Matthew Gallaway

Sunday Chores

Today was a 'landlord' day, which meant Stephen and I had to 1) put out glue traps because there may or may not be a mouse in the tenants' apt, 2) change the light bulb in the 'security light' outside the front door, and 3) fix the drain pipe, which had fallen over during the storm a few weeks ago, causing water to leak inside one of the rooms.
Stephen took take of item two, while I tackled the first and third. After setting out the mouse traps, I went to the roof, where I paused to take an aerial shot of the garden.
The roof of the house next door -- which has been abandoned for at least thirty years -- was filled with a strange mix of junk and moss.
After reattaching the fallen drainpipe to the upper gutter with some screws, I tied the bottom of the pipe to the wall using an old string of Christmas lights I found on the roof next door.
One thing I've learned in owning a house is that it's sometimes possible, and even advisable, to make repairs that are not meant to last forever; in this case, we will probably hire a 'handyman' to make a more permanent fix in the near future, but for now, this seemed to more than do the trick, since the only purpose of the string was to hold the bottom of the pipe flush against the wall during a windstorm. (We'll see!) 
This done, I decided to take a few shots of the interior of the vacant house, which as you can tell has been completely destroyed.
Still, there was something beautiful about the light slanting through the ceiling beams, and if nothing else, much of the garbage in the interior had been hauled away last year by someone who was supposedly going to renovate the house, but eventually disappeared.
At one point near the end, the contractor -- a gregarious and very macho man originally from Pakistan (and who seemed shocked that Stephen and I were more than business 'partners') -- came by to see how things were going and did not believe it when Stephen told him that the roof had not been completed, as the contractor had apparently expected. It did not take Stephen more than a few moments to make his case. Real estate in uptown Manhattan, I've learned, is something that can defeat even the best of intentions; there's no logic to it, so it's pointless to ask how or why anything was or wasn't done. The only certainty is that time will pass and all of these once-beautiful (and functional) structures will crumble into dust. 
As if to symbolize this idea, there was a dead bird on the roof, which I threw into the vacant house for the rats to eat. I remembered a few weeks ago, when I saw a pair of hawks in the same day, and how my friend J___ told me that this was an exceedingly good omen; I hoped that finding this dead bird did not portend some kind of disaster. 
I looked in the other direction and decided that -- with perhaps half of the houses on my block refurbished and maybe only four completely uninhabitable -- I was being unduly pessimistic.
Back downstairs, I said hello to the ponytail palm and Christmas cactus, who will soon be joined by a 'lady palm' that a friend is giving up for adoption. I think they will be happy for the company.
In the garden, I felt even more cheered by the recent reappearance of the afternoon sun after several months in complete darkness. Though the air was cold, the light clearly foretold the coming of spring.
On Broadway, an old apartment palace seemed to stretch up into the sky, as the pigeons and plastic bags turned circles in the wind.
The shadow of a tree grew long across a window that no longer held any glass.

