Photographs: Summer Evening Skies in Brooklyn

"Summer Evening Skies in Brooklyn" — I remember I was walking through Gowanus looking for the gloaming. According to the Merriam-Webster collegiate dictionary, the "gloaming" is a noun is synonymous with "twilight" or "dusk". However, I feel like the connotation of gloaming is that moment when the sky goes from evening to night time — it is a singular cosmological moment. I found it at the canal and I chanted to myself: "Thank you, for being special!". I am the gloaming. Here are my photographic results.

"Summer Evening Sky" (Bedroom Window)

It is beautiful / I am the gloaming (Gowanus Canal in Brooklyn).

Sunset Park (pictured here) looks better in real life @nycparks.

Brooklyn Heights Rocks - "Roadside Hazard"

I wish I could remember where I took this picture. It's either Central Park or Sunset Park in Brooklyn.

PDF Copy for Printing

On Drinking Prosecco And Watching Malcolm (And What Came Of It)

I drank a bottle of Prosecco in the late afternoon. The light had just begun to disintegrate. On my computer lay a MPEG of Malcolm X, a movie I had intended to watch. To my chagrin, I had never watched it and vowed to see it through during a time of inactivity. It is my goal to immerse myself in the cinema. It's been a recent habit of mine to sit in a cinema as often as I can gather the strength to take the D train to Midtown. Sunset Park is lackluster in cinema options. Bay Ridge only plays the shallow greats. Cobble Hill has a decent cinema but I don't take the F train. It's easier to ride into Manhattan, with its jaundiced eyes, and beleaguered denizens. Humanity looks browbeaten on the subway. I sort of feel shameful taking the D train to see a movie during rush hour. Shouldn't I feel just as browbeaten, just as defeated after a long day of work? That's a silly rhetorical question. Maybe these people, these sour brow beaten folks have more money in their pockets than me. They have mouths to feed. Rent to pay. I've paid my rent. I am going to see a movie. I wish they could come with me and rejoice in the pleasures of the visual screen. "It's a screed," I preach. I say. To them. To the woman with the holes in her hosiery, to the overtly masculine boy who keeps picking at his knickers. To the guy, a prince, so fairly laden, he only knows how to ask for something, never

to empathize. It's a guilty pleasure. I don't know why I feel so guilty. Today. I counted them. I saw eighty-six movies at the same cinema. That's not counting the other movies at other cinemas. I feel like Susan Sontag. Or something. Malcolm X. They soaked in information; then they launched onto the world. I feel like I am still a chrysalis in its shell, damned, but I do not know why.

PDF Copy for Printing