Four Hours on a Train: A Tweet Opera

NYC, July 24, 2017, 8:30 am Departure.

9:02 am: The City lies under a blanket of fog. The world turns. The train moves forward. I am stuck. Moving yet not.

9:18 am: I am neither mover nor shaker. I move in no circles. Excepting for the one encompassed by my rut. Stuck.

9:54 am: Gray skies. Raindrops streak the train window. Towns pass in a blur. Steeples. Flags. Lakes. Gloomy all.

10:53 am: The train stops unexpectedly. A breeze sways the leafy branches. There's a chill. I await the arrival of Dementors. Trepidation.

11:09 am: The train sits powerless, silent but for the sound of breathing. The air is still. Waves ripple beyond the glass. Waiting.

11:49 am: The boats bob up and down on the turbulent sea. Anchored in place. Sails folded. Rainy days in seaside towns. Sad.

12:05 pm: The broken ruin of what used to be still stands proudly on the hill. Oh, to stand that proudly, even now, as broken is how I feel.

12:32 pm: "Maybe u can't connect because u're not as funny, stylish, or clever as u think u are," he said to himself. "And u're kinda cold.”

12:59 pm: As the condensation continued to fog the windows I began to wonder, "Is this a reflection of my mind?"

Boston, July 24, 2017, 1:07 pm Arrival

Boredom...It Held Me in its Grip Today Until a Conversation Lifted My Spirits

How long can I stare at the cursor blinking in the empty white box before my hands start to move across the keyboard? How many seconds, minutes...hours? This day...

It's gray. The sky is gray. The sun is clearly setting now. Not that anyone could tell as it's been hidden behind the clouds all day. The rain has pelted in fits and spurts. The satellite atop my cottage that brings the world of television to life keeps going out. The internet that connects me to the world is moving at a Miranda-Priestly-despised-glacial-pace. I read until I couldn't take it anymore. Boredom. 

How is that even possible? I ask myself. For all intents and purposes I might as well be on a desert island as no one is out and about. I'm here in Cherry Grove on Fire Island in my rental cottage alone. I'm away from the energy (both positive and negative) of New York City in an effort to relax and recharge. Yet with no tv, slow internet, and only the magazines and book I brought with me, I find myself bored. 

I could write. No. For most of the day I seemed not to be able to do that. Except for what you're reading, which is me finally putting my thoughts into this piece. 

Boredom has long been something that I feel bad for feeling. Since back in my college days. My ballet teacher used to say that she was never bored because there was always something to do. It was hard for me to believe she was telling the truth, but I never had any proof that she was lying. In reality she's right. I should never be bored. There's always something to do be it read a book, read a magazine, do a crossword puzzle, put a puzzle together, play solitaire, straighten the house, mow the lawn, clean out the garage...you get the picture. The problem is I don't always want to do those things and so I umbrella myself under that word BORED.

I was so disenchanted with the weather today that I actually took a nap. I don't enjoy taking naps. I always feel as if I've wasted the minutes or hours that I spent sleeping during the day. However, today I didn't want to be awake. I didn't want Emilia Clarke staring at me from my issue of Harper's Bazaar. I didn't want to see my nook lying on the table, its perfect-reading-for-Fire-Island novel Faggots by Larry Kramer calling my name. I didn't want to see the gray anymore. The only way to end the boredom was to trump it with something I hate more than boredom and that's napping away the afternoon. I napped. 

When I finally woke, the gray sky still loomed over the island as far as the eye could see. The sun was a barely visible circle of light whose warmth could not be felt, but whose rays were still dangerous to prolonged exposure. I took a deep breath. I put on my clothes. I made myself leave my cottage. I wandered down a different path this time toward the same destination. It didn't change much. What did change was my attitude. 

I was the only patron at the restaurant, Cherry's. Alone. I see a pattern here for this day. I was alone at my cottage. I'm alone at Cherry's. What is happening? Then my waiter, Gregory, sat down and we started talking. As I was the only patron, he had nothing better to do than take a load off and chat with me for a while. We talked about the gray sky, the frustration of the rain, the disconnecting from social media when your internet isn't cooperating. We talked about writing, quiet time, television shows (specifically his favorite Desperate Housewives). Before I knew it the gray sky and the hidden sun no longer had a grip on my spirit. I was no longer bored. I was having a conversation with a stranger and it was easy...and enjoyable. 

