I like walking around my neighbourhood and imagining the conversations between people that went into deciding whether the building is blue or whether there should be green trim on the windows of the cream building on the corner. How many times has it changed, and how many paint samples acquired?
I like thinking about the interactions between the people who decided to say to the world, in capital letters (the written version of shouting): NO SOLICITORS, aka get the fuck out of here. I imagine the trip to Home Depot to get the sign, to nail it in and stand in front of it — the tenant’s arms crossed, letting the neighbourhood know they mean business. I even imagine the conversations between the people who put really distasteful, overdone numbers on their doors. I especially like thinking about the artistry and care that went into the beautifully etched number 429.
I like thinking about when it was that a building started to become slightly dilapidated and in need of a revamp. And who decided to replace the gutters, and what kind of care went into it? Who was called, and who came to do the job? Did people get to stay, or did they have to leave? Whose lives have stayed, and whose lives got left behind?
I like walking in my neighbourhood through the tall sunflowers that live on Clinton Avenue and wondering where they got their seeds from, what made them decide to plant sunflowers and the other flowers in the garden, and when it started. Do they change the flowers every year? Do they colour coordinate with their neighbours? What kind of joy does it bring them to have their hands in the earth?
I like passing the prewar gem on Lafayette and thinking about who decided to put the ornate lamps in front of the building. And when did it happen? How much history have they seen?
I like looking at the ivy crawling up the blue-doored red building and the flowers that surround it after the rain, vibrant and bright. I like the tall oak tree sitting in the middle of Brooklyn across from a sign that says ‘Please don't pee on me’ stuck into the grass. I like passing the co-op building on and thinking about the inevitable tiffs that people have from being in a co-op building. The minor disagreements and major rows. I like imagining these interactions because for each and every decision, there were people consulted, there were conversations had, and there was effort put in. There are relationships. There was love present.
I like passing by the tennis courts and thinking about the generations of kids who have played on them. What are those kids doing now?
I like, in high summer, passing by the window units of air conditioning whirring away way, a New York summer staple for at least as long as I've been alive. I like seeing the people playing basketball in the playground and the woman who says hello to me even though she doesn't know me. She's probably never seen me. The guy who always smiles and says, ‘Hello, beautiful.’ To which I say, ‘Hi, how are you?’ with a slight sigh, as so many of us do. To which he replies, ‘All the better for seeing you.’
I like thinking about the lives here. The many, many, many lives that are being lived as I stroll through my neighbourhood. I wonder who's having conversations from the other room. What are they about? Whose worries whisper through the air? The ‘What are we making for dinner tonight?’ exchanges. The jokes between lovers. The passive-aggressive comments between roommates. The kids who have yet to do their summer reading. I like thinking about all the lives here, which makes the air taste so much sweeter with the arrival of autumn’s grief.
I like walking through my neighbourhood at twilight at the end of summer, knowing that our days are numbered. We won’t feel this intense heat for much longer. The darkness will soon set in. For now, summer’s bloom is still here — laying low, humming along and pumping us with her nectar, for just a little while yet.
This newsletter is free. To support my work, consider becoming a paid subscriber.