Matthew Gallaway

Let's Pretend that Things Are About to Get A Lot Better (Local Politics Edition)

Maybe there *is* hope for the planet, I thought while purchasing a 'vegan buffalo cauliflower wrap' at the Pittsburgh International Airport. I haven't seen actual numbers about this specific idea, but my sense from reading other articles is that if roughly 25 percent of meat dishes in the United States alone were replaced by vegetables, it would go a long way toward curbing carbon emissions. But according to the New York Times, there's almost nothing that the United States can do to curb global warming, and 'it is in some of the poorest countries on Earth that the battle to keep global warming at bay will be won or lost.' I found this perspective difficult to square with the fact that '[t]he top three GreenHouseGas emitters — China, the United States and India — contribute 42.6% total emissions, while the bottom 100 countries only account for only 2.9%.' I ate my wrap with a self-righteous vengeance. 

It was nice to get home after a week away. 

Clio, who has been spending most of her time in her new 'penthouse' was at first surprised to see me but then remembered that I had been gone.

'Oh, it's you.' -- Clio

On Wednesday, Stephen and I went to an art show at a nearby cultural institution. The art was mostly unremarkable, but the tiled floors were gorgeous. 

Our favorite exhibit was installed in a gallery in which recordings of an aviary were played over several rows of black wedges. 

We didn't realize at first that they were meant to be used as recliners. It was pleasurable and disorienting to listen to the missing birds. If the city cracked down on cars and mopeds, I thought, we could listen to real birds. 

The next morning, I went to my classic-rock dentist, where I was happy to hear 'Rocket Man' as the hygienist cleaned my teeth. There are so many songs (e.g., 'Born To Be Wild' which came on next) that I never want to hear again in my life, but there are a handful of Elton John ballads that still feel good (i.e., gay) to me.  

On the way to the dentist, I walked through Washington Square Park, which like much of the city these days was filled with people who seemed to need help, with housing or mental issues or whatever else leads someone to wander around in dirty clothes, muttering, in a daze. It's okay, I wanted to say to them as I focused my attention on the asters, Eric Adams is about to be indicted, and things can only get better from here. 

The Forgotten Hills Covered in Green (Notes on Pittsburgh)

I spent a week in Pittsburgh, where I was not surprised (but still dismayed) to see (many) more Trump signs than Harris signs. Between running errands, however, I managed to find an old hiking trail, where I saw no political signs at all.

According to the internet, this tunnel, over which the railroad passes, is more than 100 years old. It made me wish that more things were made of curving bricks these days. 

Beyond the tunnel, there was a hiking path with nobody hiking on it. 

There were fall asters in bloom. 

And contemplative graffiti: 'In every walk with nature, one receives more than one seeks.' It seemed like a lot of work to carve this into the cement barrier, but then again, it's an important message. 

Someone had left a memorial to a dog in the form of a message painted on to an empty spray-paint can: 'R.I.P. WORST DOG EVER. YOUR DIDDY MISSES YOU SO MUCH. SPLOOT DOES TOO. WE WILL TAKE A RIDE IN THE TRUCK FOR YOU LATER. DON'T YOU CRY TONIGHT.' It doesn't happen often, but sometimes make beautiful things out of nothing. 

Another railway trestle crossed over an ancient creek. 

This used to be the world, and now it's disappearing. Or maybe reappearing. 

More flowers to offer hope. 

The path was blocked by fallen trees. 

The hills were covered in green. 

DeathCulture@Sea (The Vermont Sessions)

Along with swimming with the loons, I went to Vermont to record a few songs with my old pals Mike Donofrio (from Saturnine and the New Year) and Matt Kadane (from Bedhead and the New Year). It's been a tough year with much loss and grieving, which I think is reflected in these songs, but recording them was a highlight, which I hope is also reflected in these songs. 

