SIX OTHER RUNNERS
Light rain turns to downpours. Go run around Central Park anyway in just a tank top and shorts. Soaked in five minutes. More walkers than runners, and one cyclist. As I run my body temperature evens out. It’s a trance. The water on the surface of my skin insulates me until the wind hits. The park is wet, empty and primordial. Autumn has yet to announce itself so everything is still lush and green. CNN sign in Columbus circle sign says 65 degrees when I get back to the YMCA. Steam and Sauna then more sauna. I’ve made acquaintances with a retiree who’s he asked about lunch next week. I can’t figure out if he’s one of these gay men in a marriage of convenience, or just a nice guy. Doesn’t matter.
LOCKER ROOM
“Where’s my motherfucking bag? You have athlete’s foot? I have plantar warts. You know what kills them? Duct tape. You wear flip-flops? I just go barefoot. You wear flip-flops and the water splashes on you anyway and it’s the same thing. Here, look at these motherfuckers. I have one here, and two here and one here and look at this, I have one on my motherfucking finger. What you do is you get some Aldara if you can get a ‘scrip and you slap that and salicylic acid on it and then duct tape on top. Good luck with your feet.”
THE MET
Eat a Sausage Hero. Museum of Natural History is closed. The Met however is open late on Fridays. New
show opened this week. Absolutely wonderful. My favorite painters: Renoir, Degas, Cézanne, Picasso, van Gogh and others I can’t spell nor remember correctly. I know what like. A wall display of brilliant editions makes me think Gig posters are nothing more than fine art with type. Do artists who create gig posters have vision without understanding their own context? Does the rock show give context to an idea that otherwise has no philosophy? Is it all just abstract?
Art restores, yet the large cibachrome
prints of New Orleans after Katrina are eerie and unsettling.
