This blog is an attempt to learn how to describe light and colour in words. But it so happened that my first and maybe only trip to New York City happened to co-incide with a gorgeous, crisp, early-autumn morning. Sometimes the light speaks for itself, so here is a little photo-essay.
When I was 17 and Freddie Laker was in his pomp, I had a plan to use my Saturday-job money to take a £99 trip to New York City. I would fly out, walk the city for a day, then come straight home. No hotel. A few bucks for the subway and hot dogs. People told me that I was mad. New York in a day? Impossible. You'll die. Now New York in a day is a business-macho tick-box. Over the years I went off other people and my dream morphed into the same desire to visit remoter, lonely places. But now I'm fond of peoplewatching from some high castle or another. I'm at peace in a crowd. Two-score years later when it no longer matters to me, I finally made it. Did I feel that cartwheeling joy that I had anticipated as a boy? Not even a flicker. I felt precisely neutral about that initial step into the Big Bad City. What I wasn't prepared for was the rising flood of cultural references. Every corner turned brought a new song to mind, or a story of one kind or another and pretty much every one a warning of some kind. The city brought an unexpected, different kind of romance. Where Vegas is the sparkling domain of dark and hypnotic enchanters, New York is Mordor-on-Sea.
We passed Hackensack on the freeway to the New Jersey Turnpike. Newark Penn station for the Ironbound, Suzanne Vega to Tony Soprano in a single tannoy call. We were a group of unlikely gangsters, followed by a state trooper for a spell. Don't look in the trunk, I thought, you'll find a Tesco bag-for-life full of unwashed boxers. After that preamble, I had a dead day between two work weeks and that's always dangerous. I took the shuttle from my jaded airport hotel to the air-train and then to the proper train to Penn Station. In that underground warren I got lost and intimidated in a world that might have inspired The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway, with references all around her, from Times Square to Broadway. I finally emerging from what turned out to be the bowels of Madison Square Garden. That brought the memory of among other things, Jimmy Page performing wicked acts with a violin bow. Ali and Frazier slugged it out somewhere overhead. Marilyn Munroe sang happy birthday to JFK, a real Fairytale of New York. John Lennon's last major performance was here. Biblical trumpets sound and great towers and icons fall.
People in coffee shops were polite through gritted teeth. I think they wanted to be rude, but maybe they thought it would make me a happy tourist, so they weren't. There were derelicts with a curious state of mind dodging the traffic. There were mean-eyed cops in doughnut shops. I didn't get as far as Tom's Diner, or a walk on Madison Avenue, and I couldn't find a skateboard punk rocker but not for want of trying. I was surprised to find that the sad and lovely Kettering is a reference to an institution in New York and not the town on the A14. There was no buzz. Instead there was a turbine of movement accompanied by a fierce bassline which it will take me a while to process. I take pleasure in being alone in a crowd and in that one regard, New York City was an unfettered joy. Unlike Vegas, I may have to come back. There is some siren thing here, a hint of the Angel.
All of this made me realise that if I had landed in New York in my teens, intending to spend a day and fly straight home, I am quite sure I woild have lost myself and never gone home at all. In the end, at eighteen, I spent my Saturday job money on a fellwalking trip where I discovered heaven in the mountains and valleys of the Western Lakes. I would say that I never looked back, which is not true, but over the years that teenage dream has turned into a very different, lifelong yearning for a true spiritual home where, one day, I intend to fall asleep under a high crag and never wake up. Which would, it has to be said, be a more satisfying end than a desolate backstreet in New York City.
New York, USA | in Angel in the Scrapyard, USofA A curious, creeping change is coming in America. The first time I noticed it was at breakfast time in my hotel. The coffee was cold. Coffee is a big deal in Breakfast Time America. On a previous trip there was on one occasion no coffee at all and you would have thought someone had died. This time, though, was different. The lady who manages the breakfast-bar came out. She nodded and uh-huhed at the cold coffee situation and then insisted that she'd just changed it. Her colleague came and backed her up. Nevertheless, everyone agreed that the coffee was cold. I was fine, I was drinking the robust version which did seem to be hot and in plentiful supply. The milder version was the problem and then the decaff ran out. The serving lady uh-huhed again and walked away to get more from the kitchen at a speed that I can only describe as reluctant. After a few minutes, more decaff arrived. A little later, the other coffees were replaced. I'd never seen such reluctant service. It reminded me of a tired UK cafe on a bad day in the 70s.
