Beautiful out this morning, the day just dawning, setting the lovely window panels alight, a triptych of woven screens embroidered in brown with abstracted mountains, flower petals, and a crisscross grid. The patterns are evocative, and I lose myself, become centered and soothed to gaze at them. Simple grace at the lower window, clear blue sky above. It's my last morning here.

Sipping iced coffee, trying to think what to say. Looking over my notes from the beach yesterday. But I won't set them down here because they're just random notes. They need a story or metaphor to coalesce.

The sanitation truck is outside, pickup day. A car whooshes past. I have circles under my eyes, since yesterday or maybe I've just noticed them. The soul written on the face. Intriguing concept. I read a great deal of vacuity, soullessness in too many people's faces. Demons read clearly on faces, such as those mean, twisted tea-party types. Psychotic America. Always has been, though it seems worse now. Media fans it.

***
I do not trust the Huffington Post. Wolf in sheep's clothing. It fans the flames. It does not try to change the message, the narrative. WKZE ("Radio Free Red Hook") on the other hand does. It is always - consistently and comprehensively - on a message of love, sustainability, and joie de vivre, e.g., remember - help people, don't hurt people; support local businesses, etc. It is actively helping to change the narrative, giving people an alternative, positive way to view themselves and the world, and - importantly - the very permission to do so. By contrast, Huffington Post thrives on ceaseless chaos and dissension, fanning the flames with its incessant uselessly blaring headlines that drop noiselessly to the bottom by the end of a day. It gives way way too much attention to the other side to be of any palpable good in changing the discourse. (If Sarah P. didn't get so much coverage - where would she be?) It gives the other side way too much credence. You got that Arianna? I do not trust you. You want it both ways (which is why I'm picking on you). You say one thing, and your online rag blares another, does not serve your purported message. Resolved: it's ultimately about you, isn't it? You with your disingenuous grin.

***
I am of very mixed mind as to whether or not to apologize for a rant.
So I will separate it out, at least, with asterisks.
Peace.

***
I wonder if Emily Dickinson ever glimpsed the ocean. I gather she didn't, but it seems like something she would have loved, been drawn to. I myself realized this week that of all the treasures the city has to offer what I wanted most to see was the sea. Where did I recently read that one doesn't have to have glimpsed the ocean to have a sense of it? Was it in Benfey's Emily Dickinson and the Problem of Others? I very much enjoyed reading it this week, including on the long rides to the beach. Wonderful, absorbing subway reading. Completely distracted me from Others on the train.

Gulls are bullies. Piping plovers are the cutest birds ever. They're tiny and run to and fro on quick little feet, racing to the water's receded edge and scampering frantically back as a wave rolls in to chase them up the sand. A plover managed to find a morsel of something - a clam or crab? - and flew off with a big bully gull chasing after it to try to snatch the morsel. It was just me and the birds on the vast, empty beach and I stood by the water shouting in vain for the gull to let the plover alone. The plover though many times smaller, with much smaller, fastbeating wings, managed to stay ahead of the powerful gull. So much energy expended by both just to hang on to the morsel, or to try to wrest it - the two flew madly up and down the shore, behind a jetty, out to sea and inland again for minutes on end. The gull finally gave up and the plover darted off to some rocks where I hope it was able to savor its hardwon scrap in peace.

There simply isn't enough food on that beach to sustain all those birds, some gulls big as dodos, like lumbering old men, and sweet antic plovers like sped-up characters in a silent film. Why are all the birds there, the gulls especially? They're so fat - what do they eat? Maybe the summer crowds fed them - but now, in September? They seem to live on hope. I ate a sandwich I'd brought (I'd packed a fine picnic lunch in style - turkey & avocado sandwich, sour pickle, chips, and fresh pineapple) and a gull (like the squirrel the other day) tried to endear itself to me, coming near and squawking plaintively. I had brought a piece of stale bread with me, which I scattered to an instant horde of gulls, and before I left they got some of my sea salt & vinegar chips too. Better the calories for them, than me.

Must run now, pack up, get ready to go. Kisses.