The warm weather continues through the last days of December in New York City. These were taken in Central Park on the same day. One of the koi pond in the Conservatory Garden, the second of the hill where we stop sometimes to rest before rounding the last stretch of bridle path to 90th Street. I suppose this format has become archaic and I should be posting these to Instagram or Twitter but it seems too much bother. I like it here, writing to no one and everyone without the possibility of “likes.” It can’t be good for anything to have each tiny portion of your creative output approved or acknowledged. I don’t need to know what the world thinks every minute. It isn’t helpful and this is not just my opinion but common thought — or used to be.
The days have been running together since the semester ended. I took on too much with teaching and a full course load, and tutoring too. I’ll try to go easier next semester. Sometimes I wonder what I am doing it for, going to school, though it does fill the days with new things to learn and I think it is helping me to become a better writer, although not in the way I imagined it would. Like everything else, it seems to be just the doing — the doing and doing and doing — that makes one a better anything. No one can tell you how. Or that’s been my experience with playing music and singing too. I can’t imagine that I’m alone in this. We teach ourselves really and it takes time.
Speaking of music, I’ve started a couple of new songs recently and wonder about them. They seem to lack something I used to find easily, an emotional center, an emotional motor. They have pretty melodies and are connected to my thoughts and memories as they always have been. I don’t know what this means, but my early obsession (when I was a young teen,) about why the songs of musical artists I liked weren’t as good as they got older, seems a premonition, a personal prediction. (I can remember thinking about this for the first time at my grandmother’s house in Fort Lauderdale. I must have been about thirteen.)
I have the month of January off and am looking forward to writing and reading, sleeping and cleaning. Unstructured days are the greatest luxury in my opinion. I’ve had more than my share of them — practically a lifetime’s worth. It has been an adjustment to conform to a schedule, although I see its appeal. There is freedom in a lack of freedom — you don’t have to invent your days, only show up for them. Since classes ended on the 17th, I have watched all ten hours of “Making a Murderer” on Netflix. I have read (or am reading): “The Empathy Exams” by Leslie Jamison, “Dear Mr. You” by Mary-Louise Parker, “10:04” by Ben Lerner, “M Train” by Patti Smith, and others. My stacks are beginning to take over the apartment and I will get rid of some books, donate them to Housing Works, along with clothing I intend to cull from my over-stuffed closets, before the end of January. But this morning I sit here writing this, surrounded by dog and cats, drinking a huge mug of black tea, and enjoying the sunshine after a few days of rain. Before the week is out, it will be a new year.