As much as I enjoy my alone time (and I do enjoy my alone time) there are those days when a I just need to connect with another person. I may not even realize it at the time. When I took myself to Cherry's today I had no idea it was going to be empty. I had no idea what I would find. I didn't even know that I was going to end up at Cherry's. But because I did, I met Gregory who initiated a conversation and got me to talking, which was exactly what I needed. 

As you can tell this box in which I'm typing is no longer empty. It's full of words. Ramblings maybe. Regardless, there are letters strung together to make words. I'm no longer bored. I'm content. The television is off. The internet is faster than it was this afternoon. Emilia Clarke is still staring at me from the cover of Harper's Bazaar. I'm not intimidated. I will read her story. Maybe even later tonight. But for now my cottage is only lit by the light of my computer screen. A breeze is blowing through the open doors. It may rain again. It might not. The cloud of despondency that hung over my head for most of the day has floated up to join its sisters in the sky. All of them will blow away sooner or later. For now, I just have to be happy about being where I am and getting a grip on boredom before it gets its grip into me again.

Super 8, Not the Motel

June 11, 2011

It was a lazy day. The morning was overcast. There was a chance of rain all day. We really had no plans. We thought if it didn’t rain we might walk a hiking trail in Menemsha that led to a rocky beach, but the gray skies that greeted us that morning quickly moved that hike to the “to do” list for next time.

A gray day does not equal a bad day. This one was one of those perfect days to lie on the sofa and read, have an in-home spa day, see a movie. Neal and I did all of the above.

We seemed to rise early each day on the Vineyard. It didn't seem to matter how late we went to bed, the rise time was between 6:30 - 7:30 am. This day was no different. I came downstairs and made coffee. I was almost finished with my first cup when I heard Neal moving around. He came downstairs shortly thereafter. He exclaimed that he thought he was going to use his facial steamer. It was a day for beauty treatments.

I refilled my coffee cup and moved over to the loveseat, Dead Reckoning in one hand, the coffee cup in the other. I situated myself on the loveseat, covered my body with a throw and proceeded to enjoy the end of my book.

In the meantime, Neal had decided to start his beauty regimen. There were curlers and wax sticks flying everywhere. The hot wax machine was plugged in and turned to low for a slow melt of the wax. The pumice stones were set out, the hot oil treatments, the Nair, toenail polish and mud masks.

Okay, hardly any of that is true. Neal did use a pumice stone on his feat. He did take a long shower, shluffing and buffing the dry spots. He washed and conditioned his hair. Then he came downstairs and steamed his face.

While he was in the shower I managed to end my time in Bon Temps and proceeded upstairs to grab the second novel I had brought we me on the trip – The Distant Hours by Kate Morgan. I was half a chapter in when Neal appeared freshly exfoliated and pumiced. I thought I too should shower and try to pretty myself up. It was a hard decision to put down The Distant Hours at that moment though. I love it when a book can hook you right away. This one had me around its pinky. Not surprising though as I had so enjoyed Ms. Morton’s two previous novels, The House at Riverton and The Forgotten Garden.

My choice of spa treatment had to do with a facial scrub. I like the apricot scrub by St. Ives. I scrubbed my face then washed it with a gentle cleanser. It felt very smooth when I was finished. I completed the treatment by moisturizing my face. The cheeks had just enough pink to them for me to know that I had done something. The forehead felt smooth. The blood was flowing and the skin was hydrated. Done with my brief spa treatment I was anxious to get back downstairs and back to Edie and her discovery of the secrets of Milderhurst Castle.

Neal was covered in a rust colored mask when I got back downstairs. Upon close inspection, his lips blended in with the color of the mask. He had steamed then applied the mask while I showered. He was now ready to wash off the mask, rinse the conditioner from his hair and possibly steam his face again. We don’t take enough time for these moments in our lives.