The Part About Tulum

Today I was reading a post in Emily Magazine in which Emily considers the question of why ppl blog and then goes on to describe a rather harrowing experience near Tulum, where she was recently on vacation and witnessed a young child get hit by a car.
Reading the post, I was reminded of a trip Stephen and I took to the 'Maya Riviera' in the winter of 2003, or almost seven years ago. We have always found it difficult as a 'gay cpl' to travel on 'chill-out vacays,' because while we are generally reluctant to go to a resort that caters to non-heterosexuals (cue club music), we are even more reluctant to book a trip to places (resorts or otherwise) that cater to non-homosexuals, i.e., 99.9 percent of the populated world. Consequently, we tend (or tended, since this was during an era -- long since passed, RIP -- when we had money to do this sort of thing) to book houses in the middle of nowhere, which is what we did in Mexico, where we stayed about 20 miles north of Tulum in a ridiculously large mansion on a private bay. 
In many respects, the house was perfect; it offered 'world-class' snorkeling just outside our back door, it was large and airy and walking distance from a quirky hotel filled with ex-pats and foreigners, including a boozy, wrinkled woman who I immediately recognized was from Pittsburgh based on her strong accent. There was a even a fresh-water 'cenote' nearby, one of the inland, freshwater caves where you can also go snorkeling.
It's difficult to say whether at the time we were cognizant of what in retrospect of a disturbance often seems like signs that something was 'wrong'; whether it was the armed guards who patrolled the beaches at night carrying machine guns, the silent gardener and housekeeper who would materialize to tend the property, the extreme if not unexpected poverty in evidence as we drove to Coba, the ruins of city that had once, at the height of the Maya Empire, been as large as the city of Los Angeles, and which is now buried under the voracious jungle, or even the desolate feeling I would get swimming out to the reef, perhaps 800-1000 yards offshore, looking back to see Stephen (who is not a strong swimmer) sitting on the shore, no bigger than a dot, or -- if he had gone inside to nap -- nobody at all.
What is certain is that I spent most of the week working on (but not backing up) the manuscript to a novel I had started perhaps a year or so earlier, a novel based on opera and 9/11 and some other things that had been churning through my mind at the time. What's also certain is that on the last night of our trip, Stephen and I were watching a DVD on my laptop, and after going downstairs for not more than five minutes or so to get a drink, we returned to the bedroom to find the computer gone, along with my backpack and a few other things (thankfully not our passports, although they were in plain view because we had taken them out to pack).
There is nothing quite like being the victim of a crime in a remote part of a foreign country to understand the meaning of futility; our immediate impulse was to run outside, as though we were going to chase down whoever stole the goods, but then it dawned on us that a more rational response was to stay in and lock the windows and doors; after all, we were unarmed and the last thing we wanted was a confrontation with someone who was. But then we felt trapped, uncertain if the robbers might come back for more, given that they had obviously been watching us for at least several hours, and perhaps several days before that.
After a sleepless night, we returned home, feeling both lucky to have visited such a beautiful and haunted part of the world and unlucky to have been victims of a crime (but again lucky that it had not been 'worse.') The only thing I lost that was irreplaceable was a week's worth of work on the novel, which I like to think in retrospect was a blessing; the truth is, it probably didn't matter because I subsequently revised the story into something very different and a week of lost work was only a small percentage of the time that went into it). In any event, back in the city, I told my friends about it, who as expected expressed their condolences and shared their own stories about traveling abroad (or not traveling) and the similar types of mishaps that had befallen them.
It's probably true, as I think about it now, that most of the people I considered friends at the time have since disappeared from my life, for reasons that are beyond the scope of this post. Part of me wishes that I had been blogging at the time, so that I could go back to search for clues, not so much about the trip to Tulum, but the subsequent fractures that would lead to the permanent end of so many relationships I had once valued.
Blogging, it seems to me (and I speak only for myself, obv), is just another way to tell our stories, with the hope to understand where we have been and -- with any luck -- tell us where we are going next.

Friday Tunnels Through the Past

This morning everything appeared frozen against the perfect blue sky. (Also it was very cold out!)
It's a time of the year when the tree branches resemble gnarled fingers reaching for the warmth of the sun, belied by the still frigid temps. I wanted to avoid the 'furniture' sign in this shot, but failed to do so; such are the small disappointments in life.
I was more successful in the attempt to capture the long shadow of the fire hydrant.
Turning the corner, I was greeted by a group of revelers, laughing and running crazily in circles, as they are so prone to do when the wind picks up in Washington Heights.
A nearby building stood serenely by, framed magnificently by the azure sky.
In the subway, I was intrigued by the sewer grate; I thought about the massive tunnels currently being constructed deep under Manhattan, which are the largest construction projects in the history of the city. It seems strange that we as a culture are capable of building such huge and complex structures even as the smaller ones seem to constantly crumble around us, often to our detriment.
In midtown I enjoyed the sight of the sun reflecting off another 'grande dame' and remembered having attended a 'happy hour' on the rooftop last summer; sadly it's not a place I can recommend, unless you like to envision yourself as fitting in perfectly with a certain clientele of Midtown Manhattan bars that could probably be featured (were they just a bit younger and slightly more 'beautiful') on an MTV reality series called 'The City.' I thought about how this part of midtown has been described by one of my colleagues as a 'cultural wasteland.' 
Still, as I walked along 35th Street, I could not help but admire the 'invisible hand' of Adam Smith at work. At lunch I went down to Union Square to meet my friend Annie. In the subway station, I passed through the tunnel of 9/11 stickers, one for each of the victims.I can't imagine a better way to commemorate the essentially fleeting nature of all life while paying tribute to the senseless waste that day will always represent.  

