It’s hot. I’m annoyed at the people wearing too much. Girls in long slip dresses walking their dogs wearing knee-high cowboy boots of fake leather make my shins sweat just looking at them. I passed a short woman with a gymnast’s build yesterday walking down Essex in the full sun wearing a sports bra, long leggings, and a nylon bomber with her fists stuffed into the pockets. She didn’t even have the dignity to show her discomfort on her face. She looked fine. But her jacket was unacceptable. It was 90 degrees—a downtown NYC in July 90.
I stepped out today in an appropriate ensemble (shorts, tank, sandals). The wind was blowing. Storms were supposed to come later. They haven’t yet. But the wind blows upwards of ninety degrees, like heat escaping an oven. It’s just more heat that moves. And the trees sway and it sounds like fall but the leaves are all green. I feel a little bit of an itch for fall, but it’s full summer and it’s full heat and it feels even hotter than it is, even though the sky is a sparkling blue and the air looks clear. I’ve closed every window in my apartment to keep it cool and it does; cool and stuffy. It smells a little like sleep. Like this morning’s coffee. When the windows are open, the rooms smell sweet, like flowers.
I’m sitting alone on a bench at the wine bar. It’s a pretentious kind of place but it’s all I have access to and it’s too hot to explore any further. One glass costs more than a bottle should. No table service. This is the way things are: overpriced, aesthetic and shallow, impractical and stuffy. But here I am. I guess there is something I like about being here alone. Like I’m not really a patron, just an observer disguised as one, here just to judge.
I figure I’d have to be richer, sluttier, younger, or at least more energetic not to think New York is boring this time of year. People come visit from better places and can’t believe how great this city is, and that always catches me off guard. Don’t you know that where you came from is far greater? That sounds cynical. Maybe it is. Maybe I just need to take an elevator and find a better view. I live on a tree-lined street and I can never see the sky very well. I’m not complaining. It’s just that I’m always walking through the same park down the street, or looking out my window on the third floor. Maybe I need a 65th floor view-scape. Maybe I need a bigger park. Maybe I need a different wine bar. This boredom though, I think it fuels me. It makes me contemplate things I usually don’t. Nothing deep—I just start to notice things I wouldn’t have otherwise. I’d give you an example but now my mind is a blank. I’ll try again soon.