At some point I managed to get dressed. I cannot for the life of me remember if I came downstairs fully dressed after my shower or if I got dressed later. I do know that I plopped myself back on that loveseat and continued reading my book. Neal joined me soon after to lie on the sofa and read his own book – The Appeal by John Grisham.

Okay so it’s gray outside, we had pampered ourselves and we were being very lazy (not a bad thing on a vacation). I noticed Neal’s breathing had changed. I intended to glance over at him, but I held my gaze. His finger was on a spot in his book as if he were following along, but he wasn’t moving. I continued to stare, taking in the picture. He had fallen asleep. I decided what the hell and closed my book and joined him. I kind of just rested my eyes for about 5 minutes. I never really went to sleep. He stirred and looked at me, I smiled, he didn’t smile back; he hadn’t really seen me. He was still asleep. His eyes closed again. About 5 minutes later he stirred and did come to complete consciousness. It was almost time for us to depart for Vineyard Haven and the 4 pm showing of Super 8.

We arrived at the Capawock Theater on Main Street with 30 minutes to spare. The sky decided that now was the time to wring the clouds of their moisture and dampen us with its droplets. No bother, we had umbrellas. We bought our tickets ($7 each, must be matinee pricing) and then proceeded to a store called Off Main where I had seen some blue bottles that had peaked my interest on Friday. We went inside and I purchased two of them. I’ve wanted a blue glass vintage seltzer bottle for quite sometime, but haven’t managed to find one. I mean I’ve seen them online, but I want to be able to hold it in my hand and inspect it myself. I decided that the blue bottles I had seen on Friday fit the bill for the color I wanted, and I needed a blue bottle fix, so I just did it. On our way back to the movie theatre we stopped in another store, Bespoke Abode, when bottle on display caught my eye. It turned out to be green and not exactly what I was looking for, but on the way out the door Neal saw a different shade of blue (maybe cornflower?) bottle than what I had previously purchased. I decided to get that one as well. My souvenirs from Martha’s Vineyard were destined to be bottles in varying shades of blue.

Oh my God Super 8 was so much fun. We were in a tiny theater that you could tell was very old. It had one center aisle with approximately 210 seats. There weren’t many of us inside for the 4 pm showing, but more than I thought might be there. I guess the rain caused others to think of this day as a movie day. I am leery of going to the movies. It’s hard to find a time when you can actually watch the movie in peace. People just don’t respect each other anymore at the movies. Cell phones and smart phones changed everything. My brief stint on the east side of midtown Manhattan was the only place where people didn’t pull out their cell phones constantly. Maybe it’s because they’re an older crowd. I don’t know. I know that I loved going to the movies over there. Back to Vineyard Haven and the Capawock, there was a row of four people about 5 rows in front of us across the aisle and each of them had their phones out. A man two rows behind them had his phone out. Even the two older gentlemen two rows in front of us pulled out a cell phone. I was nervous. Seriously. I was hoping that the Vineyard moviegoers might be like those on east side, but I was becoming more skeptical and afraid that I was mistaken. Let me add here that after Neal and I had chosen our seats, four adolescent, unaccompanied by and adult, boys sat behind us. I was nervous. I wondered if we shouldn’t move. Then the lights went down and something magical happened. All the cell phones were turned off and actually stowed. If any of them came out during the movie I never saw it happen. That’s difficult to conceal with a big light up screen. That leads me to believe no one brought them out. As for the boys behind us, I loved them. We were watching a movie that had four boys and a girl, junior high age – I would say roughly their own ages – as its leads. Our boys were amazing. They added to the atmosphere of the picture. They were respectful and delightfully perfect.

At one point, a rather dramatic moment in the movie I might add, the film broke. The screen went black. One of the boys behind us in a very high-pitched voice said, “What” with a fantastic inflection on the end. I couldn’t help but laugh. It took about five minutes to get the film going again. People brought out there phones during the down time, but promptly stowed them again when the movie started. I’ve had only one other film break on me before. Actually it melted. It was Eyes Wide Shut; a terrible film that my sister and her husband wanted to depart upon melting. I refused. It was wretched, but I had to see it through to completion.