Here they are for your listening pleasure: 

'Circus of Life'

'Traces'

'SeaWaves'

 

 

Early September

It was nice to spend time in Vermont, but it was also nice to get back to the garden. The hardy begonias -- we have two varieties: pink and white -- continue to save us during what has often been a difficult time of year for a shady garden like ours. The Lychnis senno has also been a good addition, although its orange flowers only last a few days.  

I had spent a few days with some old friends in Vermont, and now that I was home, I continued to think about our jokes and conversations. We met in our twenties, and now thirty years had passed. We seemed pretty old when we were talking about our aches and pains, but time vanished when we were sitting on the deck, sipping tequila and telling stories punctuated by the calls of the loons. 

Time had never seemed more malleable. 

The afternoon sun descended through the leaves and apartment buildings to light up the garden for a few minutes. 

Somehow, the world -- its problems and its wonders -- felt very close and very far away. 

The Pleasure of Lakes (Notes on Vermont)

I arrived at the lake in time to watch the sunset, which quickly washed away the residual trauma of the automobile traffic I had endured while crossing through Connecticut. 

Earlier in the day, as I drove up the middle of the state along a highway bordered with fields of goldenrod, milkweed, and lush trees as far as I could see, I wondered if this region of the world had been spared the effects of global warming. When I made this observation, however, my friends informed me that the rains had become very intense over the past few years, and even when they didn't cause severe flooding, they led to a sopping landscape that made the mosquitos unbearable. Because of my New York City-centric view of the news cycle, I had forgotten about the floods, which in the past few summers have washed away big chunks of little towns. So the short answer was no, Vermont had not escaped climate change.   

In happier news, a pair of loons were raising a new chick this year. The father likes to patrol the lake with a calm assertiveness that can be a bit unnerving, even when he's just slowly paddling by and there's no risk of attack. Apparently, loons like to inhabit one lake per couple, although they will sometimes visit nearby lakes to gossip and discuss important matters. 

After the loon had passed, I went for a swim, diving into the deep waters from a dock. It was cold enough to take my breath away, but only for a second. 

The next day, Mike D took me on a bike ride around the area. None of the roads were paved, which made it feel safer; drivers tend to go slower on dirt roads. We stopped to admire a little house at an intersection known as the Shire, where the owners had installed a sunken garden next to a culvert. Fortunately, they had rebuilt the culvert a few years earlier, which had saved them from the floods. In many other places, the culverts are falling apart, a problem we agreed could be easily fixed with the same solution that could fix so many other problems: tax the rich and reinvest the money in public infrastructure. 

We passed lakes dotted with flowering waterlilies. The mountains continued to be very green in the distance as the sky turned from blue to gray and, after a bit of rain, blue again. Back at the lake, we went swimming while the loon kept an eye on us. 

'Don't fuck with me, bitches.' -- a loon in Vermont 

The next morning, the lake was covered with mist, which made it almost more beautiful, a dream.  

The shoreline hovered magically above the invisible water. 

I thought about our birch tree in New York City and wondered if it had regrets about spending its life so far removed from its natural habitat. 

The clover leaned toward the lake. 

Once again, I dove in and for a second felt weightless.

Late August in the Trees

The cool air arrived this week and for a few minutes I remembered what it felt like not to be hot. 

The flowers welcomed the change. 

The anemones were celebrating. 

As were a river of allium. 

The echinacea were fading, however. 

The oak-leaf hydrangeas looked relieved. 

The afternoon sun barely made it through the trees. 

Flowers around the GWB

The downtown skyline wavered in the August haze. 

Were the Canadian wildfires back? A few times over the past week, I thought I smelled smoke, or maybe it was just that I had read something somewhere that suggested that the smoke was coming back. It's hard to know anything these days. 

I stopped to admire a rose bush that's been growing along the banks of the Hudson for as long as I've been running here. 

I once bumped into an old college friend who lives on the Upper West Side. When he told me he liked to walk up to the bridge and take photographs, I asked him if he had seen the rose bush, and he nodded enthusiastically. It was like we were talking about a mutual friend. "I love that guy!" 

