Solitary

"Of all the things I've lost, I miss my mind the most"

-Mark Twain (maybe)

Coming off another of those evenings--up from 1:30 to 3:30, totally unable to quiet the mind enough to return to sleep until I just sort of slid back into oblivion.

Now watching the steady traffic through the doors of Dunkin, folks in search of their latte and gooey pastry. So many great little family diners and bakeries here--why do they flock to this place?

Yesterday was sort of a bust, which leads to a reemergence of the black dog this morning. The prof cancelled Monday's partnership tax class after I arrived here Sunday, and I didn't see her email until I walked to campus yesterday only to find that I was the only one there, save one other unfortunate young man who seemed as miffed as I was because he's working two days a week while going to school, and the knowledge that she'll inevitably reschedule this class means calendar juggling for both of us.

My ire was a little more personal. P and I feel acutely these days apart, and I drove back on Sunday to make sure I'd be here for yesterday's class. My next class is tonight at 6:30. I could've spent yesterday in Corning, and been on the road this morning after a leisurely coffee. Instead, I've been here alone in this apartment for the last 40 hours, and am predictably starting to crawl the walls like Martin Sheen in his Saigon hotel room, waiting to go upriver to terminate Colonel Kurtz.

Worth noting that his breakdown finally happens after he tries to self-medicate his PTSD with a little day drinking. We'll avoid that today.

They say that whole scene was unscripted, as was Dennis Hopper's drug-addled journalist babbling a mixture of hagiography for Colonel Kurtz with a sprinkling of the Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. Absolutely amazing performances, in a movie so disturbing I wouldn't even consider having P watch it. Maybe for the good of both of us.

I grow old ... I grow old ...

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind?   Do I dare to eat a peach?

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

It wasn't that passage, but Eliot's poem sure feels like right now. Fading intellectual powers, fading productivity. I marvel now at how little I accomplish, while working continuously it seems. Things take so much longer now, all things. Or maybe time just passes faster than it once did. I can't keep up anymore, and my professional oeuvre reflects that fact.

Enough of all that. How about some photos of the last few days?

Friday after a makeup class and a Georgian dumpling with P washed down with a fine Georgian wine, we took the subway to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The sheer scale of the place is dizzying. One could spend months and never see and process it all.

Afterward we walked many, many blocks down the eastern boundary of Central Park to the King Cole Bar for a nightcap. I figured the place was an homage to Natalie Cole's father, but come to find out it's named for the whimsical mural of the nursery rhyme character behind the bar.

I had to look up the provenance of the art (no mysteries in the age of the internet), and found that it is an authentic Maxfield Parrish, painted in 1905. The expressive detail could carry a conversation that lasted the entire evening.

But alas, it didn't. At $35 a drink, we enjoyed the vibe and the art as much as we could afford, roughly forty-five minutes, then with a powerful yawn headed home.

The next day we were on the road by a little after eight, and found that Saturday morning is definitely the time to leave Manhattan. It took less than four hours to get to Corning, which allowed for leisurely prep of our paper crowns for the Corning No Kings protest.

This was our third organized finger in the Don's eye, and by far the lamest of the group. Our little town full of engineers and executives just doesn't know how to protest. Lots of speeches from the Centerway stage we couldn't understand, emphatically trying to convince the crowd of things they already believed or they wouldn't be there. After a few minutes Peg and I adjourned down the street to Hand and Foot for a cocktail and their wonderful pickle tray, watching late season flurries swirl outside the window.

And now I'm here.

The Dunkin traffic is subsiding a bit, although I know as a longtime resident they'll stay fairly busy all day. I'll sit here and create more legal drivel, study up for tonight's estate planning class, and try not to slide into Captain Willard's wild martial arts dance as I try to hold it together until I get to go home on Thursday.