Super 8 was the opposite of wretched. It was exciting and funny and exhilarating and more than I ever expected it to be. It’s the movie I will recommend all summer without one thought to any of the super hero tent pole movies that will be opening over the course of various Friday’s during the next two months. Neal said that his husband Stephen had described it as feeling like an old Spielberg movie on par with Close Encounters of the Third Kind or E.T. I had to agree. It was like The Goonies meets Stand By Me meets E.T. If you’re reading this and you haven’t seen it just go see it and you’ll see what I’m talking about. It’s 1979 and the attention to detail is superb. I was 8 that year. It was a nostalgia trip worth taking and a story worth watching.

After we left Vineyard Haven we drove into East Chop to visit with one of Neal’s coworkers, Beth. Her family has a home on the Vineyard. It’s near the East Chop lighthouse and only a few doors away from the house used as Chief Brody’s house in Jaws. The house owned by Beth’s family has been in their family for at least 4 generations. I may be mistaken about that, but I believe the home belonged to Beth’s father’s great-aunt. He barely knew her, but she left it to him in her will. He wasn’t even old enough to occupy the house. It’s a little convoluted to me, I mean we did drink some wine while sitting at the house, but I do know that there is a photo of Beth’s father as a little boy, on the Vineyard, breaking a bottle of champagne over his grandfather’s boat. There is history in that house. Her family has history on the Vineyard. You could feel in while inside the house. The small rooms, the old wood floors, the low ceilings, the smell heightened by the damp air; it was amazing. And their view, ridiculous. I asked Beth if they ever took it for granted. She chuckled. I compared it to my former yellow bedroom. I loved it. I woke up with a smile every day when I opened my eyes and saw those yellow walls. She smiled. She said it does not get old, the looking out the windows and seeing the magnificent Atlantic Ocean across the street. We would all have to be bitter and dead inside if looking at that body of water got old.

After finishing off our bottle of Zinfandel, we took a few minutes for Beth to show us their collection of fossilized clamshells and their collection of sharks’ teeth. The shells were intriguing, but the teeth were incredible. Some of them were huge. I was fascinated and a little freaked out.

When we left the house to go to dinner in Oak Bluffs, we drove past what was used as Chief Brody’s house. The house has since been remodeled and looks nothing like how it did in the film. Beth had a hard time remembering between which two houses it actually was. No matter. I’ve been in front of it regardless of not knowing exactly which one it was. I won’t lie. I would like to know which one it was, but I was there and that’s interesting too.

Dinner was in Oak Bluffs on Circuit Ave. We chose Thai food. It was good. I’ve had better. The conversation was enthusiastic. Overall, the night was a pleasure. Being at Beth’s parent’s house was second in excitement only to Super 8.

We dropped Beth back at her parents’ house and drove back to our cottage and began the inevitable process of packing. We had actually lived in our cottage for the week; really lived. We had used the drawers and the closets and the refrigerator. Of course, emptying those storage spaces and packing the items back in our luggage didn’t take that long. It’s easy. Throw out the disposable keep the necessary.

With all the clothing except the next day’s outfit packed, the dishes washed and in the drainer, the perishable food placed in a bag in the trash, I rejoined Edie and continued learning about the Blythe family of Milderhurst Castle. Soon enough sleep took over and the same paragraph I had read 3 times continued to make no sense.

Candle extinguished, lights out.

Bus to Boston

Gray but dry quickly turned to gray and wet. Seems like a replay of the gray day from the last time I took the bus to Boston with the added ingredient of rain. According to weather.com, it was supposed to start raining around 3pm today. I wasn't happy about that as my bus was to leave at 3:30pm. However, the rain started around noon instead. We didn't have to wait in the rain too long. Our boarding began at 3:18pm. Thanks to a broken down Bolt Bus, we boarded a Peter Pan bus. I had hoped for a double seat to myself. I was not disappointed. Our bus pulled away from the curb at 3:30pm on the dot. Our bus driver tried out his sense of humor on us by calling our attention to the fact that we were not on a big black and orange Bolt Bus. I felt like the only one to find it amusing.