For years, near the base of the bridge, there's been a small triangle of land that has always been mowed (and sad). This year, the Parks Department transformed it into a small garden that's now bursting with brown-eyed susans and other flowers. 

It was nice to see an explosion of color where previously there had been a patchy brown lawn. I thought about my mother's garden, which is similarly overflowing with brown-eyed susans. 

I also thought about my fantasy of replacing a row of parking spaces on my block (and on every block) with a native perennial garden. Why aren't we doing this? 

A few spaces (maybe even one!) would be enough to start. This entire plot of land was probably no bigger than three or four parking spots. 

If I'm ever in a position to retire, I think this will be my cause. 

A Way into the Trees, and a Way Out (Queens Report)

After slogging through the remnants of Tropical Storm Debby for what felt like several hundred years, we finally woke up to sun, low humidity, and clean air in the city. 

In more good news, our grapes -- like every single one -- were eaten by a small flock of birds that had passed through the garden with the rains. In the past, I might have been annoyed to lose our harvest, but this year, I felt relieved knowing that I had been spared the task of cutting the grapes from the vine and happy that the birds had taken their fill. Not only did they eat the hanging grapes, but they also ate the ones that had fallen to the ground. It was like they held a big party and cleaned up after themselves. I want them to come back next year. 

The other piece of important news from the garden is that I can officially report that the trap we installed to combat the ongoing invasion of spotted lanternflies has been very effective. When we (meaning our tree service) nailed it to the trunk of the birch last spring, I was skeptical it would do much; after all, there are millions of spotted lanternflies all over the city, so I assumed that any we trapped in our garden would be replaced by others. But I'm happy to report that I was wrong; after catching two bags of juvenile flies, I have -- in contrast to last year, where they were everywhere (but especially on the birch and in the grapes) -- not seen any of the adults in our garden, although I've seen tons of them around the city. 

During a short break in the rains, I took Clio for a walk. We're a little worried that she's been grieving the loss of Zephyr. There's been a lot of death in 2024, and she is not immune.

Fortunately, she can console herself in her new penthouse apartment, which she continues to enjoy.

In less dramatic news, our 'moonlight' climbing hydrangea (Schizophragma hydrangeoides) is hanging on. 

The caladium are also happy in the heat and low light. 

They won't last through the winter unless temperatures stay above sixty degrees, which who knows anymore. 

I feel a little guilty about the annuals, but not guilty enough to stop planting them! 

On Monday, before the hurricane arrived, I went to Queens. 

It had been too long since I had seen my New Age psychic, and I needed a dose of 'love, success, and happiness.' Lol. I actually went to get my guitar amps tuned up, which is another kind of psychic journey. From what I can tell, there are only a handful of amp techs in the city, and none of them are easy to track down. I found myself calling guitar stores and scouring message boards from ten years ago, hoping to find someone in Manhattan. I finally emailed a guy whose card I still had from twenty years ago, and he was willing to look at my amps. He was still in the middle of Queens :( but I decided to go for it. He remembered my amps and, when he opened one of them up, he recognized the work of one of the other New York City amp techs. 'Did Blackie work on this?' he asked me. I said no, that I had bought the amp used in Kentucky while on tour in the 1990s, which led us to surmise that a previous owner of the amp had employed Blackie before selling it in Kentucky. Or there could be many other possible scenarios, given that the amp -- as the tech informed me -- was manufactured in 1965 and its speaker was made in 1967. Now that we were older, we spent time complaining about banks and marveled at the wonders of Zelle, which I used to pay him. 

While the tech worked on my amps, I walked around Queens. I traversed one of the most hideous highway interchanges in the world (the Grand Central and the Van Wyck) and explored a bird sanctuary at Willow Lake. 

It was a little eerie walking around a nature preserve bounded by highways. I wondered how many dead bodies have been dumped in these waters. 

But the plants were beautiful in the afternoon light. 

And I felt comforted by the ruins. 

Once, these paths were lined with elegant lampposts. 

Now, nature is taking over. 

There is a path into the trees, I thought, and there is a path out. 

