trees are familiar. A plastic bag scrapes down the sidewalk. Trucks lumber past, big and muscular. Van Brunt is a masculine, beefy name, and the namesake street bears its burden well: big trucks shake building foundations, pound broken pavement; loads shift, crash; engine whines and muscles into a lower gear.
Wind at my back, sunlight in my eyes. My front side bakes in the warm, harsh light. My neck feels chilly fingers of a breeze that knows it has time on its side, months to grow strong, colder. I can live here, and I cannot.
The days and months that flow from this moment are vague to me, yet omnipresent, like the drone of a horn or signal that now invades my ears, now is gone. The wind, my friend, has taken the the noise to the river, away, buying me not silence, but respite. Its from a factory, she guesses, just another of a cacophony of backdrop noises that makes up the audible canvas of a city. The reaction of many, or some, would be to find escape, silence. But this is all worth listening to. Are not our thoughts as loud and crazy as what we hear externally? More so, probably, because they strike emotional chords, then reverberates with a force as unpredictable as the idle thought that passes through my head. How can you hear yourself think with all this racket, someone might ask? How can you think without it, I wonder?
In lucid moments, I have a strong urge to shape and mold my life flow, give it direction and purpose. But my history of inaction in the face of decisive, life-changing events hangs over me like a specter. I leave this question of direction unresolved so I can settle on a more pressing issue: hunger.