Which is not to say that it's without serious imperfections, at least as it has evolved in the years since it was installed.
I found something particularly moving about seeing this in such a functional space, where people are traveling from one place to another (another metaphor for 'life,' obv).
Without the superimposed formality of a museum or more traditional memorial, I find that no matter how often I see it, I'm caught off guard, and forced to seriously think about what happened and why, and feel true sorrow for those people whose names are listed on this infinite line of slowly disintegrating mailing labels. 
Above ground, Union Square bustled with the green market, which made me a 'lil jealz' because there is nothing like it where I live in Washington Heights. (We had one a few summers ago, but they didn't come back; as everyone knows, 'the poors' eat a lot of sugary, processed crap and don't deserve the kind of expensive organic produce available at these markets.)
I saw a few bikes, which made me think of the hundreds and possibly even thousands I saw last winter in Munich; I regretted that New York is not a very 'bike-friendly' city.
Sometimes this city -- at least in Manhattan -- just seems too big for something like bikes. (Or one some level, even ppl.)
Back in my office, time passed.
I was reminded that here under the sky, at least for these few seconds, we are all the same.

Thursday Skies

Today I wasn't expecting to wake up to snow, but there it was! I couldn't even see the bridge.
Zephyr seemed ready to play, even though I was headed out the door. (Sigh.)
Outside it was snowing heavily, but it wasn't the kind of snow that sticks -- it just made things a lil slippery.
The walk to the subway was quieter than usual, which I appreciated.
I arrived at work, where the Empire State Building was also obscured by the fog.
But then at lunch, just a few hours later, I went back outside to find the streets perfectly clean; it was as if the snow had never fallen and -- had I not taken pictures -- I might have thought I had dreamed the entire thing.
Later in the day, the sky clouded over again, but a low winter sun gleamed through in the distance. It was just like a sky I had seen many years earlier in Montreal, which I noted at the time -- this when my band was on tour -- because I had dreamed about it the night before. (I had no such dreams last night, however.)
The Empire State looked beautiful in the darkening blue sky, interspersed with clouds.
As did the cornices of the buildings on 35th Street as I walked west to the 6th Avenue subway station.
Back on Broadway in Washington Heights, I was amused by a grammatical error on one of the storefronts.
Traffic rushed south on Broadway, and I went inside to get out of the freezing wind.

Wednesday, Three PM

As I do every morning, I woke up and said hello the bridge and -- after getting ready for work -- said goodbye to the cats.
I felt a little hungover after all of yesterday's excitement; my friend B____, a published author, had written to me saying that the two most excitement parts of getting published were 1) seeing the cover and 2) getting paid; this morning it seemed plausible, as much as I hoped that better things were still to come!
I think one of the reasons I've grown to admire cats so much is their unapologetically habitual nature, which has given me an appreciation for the same; they aren't looking for huge emotional payoffs, just a few sips of milk and a few minutes chasing a toy seems to be more than enough.
Outside I was entranced by the morning light.
It doesn't matter how often I see certain buildings; each day, perhaps because of the shifting light, they appear a bit different and I'm newly impressed by how beautiful they are. (This is obv one of my favorites.)
Walking up the block to the subway, I noted with approval the newly mulched tree beds. These trees were just planted last year, so I'm hoping they make it through the winter.
The sun appeared to be emerging from the windshield of a car parked in front of the fire station.
In the subway, I did not feel at all sorry that someone had vandalized the poster for this new 'rom-com.' I did feel sorry, however, that despite looking, I was unable to locate the new location of the mouths.
I arrived at work, where time passed. I heard from my mother, who -- like just about everyone it seems (and I should take a moment to express my gratitude to all who commented so positively)! -- was impressed by the cover of the book. She asked me to send her a printout, which struck me as a tangible difference between her generation and mine; I honestly can't remember the last time I printed out one of my photographs, but to her, it doesn't feel quite 'real,' I think, unless she's holding it in her hands, something she can admire away from the computer screen and perhaps show to her friends. (Whereas I would just 'send them a link' or post on twitter/tumblr/FB.)
Given that I spend 98 percent of my waking time in front of a computer, it no longer seems necessary to have 'hard copies' of many things. (One exception is my novel, i.e., the words, not the cover; I've yet to find a 'digital' format that does not entail a 'branded' reading experience, which (e.g., seeing the ____ logo) is the last thing I want to infiltrate my mind during the course of reading.) All of which is to say that I plan to send my mother a printout of the cover as soon as I can locate a printer capable of doing the job.
Outside it was not quite as dark as it has been, although for some reason there were a lot of red lights at the end of the block. 
Back in the apartment, I took a GPOYW in the mirror of the hall tree.
I went to look at the bridge and noticed that an orange orchid had just bloomed.