It happened again. I ordered coffee in a museum coffee bar. The server scowled at me strangely but delivered me my coffee, took my money and conspicuously didn't say thank you. As I sat down a couple complained about the coffee refills on the side. The husband only spoke Spanish. The woman spoke good English. The server explained in patronising tones that her coffee was cold because she'd put creamer in last. She should have put creamer in first. She also had a colleague and her colleague also backed her up. For a time. As the lady explained that the second coffee poured using the correct procedure was also cold, the server started on a long explanation about how the coffee pot was fresh. At this point the husband was flipping the serving handle. No coffee was coming out. The second server discovered that she understood Spanish and started to chat with the couple. After a few moments she turned to the first lady, spat 'refill the damned coffee' and stalked away.
The coffee makers of the world have transformed many miserable days for me and so I place them on a special pedestal. It's sad to see service fading in this way. I suspect, but cannot prove, that it's a consequence of the war by the elites on underclasses of all kinds.
It seems that when I return to the USA, I often find angels whether I'm looking for them or not.
Visiting the heart of the Mid-West I figured that a good steak in a quiet bar would not be hard to find. I was not wrong. I ordered the barkeepers' recommendation and sat back at the bar to wait for my food. The barkeepers' name was Kimmy which Kimmy told me at least twice, clearly and carefully.
Kimmy.
Kimmy could have been in her late forties but the lines beside her eyes suggested closer to sixty. Her face had a still-evident softness. I say that because it was also care-worn. Her jaw was squared off, muscular at the sides and the lines in her face were few but deep. She had a carefully neutral expression, flat almost, from which a smile exploded from time to time. A long practiced and grooved smile not unlike the cooing of an old cuckoo-clock, slightly worn and rattling at the limit of its travel. She was blonde mixed with ash and silver. She reminded me of retired military women that I'd met who still worked in the military orbit. Straight and solid, with a well honed physique which would never go away. Around here, I imagined that she may have grown up working the land. Maybe she worked the bar to make ends meet in hard times. I decided that I might ask her, if I could find an opportunity without getting into all kinds of wrong-idea territory. I'm hesitant to start the tale by saying whether she was attractive or not, because that might also give the wrong idea. Instead, I'll say that her studied neutrality placed her at the perfect balance point between those two lethal pigeonholes. Perhaps they teach that in Barkeep 101.
A younger man approached the bar, looked at me, looked at Kimmy, looked at the Other Guy and sat down closer to him than to me, but closer still to the beer taps. He nodded at the Coors which Kimmy was already pouring. He was six feet tall and solid with a slack face and worn hands. Unlike Kimmy he was no longer solid. He sagged a little in his chair but not as much as the Other Guy. His physique was on course for a subtle rounding from a time when it was obviously square. He had tiny eyes which flickered a little in the tough facade. He turned to the Other Guy.
"Listen," he said and banged his forehead with his knuckle. It gave a dull metallic thud. "Whad'ya think of that?"
"Titanium?" Asked the Other Guy, breaking the word before the second 't'.
"Indeed it is titanium." He nodded. Stared at his beer.
"Iraq?" said the Other Guy. There was a long pause into which Kimmy poured loud squeaks from her ever dryer, ever cleaner glass.
"Sir, I wish I could say that but I surely did not. Hit a tree with my head is all."
The Other Guy nodded. He was almost bald, with an attempt at a comb-over. Perhaps he hadn't always been fully rounded but any youthful fitness had been thoroughly buried. He wheezed a little. The tops of his arms stretched the holes in his polo shirt. His neck strained the one done-up button. He wore his shirt tucked into his big belt and it spilled over the top of his big buckle in a way that was almost impressive. His belly stuck out and up, perhaps held up by muscle, or perhaps held up by several consecutive days of steak dinners. He was physically imposing, but his shoulders sagged like he was trying to duck under everyone's gaze and get to where the menu was at.
Kimmy polished a glass.
"I assume there was a windshield involved at some point?" Asked the Other Guy.
"There was a windshield. Didn't last long." Titanium man raised his fist and delicately, like a yoga move, flared out his fingers with a 'foooshhh'.
"Uhuh."
"And yes I'd had liquor before you ask."
"Wasn't gonna. Been there buddy."
"What's your name since you know mine?"
The Other Guy raised a bushy eyebrow, wrinkling a mess of corn-fed wrinkles in his own forehead.
"Arnold, since you ask."
"Bud."
"Ah, I getcha," said the Other Guy. "Bud. Buddy," he explained to Kimmy, who nodded and reached for another glass.
"Oh. Yeah I getcha," she said with a neutral, swirling ream of the bar-towel.
Bud was working his way manfully through his beer, so that by the time Arnold ordered, Bud was ready.
