Will not miss Nan Goldin

Returned the keys to 18 Bridge.

Will not miss Nan Goldin and her admirers/interns smoking on the front steps in such a way that precludes others from entering the building, they must reach over her to punch in the code that opens the door, holding their breath until the robot voice says "Door open" in a British accent.

Will not miss the crowds of tuxedos and lace-edged dresses descending onto the party space next door, and later when the party gets loud or boring, smoking in huddles on the sidewalk while the bored valets on the curb scroll their phones. Does everything come down to smoking? Probably, yes.

Will not miss the cobblestones, not the new ones made to look old, and not the old ones they left as a reminder, museum embedded in the ground.

Will not miss side-stepping dog what? what is the word that will convey my rage? Someone has graffiti'd: "My master does not pick up after me." In a very expensive zip code, the streets smell of dog no matter how much water is run, whether from a hose or a nor'easter. Last week small green placards appeared at internals along the curb on Water Street: "A new tree will be planted in this location." Thank you? Thank you, yes, every tree a step in the right direction, a late step, a slow step, but still, might offset the stink.

Will not miss the Con Ed power plant they were promising to dismantle ten years ago, still it lumbers, its prison-like gates creak open to admit a truck here and there,

*

Blew my nose this morning and was instantly transported to the bike shop. And momentarily confused, until I remembered this box of Kleenex sat on your desk, in case anyone cried during a fitting. Just kidding, I don't think anyone cried, but people told of divorces and deaths and surgeries and other traumas, and showed pictures of their kids. I framed you a photo of our cat, so she could watch over you, and remind you to come home.

Home, now full of bike shop, and car still full. You worked wonders of geometry in the garden shed, fitting more things in there than I ever thought possible, but still, there's overflow, and it rains every other day, so leaving it in the yard Arkansas-style is not an option. So now a final push, ferrying things to the basement, out of sight, out of mind, to process later.

If money were no object, you would have saved just enough that you could re-start the business later if you wanted to – the LLC, the name, the website, email, phone number, the tools. Big if.

(You don't know if you'll want to, and if yes, what form. Questions for future you.)

But money object is, so you saved things you are sure you can sell. eBay listing a kind of winter project, like quilting.

*

I dreamt a woman to the busy bike shop and asked for a wedge of lemon. She returned it hours later, saying it had no flavor.

"Okay," I said. "I'm sorry it wasn't good. I’m not a grocery store, I just gave you this bit of lemon from the staff kitchen."

"I know," she said.

"Why did you bring it back," I asked. "Why didn’t you just throw it out?"

"I guess to have another human interaction," she said.

NEWSY STUFF

I am so jazzed for the A Public Space writing retreat at Kaatsbaan in just two weeks! I'll be taking a workshop with Jo Ann Beard (!!) and I'm looking forward to conversations with other writers and also some quiet time on the page, or in the fields if the weather is good. (Please, weather, be good!)

Divinity School • a letter every Sunday at sunset • if you’re always looking, after some time you’ll have seen