The Metropolis Case (Cover Art and Catalog Synopsis)

From the smoky music halls of 1860s Paris to the tumbling skyscrapers of twenty-first century New York, Matthew Gallaway's debut novel gives voice to the sweeping tale of an unlikely quartet, bound together by the strange and spectacular history of Richard Wagner's masterpiece opera, Tristan and Isolde. Martin is a lawyer who, at age 40, feels disconnected from his life, but if he comes to terms with the missteps of his past, will he have time to create a more authentic future for himself?  Maria is a tall, awkward, ostracized teenager who attempts to break free from the doldrums of Pittsburgh and to harness the power of her extraordinary operatic voice. Anna is destined to be a grande dame of the international stage, to emerge from her cocoon and step into the spotlight--yet once the harsh glare is upon her, she realizes it was more than she bargained for. Lucien is a young singer present at the birth of the modern age, who races through the streets of Europe in an exuberant bid to make the most of every breath. A tragedy leads Lucien to a magical discovery and takes him on a journey that will help him, Martin, Maria, and Anna learn that it's not how many breaths you take, it's what you do with those you're given. Together theirs is a story of music and magic, love, death, secrets and betrayal, grandly operatic in scale, that will keep readers spellbound through the last page.MATTHEW GALLAWAY got his B.A. from Cornell University, where he majored in government, and after working for several environmental groups in Washington DC attended law school at New York University. (He is fairly certain that he is the only graduate of NYU Law to work as a record-store clerk.) After passing the bar, he played in a rock band (Saturnine) for several years before turning his attention to The Metropolis Case. He currently lives in Washington Heights with his partner Stephen (a stage director at the Metropolitan Opera) and three cats.Publishing in September, 2010. [Update: Actually publishing in Jan/Feb 2011, exact date TBD.] DON'T WORRY I WILL KEEP YOU POSTED! (So excited!!! -- ZOMG I <3 the cover, don't u?)

Clear's Looking At You

Today, like yesterday, was foggy and soaked, so that I was not particularly inspired to take pictures as I went to work.
But as I made my way east on 35th Street, I couldn't resist snapping a shot of the 'Clear's Looking At You, Inc.' van. It reminded me of being on tour with Saturnine and how our drummer Jim was always obsessed with 'punny' hair salons, which more than just about any other business seem inclined toward this kind of name, e.g., 'A Cut Above' or 'The Tortoise and the Hair' or 'Hair We Are' or (probably somewhere) 'Hair's Looking at You.' As much as I enjoy puns, I'm not sure that -- were I given the opportunity -- I would want to rely on one for a business name; I can see myself answering the phone after ___ years and being really annoyed by a joke that had seem so hilarious when first created. Still, it made me laugh on the way the work, and for that I'm grateful.
At lunch I took some pictures of Park Avenue from the gym. I continued to think about my trip to Costco, and concluded that one of the reasons it's such a strange place is that in many respects it's as big as a city, but one that has been pared down to its essential function of buying and selling, and nothing else; no art, no culture, no 'community.' Perhaps this is what all cities will be like in the future, and Costco is just a harbinger of what's to come. At least people will have lots of berries and organic produce!
The light turned green for the ____th time in ____ years.
As I walked back on 34th Street toward my office, the sidewalks seemed beyond soaked; they seemed permantently wet.
But in the distance, I could see low foggy clouds rolling along the western horizon, which led me to believe that the rain was coming to an end. Unfortunately the iPhone did not really capture this effect.
But sure enough, within a few hours I could see blue sky from my office.
'Clear's looking at you,' I said to the groaning rooftops of midtown as they turned bronze in the afternoon light.

