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it's a wonder anything gets destroyed
Monday, April 29 2013
location: West 17th Street, Chelsea, Manhattan
This morning I was waking up, Gretchen and Marissa got to talking and Mushy, the little toe-headed tow-headed baby was plopped down next to me. He's too young to crawl, though he can sit and explore things with his grabby little hands, which spent some time exploring my face. Mushy has a continuously-perplexed look on his face and he doesn't make much in the way of noises, so it's easier to assume somewhat more complicated things taking place in his head than are actually the case.
The big thing at Marissa and David's this morning was that they were hoping to get a contract for a bigger residence on the Upper West Side. Contract negotiations had already gone back and forth a few times, in a more intense version of the sorts of things that always happen in real estate negotiations. In this case, a slight change of fortunes could liberate or destroy hundreds of thousands of dollars, so we were all hoping for the best[REDACTED].
After returning our bags to our car, Gretchen and I went back to the Chelsea Market for a repeat of the carbo-rich breakfast we'd had yesterday. Back on 16th Street at our car, a spitting drizzle was falling from the sky and a contractor had dug a square hole deeper than a grown man in front of the Maritime Hotel. Other large trucks double-parked here and there down the street, making an obstacle course for anyone who wanted to use it for that. The streets are provisional in Manhattan and, as long as you're standing beside your vehicle and wearing a hard hat, you can usually get away with parking it anywhere and then proceding to destroy anything. But it's a wonder anything gets destroyed or built, because mostly all one ever sees such guys doing is standing around doing nothing.
On our way out of town, we parked provisionally in front of the Jivamukti Center and picked up the books, seed packets, and other things we'd left there last night. Gretchen was disappointed to have only sold about 30 books, and, worse still, only three of Susan's prints, but this seemed to be part of her overly-critical retroactive analysis of her book party.
We made it back to Hurley a little after 1:00pm. I'm usually exhausted after such a drive, and today was no exception. [REDACTED] The weather was still cool in Hurley, though most of the porcupine quills had been removed from Ramona's face. Gretchen found a few while petting her; they were the black ones, which were much easier to overlook than the white ones.
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