"Sure," said the other guy without being asked. "Get him one too Kimmy."
"You know K?" Asked Bud.
"K? We just met and she's kindly going to be bringing me steak and taters." He nodded at me. "What's he having?"
I was saved by the arrival of my steak. It also came with a side salad bearing a bowl of blue cheese dressing balanced on top. Then came, to my amazement, a plate of steaming green vegetables"
"Them veggies will kill you fella." Said Arnold. "Hold the veggies and double the ranch, K."
"Kimmy." Said Kimmy.
"Alright then K K Kimmy. Don't burn it like his. Show it some flames till it's stopped its mooin' and started boo-hooin'."
"I gotcha." Said Kimmy.
Bud leaned in. "He's having French fries? He's not from here."
"He don't appreciate a loaded baked potato," replied Kimmy. "But I ordered him some anyway."
I raised my glass in salute.
"Drinking wine too, I see," said Bud, with a touch of contempt. "I been to England. I was in Hannover for two hours in 98. Can't say I could hear a word out of that accent."
"That happens a lot," I said and set about my steak in what I hoped passed for a manly fashion in these parts.
*
Bud turned as Arnold's steak arrived. So did two more beers.
"Thanks, Arny." He chinked their glasses together. "Did I mention I been to county?"
Arnold's fork shivered for a moment and then continued on its way. Blood ran down the tines.
"Nope." Said Arnold as he chewed. "You surely did not mention that."
"Yes sir. Can't say I deserved it but the cops had it in for me. But, well, full disclosure and all."
"Uhuh. Appreciate it."
"A year in the hospital. Another year doing rehab and they came for me when I could stand properly again."
"Tough break."
"Uhuh. Two plates in my head actually. Repair jobs on four vertibras. Ribs. All kinds of stuff. Damn near took my knee off too, but hardly noticed."
Bud stared into his puddle of suds.
"We'll take another. You want one stranger? I ain't payin for wine though."
"Thanks but I'll pass," I said. "Long day tomorrow."
"I find it helps personally," said Bud, "with the long days and all." He turned back to Arnold. "Wanna know why I went to the big house?"
"He's going to tell you anyway," said Kimmy.
"I reckon so."
"It was on account of the other person hit the tree. She didn't make it. Big tree. Little person."
Arnold's fork stopped for good this time.
"Really."
"Yeah. They said it was my fault."
"Was it?"
Bud turned toward Arnold. Arnold was taller, in fact, but Bud dominated him.
"As a matter of fact it was, truth be told. That bother you, Arnie?"
"Arnold. As a matter of fact, it does, truth be told, Bud. How small was this person?"
"Five years old."
"Five."
Kimmy picked up another glass and polished it again. It shone like silver.
"You eatin' that?" Arnold slid his plate over and Bud started to eat the steak. Blood pooled in the corner of his mouth. "Anyway, wanna know why we she's called K?" Bud paused, scanned eyes, but not Kimmy's. "It's her stage name."
Kimmy stopped polishing the glass and put both hands on the counter-top, leaning in, but not saying anything.
"Kimmy is too long to chant see? K-K-K. That was her stripper name. She had some moves I'll say that."
Arnold's gaze turned to Kimmy and took an altogether more liberal and convoluted path as he re-appraised her.
"Well that hit the spot," said Bud, "I'll get my check."
"Sure."
Facing the till, she had to cancel and correct whatever keys she was pressing a number of times. Her jaw was set, but the steely eyes weren't so steely.
Bud and Arnold left at the same time, but not together.
"Shall I get your check too?"
It didn't sound like a question.
"Thanks, Kimmy."
She gave me a gracious, wounded smile which left me emptier than the big deserted bar.
USA | in Angel in the Scrapyard, USofA A couple of years ago, I seemed to spend a lot of nights in London on different trips, as though some strange harmonic had imposed itself temporarily on my life. Indeed, I haven't spent a night there since. A few weeks ago I left the Night Planted Orchard in the grips of February warm spell and headed for Minnesota. Minnesota was deeply cold. Cold and dry to the point that the night air scratches at your scalp and stings your lungs. There was deep snow on the ground and the temperature never rose above minus five centigrade. Long icicles formed all over the car, a thing I don't recall ever seeing in the fens.
I came home expecting to find spring. Instead I found it equally cold. Unnaturally cold for England. We had the same snow on the ground. The air scratched at me and burned me when I took a breath. Icicles grew on the car. It was as though I had physically moved from one place to another, but someone had forgotten to change the weather.
A most strange symmetry.