Sunday Flies Away

In complete contrast to yesterday, today was gray and sullen, with heavy rains in the forecast; somewhat predictably, Stephen and I decided to go to Costco, where we recently became 'members.'
On the way to the car, we stopped by the garden, where I admired the evergreens and moss (and overlooked the plastic bag, which serves to protect the watering pipe during the winter). 
Everyone appeared healthy, and seemed to be enjoying the cold weather.
Some of the hellobores already have large blossoms, which seem impervious to the snow and cold.
After retrieving the car, we drove to the the Costco in Yonkers, which like the first time we went a few weeks ago was a 'fucking madhouse,' and meant that we had to park in the special annex, or dungeon.
There was no shortage of shopping carts, however.
Inside, I felt by turns overwhelmed and exhilarated by the large quantities of items for sale, many of them at 'unheard-of prices' and -- for the food, which is primarily why we joined -- organic and 'natural.' The one thing they did not have was a 'decompression chamber,' where I would have liked to relax for a few minutes to get my bearings; there is something exhausting to me about being immersed in this vortex of shopping in the middle of nowhere, so disconnected from anything except the act of buying. Instead I tried to admire the light fixtures, which I felt would go nicely in the loft of my dreams.
Back outside in the parking lot I admired a seagull, which despite living at Costco exuded a natural beauty I found inspiring.

Today and Yesterday

Today I went for a walk down to the river. On the way there I stopped to admire the sun streaming through the trees at the intersection between Old Riverside Drive, New Riverside Drive and 165th Street, which is one of my favorite places in Washington Heights.
Somewhat less appealing, perhaps, is the area just to the north, where the hospital complex intersects with the on-ramp to the George Washington Bridge.
This is an area that feels as if it were designed by people and institutions (Columbia, most obviously, but others too) whose utter disrespect for the past ironically resulted in a creation where the past, instead of being integrated was killed, and as a consequence now haunts everything here.
Thankfully the riverbank, which is almost never crowded, offers its own form of reconciliation with the surrounding landscape.
It was a perfect January day, cold but not bitter, so that I felt happy for a few minutes watching a dog and its owner stroll by.
The bridge offered dramatic views of the sun as it arced down in the sky.
I remembered yesterday, and how nervous and upset I felt about the most trivial things, and -- comparing this state with the relative tranquility of today -- wished that I could spend an hour or two every day walking along the river.
I went to the water and climbed over the rocks to get a better view of the city.
For a moment, it seemed impossible that I would ever go back.

Friday Fades Away

This morning on the way to the subway, a garbage truck passed in front of me, and I admired the 'sanitation' font (vaguely 'futura' perhaps? I'm not an expert) as well as the 'don't litter' commandment, which is kind of laughable in Washington Heights.
A street sweeper went zooming past, and -- as I always do -- I wondered if it really did anything but swirl the garbage around on the street a little bit, because there never seems to be any difference before and after it goes by. In general I think the city's 'litter policy' in Washington Heights is to wait until the wind blows it away into the river, where it will flow out to the ocean and maybe sink to the bottom.
After crossing the street, I observed a flag and wondered what it would be like to be 'proud of ur country,' or at least proud enough to hang a flag up across your window. Next to religion, I think there's probably a good case to be made that nationalism has done more to set back the human race over the last 2000 years or so, at least until ____ is elected President in 2012.
I felt better observing the serene light that filled the block between Broadway and Amsterdam.
The fire station is a grand building, but I'm not sure the flag adds anything to the picture. Maybe if it were a flag promoting alpine gardening, or kindness to stray cats, then I would feel more moved.
In the subway I admired the 'subtalk' font but felt that the ad campaign had made a mistake using this particular photo: was there anyone who could look at this and not imagine the two ppl in question pointing out a horrifically monstrous rat lumbering down the tracks?
I arrived at work, where I noticed that someone had erected scaffolding around the mysterious green tower outside of my office window.
Time passed. I went outside at lunch and enjoyed the dreamlike atmosphere created by the sun reflecting off of Madison Avenue.
It was a gorgeous sunset. Someone posed a question on tumblr asking 'what is it with you people and sunsets?' as if to say: 'why are u all such a bunch of fggts?'

Upholding my resolution not to be snide or 'snarky' on tumblr, I answered earnestly: 'sunsets 4 me,' I wrote, 'represent a btful transition out of the ennui that makes up so mch of life, a time when u can hope even as u see what has passd' (I had to fit my answer into 140 characters or less.)

I sighed and watched the sun disappear, anxious to get home to the cats, who as they always do, were waiting at the door, looking up expectantly, knowing they will always be loved.