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Connecticut R & R

6/14/2010

1 Comment

 
Picture

   When I was a freshman at The University Of Georgia the library had a video center on the 8th floor (it was a haven). You could choose a vintage (or new) VHS, a television of your own, and with earphones (the big kind) entertain yourself. It was here that I first saw the Cary Grant/Mynra Loy comedy Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House (1948) and was introduced to the novel predicament of the New Yorker. What starts as the dream of anonymity and possibility with the big city at some point is turned on it's ear and one is dreaming of escape: the country. In the movie Cary, his wife and two teen girls brush their teeth over one another and squeeze around their tiny Manhattan apartment until they have had it.   As all roads point to a beautiful new suburban home in Connecticut, hilarity ensues (if not quite at screwball speed), and calm is restored.  Now that I am grown up and have paced the 1919 wood floor of a studio in Queens myself for 10 years I too now find myself in Connecticut with my partner on the weekends. Some thoughts.

4:30 am

Racket. It all starts out so beautifully. I usually go to bed by 10 or 11pm on a Saturday night if we don't have plans. The condo bedroom faces dark green woods. Population here is sparse. In Spring and Summer a cool breath emanates from the trees. It is very very dark. The smallest noise makes an impression, yet invariably this will be a twig drifting to the ground. It is Mr. Blandings' dream : deafening silence and calm. I unwind from the honk honk siren salsa salsa cha cha cha of nighttime in Queens. I begin to settle in for a long 10 hour rest – hey, I average 7 in NY now. I drift away. And then it happens. I am awakened by the din of flocks and multitudes of undetermined species of birds twittering, squawking and socializing like maniacs. This is a meet and greet from hell. I don't think I have heard more noise at Tea Dance in Provincetown on Fridays at 6pm (look it up). It is the Colonial version of noise pollution. I now know how Betsy Ross felt and why Thoreau died young. I find myself wanting to scream shut up but it is pointless. The birds are having one hell of a good party. I know they are not working; I know that what they are doing is gossiping. Isn't this why I left the city? I roll over and try to find my sleep rhythm but I am robbed of at least an hour of good rest. Please Lord make it stop. There was less sonic boom in the Dolby theater version of Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome. I am in hell. Somehow I drift back off and poof by morning all is normal. 

11:00 am

Ramble. My boyfriend is a hiking enthusiast and so I join the birds once again. There are (I am learning) hundreds of parks with trails to hike in Connecticut. We started doing this together five years ago and it is a nice workout. If we go to a famous one called Steep Rock the hike is up. The terrain is rocky and full of pines and gnarled roots underfoot. There are some beautiful things to see and experience here: amber light in the pine forest, soft needles underfoot, a small hush, and a deep earthy smell. Down below is a river with a rapid current and white spray. When I am hiking I find myself uncoiling from a city attitude. Instead of being present and watching the sidewalks for spaces to rush ahead of the rushing crowd I let my mind wander and eventually become completely thoughtless. I am only panting up a hill and quietly slipping over the rocks and roots. I am clumsy so I stumble from time to time but this becomes part of a greater rhythm. What happens is another kind of anonymity, a new kind of possibility. I just go blank for a little while and forget about myself. I have the benefit of the boyfriend ahead, sussing out the blue hash-marked trees to follow our trail (two hashes mean abrupt turn) and I just go with it. It is a peaceful thing.  At the top we sit on a boulder that overlooks a wide vista and eat our sandwiches.  All is quiet.

People tell me I have the best of both worlds and the truth is that I do. I have thought of abandoning NY for the country just like Cary did but the oddest thing happens when I pull into Grand Central on Monday mornings: I breathe a sigh of relief. Connecticut's woods aren't the only wilderness. There is another freedom in the city. It has it's own rapids but I know how to navigate them, and I don't think at this point I could choose. I just switch mental gears, grab my bag and head into the gorgeous human traffic. I bob, I weave, I look at the faces as they blur by and then stop for a freeze frame. I am anonymous here as I travel on foot. As my mind amps up and my spirit relaxes I accept that there are more ways than one to be yourself and I need them all.

But one day those birds are gonna get it.

1 Comment
(Archived Comments)
3/5/2012 01:08:12 am

Patty H

Mon, 14 Jun 2010 12:37:03 pm

so great - thx for the laugh (those damn birds are gossiping!). and pls tell Dick that i am also a hiker - so much that drew is kinda sick of it. we need to make a hiking date soon (gotta get this baby started early) :).

Diane

Tue, 15 Jun 2010 10:49:57 am

I really love the parallels in this: the things you love and hate about the city & the countryside. Nice reference to a classic, too. Please comment on the media you used for your complementary artwork. It looks like a photo-painting meld. You look rather ghostly in the drawing. Was that intentional? I guess you were haunted by "The Birds."

Mark

Tue, 15 Jun 2010 11:18:48 am

Hey Diane -

Yes, I definitely live in parallel worlds...I have come to resist trying to reconcile them. The art is done in Corel Paint on the computer on top of a cell phone shot from a hike...and I am a bit of a ghost at 4:30, when the birds rule the roost. I am part of their world. Thanks so much for reading! Mark.

Gina

Wed, 16 Jun 2010 5:06:43 pm

Lovely piece. I adore the country, and need it, but I always love getting back to New York. Never fails - my heart just starts to race when I see it. Bird racket is one of my favorite things! I am an early riser/periodic insomniac so I feel like I have company when I hear them.

Kari

Fri, 18 Jun 2010 10:10:22 am

Another great piece, Mark! I can totally relate to the 4:00 a.m. birds--we have the same here in Boston and they are crazy making. How can there be so much to say so early in the morning?

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    Mark Lindsey is an artist and writer formerly from the streets of New York City and now residing in the forests of Connect-icut.  He likes it there. 



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