On the way home, on the elevated section of the J, I am usually half-asleep; I make myself walk around for a few hours after work each day (if I have nothing to do) if only so that I don’t lose my connection to the city — to the intangible, one might say, noble, parts of the city: its streets, parks, crowds, lights. I like New York City best in the autumn (what’s left of autumn in an era of climate change) — and I imagine that both people feel the same. September is rambling month; golden and warm, renewed by the festival of the summer —I associate September with adulthood; it is a mature season that has not entered its decline. I know in a few months everything is liable (everything will and must) change — I will dread waking up and taking cold runs, cold showers, cold ways to the train; for now though, there is this delicious pause; this suspended moment of balance between extremes of heat and cold. And I realize, too, writing this, that I am really writing as a pagan in the modern city; desperate to remain connect to whatever natural cycles my body still recognizes. I wonder who else feels the same way? I wonder who else is seeking that same (re)connection?