It never ceases to amaze me how long it actually takes to get off the island. Ask the folks on "Lost," they know what I'm talkin' about. It took nearly 30 minutes just to get to the bridge to take us toward Boston. Finally I could see the sign for I-278 E toward New Haven. I knew the further we got out of the City the thinner the traffic would become. I wasn't really on any deadline for arrival. It just happened that the Golden Globes were to begin at 8pm and Neal and Stephen were going to wait for me to start watching. Oh hell, I'm excited about the Globes and wanna get there to start watching them myself. Mostly, I was anticipating the Prosecco that Neal had chilling. Secondly, I was excited to see if Meryl Streep was going to win for "Julie & Julia" and if Mo'Nique, a front runner for Supporting Actress for "Precious" would show up, win, be gracious. I was also excited to see if Sandra Bullock walked home a winner for "The Blind Side." Until then I had to turn back to my reading and keep anticipating.

Getting on the interstate of course means nothing. Yes, we were on our way, but we were also covering ground only slightly faster than a turtle. It's that thing about interstates. Traffic is a bitch and all you can do is roll with it no matter how slow the roll goes. "Like sands through the hourglass..." You get the picture.

It wasn't very cold, but looking out at the small New England towns as we passed, they looked positively chilled. The gray, rained-soaked evening made everything look bleak. Some of the houses had a small spattering of snow around their corners, and their shrubbery, which added to the chill one could almost feel inside the bus. The mind is so interesting. Knowing it's not freezing outside, but seeing an image that looks cold makes us remember how cold feels and therefore think it must feel that way now.

Life in the fast lane took another slow down as we hit the hour-and-a-half mark. We crawled slowly up the right lane. The overhead sign on the interstate said "accident ahead." I wondered where. I wondered why we don't watch what we're doing. As we approached another informational sign on the interstate it alerted us to the fact that our lane was closed due to the accident. Excellent. We all know how friendly people can be letting others merge into traffic. Wait. Was that bitchy? Okay. Just making sure! As for merging, our bus driver got annoyed finally with the crawl and exited traffic, onto the shoulder. He drove up to the arrow pointing us to the left. Being a rather large metal object on wheels and somewhat intimidating, the little cars let us merge. And just like that we were past the accident and back to time-to-make-up and ground-to-cover speed. I returned to my Vogue and the article about the Queen Mother.

After three hours on the road, we made our 10 minute pit stop. It was a Burger King. We parked along the side, back of the building, however, and I didn't know that. I thought it was one of those large convenience stores with a KY Fry and Pizza Hut inside. I made a run for it in the rain, ready for my eyes to quickly scan the store for something at least a little on the healthy side. Discovering, cold and wet, that it was nothing more than a Burger King made the mad, wet dash not worth it.

Our bus driver placed a DVD into a hidden player before we departed the pit stop. He said this wasn't typical Bolt Bus service. Probably because this wasn't a Bolt Bus and they don't have a DVD player. At least I don't remember them having one. The film choice made for us was "The Bourne Ultimatum." If I cared about the Bourne films I would have seen them in the movie theater. If he had only asked me I could have popped "Julia & Julia" or HBO's "Grey Gardens" or perhaps a disc from "Lost" season 5 into the player. Alas, I wasn't asked and would probably have been in the minority of those loving my choices save for possibly "Lost." So I just put my ear buds in and turned on the new Norah Jones album.

I don't know what happened, but I looked up from a lost game of BrickBreaker to see that what the wind shield wipers were clearing away was a mix of snow and rain leaning heavier on the snow end of the duo. I kept hearing people on the bus talking about how it was supposed to snow the next day so I had no idea it was going to hit while we were still driving. It's usually colder in Boston than NYC so I guess it made sense that the rain might be snow up there. Traffic seemed to be moving along at a steady clip so I just pushed play on my Adam Lambert album and went back to trying to be oblivious.

I watched the oncoming traffic, blurred, through fogged, rain-streaked windows. I had a ridiculous text conversation with Neal. Ridiculous = funny! I was so cold on the bus that I had to put on my gloves and sock cap. The chill was slowly able to take hold as the heater was not working properly. This was a case where the cold you know it is outside needs no mind trick because the senses feel it inside. My fingers were cold as were my feet and my nose. You could almost have called me Chilly Willy the Penguin.