The August Doldrums

On the way to pick up my guitars, which were being 'set up' by a guitar tech who miraculously lives within walking distance of me in Harlem, I passed a vacant apartment building, a remnant of the last phase of urban blight that marked the city (especially uptown and in the Bronx) from the 1960s through the 1990s. Having lived in New York City for more than two hundreds years, it's hard to remember a time when I felt like the city was sliding backwards as much as it is now. When we most need a mayor with the ability to reimagine life in the city, our current mayor is fixated on mandating garbage cans with lids (but only for small apartment buildings and houses) and selling anti-rat 'merch.' (The same can be said of our governor.) When are city residents going to have some representation in our local, state, and national government? Here's one possibility I read about (and support), although I'm skeptical of the ability of a third party to garner enough power to make significant change. 

 Maybe there's still hope, I thought, as I spent a few seconds enraptured by the dawn redwood trees growing out front.  

At home in the garden I found that our hardy begonias had started to bloom, which is a sign that fall is around the corner.

The garden is very lush this year, but it's been too hot recently to enjoy it for more than a few minutes at a time.

But those few minutes are valuable. Even when I know the temperatures will be unbearable, there's something beautiful about seeing the translucent leaves in the early-morning light.

The annuals we planted in the trough don't care about global warming, although like me they are shocked to realize that we could solve the entire problem by (as a society) driving a little bit less and eating a bit less meat. But those kinds of actions are too much for us (as a society) to consider, and so instead we're spending gazillions on 'solutions' like blocking out the sun and covering the ocean with tin foil or whatever.

At least Biden isn't running, although it's dismaying to see the media come to a consensus that Kamala's M4A position in 2020 was 'too extreme,' as if all of the same problems with healthcare that existed four years ago have been solved. I can't think of a single problem from 2020 that isn't worse now, but feel free to convince me otherwise in the comments!

But let's hope she wins, so we can keep praying for things to get better. 

 

 

The Last Flower on the Vine (Late July)

On Tuesday afternoon, before my appointment with the foot doctor, whose office oddly enough is located in the same building as my accountant*, I walked through Bryant Park. With a few minutes to burn, I stopped to ponder the shuffleboard courts. I thought about my father, who spent many years of his retirement enjoying the game, which perfectly suited his love for competition involving some skill and a high degree of luck. (Cribbage and poker are also good examples.) If he had been here now, we would have definitely played a few games, and I'm sure he would have enjoyed it. Unlike me, he was very good at 'living in the moment,' not getting caught up in arranging the details of his life like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that must eventually be fit together. I'm always on the hunt for meaning, which can be rewarding but exhausting. Not everything, I've come to realize, has to matter. 

*The kind of coincidence that does seem to weigh in favor of our lives being a computer simulation. 

After the foot doctor, I went to see my therapist. In many ways, I explained, it had been a hard year -- I had witnessed the death of my father, Zephyr, and one of my favorite trees in the park (oh, and most recently, our rare woodland peony) -- and the grief of these deaths had accumulated in ways that I was only fully acknowledging now that we were back from Lake Michigan and entering the summer doldrums. 

There was a lot happening in the world: Biden had finally stepped aside, the Olympics were about to start, and some smart people had finally filed a lawsuit against our horrible governor demanding that she reinstate congestion pricing. The wildfires were beginning. Something good was maybe on television.

There was a period of my life when I could have been very engaged in these events -- although it's been a long time since I've been able to drum up much enthusiasm for the Olympics, whose appeal largely faded as the international organization became so hideously corporate and ridden with corruption -- but everything felt distant. I was more interested in the last clematis flower on the vine.

The world outside was too chaotic to be contemplated. I knew that I was living in an aquarium -- or, actually, a terrarium -- but I had no desire to escape. 

I thought about Clio, who could not stop talking about her love of a little cat bed we bought for her that clips on to the side of the desk, allowing her to watch the monitor and relax at the same time. 

Why go anywhere if the pleasure you seek is right at home? 

The garden is forever beckoning.