Our approach to Boston was 15 minutes behind scheduled arrival time. Which had already been pushed by 15 minutes. At this rate I was hoping for South Station by 8:15pm. To my surprise and excitement, I was off the bus, in the station, and on the subway platform by 8:15pm waiting for the train to take me to Neal and Stephen's. It arrived one minute later.

We were only 10 minutes later than the bus driver originally said we'd arrive. Neither rain nor snow nor pit stop could stop our bus. Thank God. The Prosecco was waiting!

Tea & Vogue

Thanks to my friend Patrick I discovered a little coffee house I'd never heard of before. He posted a link on facebook today for 71 Irving Place Coffee and Tea Bar (irvingfarm.com) and I had just started my visit to the website when my friend Stephen called to see what I was doing.

Stephen is married to my best friend Neal. They live in Boston and they are in the City this weekend. Stephen came up yesterday and Neal didn't arrive until tonight. So Stephen and I had some time to hang out and catch up. I hadn't seen Stephen since April so we had a lot to talk about. I suggested we go to 71 Irving Place. I like coffee and we both like tea. He was game so the adventure to a new place began.

Those of you who know the area of Union Square know that it's gorgeous as you get over in the Irving Place area. This coffee bar was located at 18th. Gorgeous. It was exactly what you would expect from a coffee bar - not Starbucks. Small round tables, cafe chairs, almost every seat taken with people reading or working on their computer or meeting up with friends. It was the perfect spot to grab a bite to eat and catch up on the 4 months of our lives since we last saw each other.

I enjoyed the moments while sipping green tea and listening to how Stephen spent his summer in both Texas and Seattle.

It was raining when we left the coffee bar. I should say it was sprinkling. The day couldn't seem to decide if it wanted to rain or sprinkle. Pick one and stick with it I say. I couldn't figure out whether to use my umbrella or not. Neither of us wanted to walk around in the I-can't-make-up-my-mind rain/sprinkle so we decided to check out the movie times at the Union Square 14. With only 20 minutes to wait Inglourious Basterds got our money.

As this entry is not really about Inglourious Basterds, let's just say I enjoyed the film for the most part, but it was just a stop along the way.

The film I really wanted to see today was The September Issue (theseptemberissue.com). You can learn all about it by visiting the website, but here's a brief synopsis. It's about putting together the Fall Fashion Issue of Vogue. The documentary was filmed while the 2007 September issue was being put together. The Fall Fashion Issue is the biggest issue of the year. Biggest in terms of thick. It's currently available so check it out next time you're in the grocery store or anywhere magazines are sold and see what I mean. It's huge. And heavy. I should know I'm carrying around the current September issue in my bag. Chiropractor anyone??

The documentary is currently only playing in NYC. It opened today. We didn't buy tickets in advance. Big mistake. Who knew that the 9:30 showing would be sold out. Well, honestly, we should have. I mean it was showing in Chelsea and it is Vogue and Anna Wintour. We bought tickets for 10:45. By 10:11 it was sold out too. The gay boys and fashionistas love them some Vogue and Anna Wintour.

I must say I was thoroughly entertained. Anna Wintour makes or breaks fashion. Such power! If you liked The Devil Wears Prada, this is the real deal. Meryl Streep's character was loosely based on Anna Wintour.

I've always had a flair for fashion. Always a clothes whore. Living in New York it's fantastic to see the fashion walking down the street. On 57th Street you can window shop at Prada, Chanel, and Lacroix. Turn on to 5th Avenue and you can window shop at Versace, Tiffany & Co., Louis Vuitton, Gucci, Saks, and Bergdorf's. The list goes on. Those are the ones I know off the top of my head. It all makes me want to spend money. Money that should be in savings. Alas, savings wins most of the time, but not all of the time.

After the coffee/tea bar, the rain, the Basterds, and some more rain, The September Issue was like being wrapped in a cashmere throw. Familiar, comfortable, and cozy.