Matthew Gallaway

Tumblr Reading at Housing Works

I'm doing a very short reading tomorrow night -- i.e., Friday -- at Housing Works in Manhattan with a group of my fellow 'tumblrs.' You can read more about it by clicking through to 1) the Housing Works site (Housing Works is a very cool and worthwhile non-profit bookstore in Soho devoted to helping the homeless and those with HIV/AIDS), 2) the Time Out New York article about the event (featuring quotes from many of the writers, including me -- hey!) or 3) my tumblr, where I posted exactly what I plan to read -- specifically, a short scene from the novel -- so that if you decide to attend you can check it out beforehand if you are so inclined.) If you do stop by, please say hello!

Thursday

This morning the sun was bright (and the windows were dirty).
I said goodbye to Zephyr.
And Elektra.
And Dante.
I had not slept particularly well, due to a cold that had left my throat a bit scratchy and my chest somewhat constricted, along with a continually beeping fire alarm (via a waning battery) in a neighboring apartment, and finally Dante's unusual decision to pounce on my chest at three in the morning, but I felt less groggy in the brisk wind and sunlight on Broadway.
The snow was already melting.
At lunch I crossed 34th Street and was faintly reminded of 'Abbey Road.'
I received a call at work today from Con Edison, telling me that they had arrived at the house to change the outdated meters. Apparently they think it's more efficient not to schedule an appointment; fortunately, Stephen had yet to leave for work and so was able to let them in.
The new meters are digital, and much easier to read than the old dials.
Outside I contemplated with some sadness the coupons wrapped in plastic that are regularly deposited on to our front steps, which will go directly into the trash; it amazes me that anyone finds this kind of advertising worth paying for, much less reading, but I understand that I am not exactly a 'typical' consumer.
On the way back to the apartment, I was distracted by the sun breaking through a heavy bank of clouds.
The effect was quite unusual and (relatively) dramatic as the sun lit up the Hudson and the rooftops of Washington Heights. The orchids, who have been waiting patiently for this moment, soaked up the late-afternoon sun.

Wednesday

This morning the sky was clear for a few hours, except for a low band of clouds, creating the illusion of a distant mountain range.
Because I've been fighting off a cold for the past few days, I decided to call in sick to work and stay home. Mostly this means that instead of going to midtown and looking at a computer screen all day, I can stay in the apartment and look at a computer screen all day, although it's much easier to take naps and rest. It's really almost impossible to imagine what life was like before computers and the internet at this point, although I suppose it's something that I'd like to try out at some point.
Although Stephen had to go in to work, the cats were all here to keep me company.
Around three o'clock I went across the street to check on the house.
On Broadway, a crew of workers were putting up scaffolding, which in the past used to give me a jolt of adrenaline -- 'maybe they're going to fix up the building!' I would think -- but I've learned to temper this optimism, knowing that it generally results in no perceptible improvement.
I did feel a surge of satisfaction, however, when I arrived at the house and found that the garbage and recycling bags that I had put out on the curb had finally been taken away; to live in Washington Heights, I've learned, is to take what you can get with regard to many things -- e.g., garbage pickup -- that I expect others take for granted.
Inside, I found the lady palm adjusting nicely to its new home.
While at the other end of the house, the ponytail palm seemed equally content.
In the garden I listened to the constant drip of melting snow and admired the way the snow melted around the tree trunks, as if the plants were warm-blooded creatures.
The weeping Serbian spruce seems to be holding up nicely this winter.
While the tree peonies are clearly ready for spring.
As are the azaleas.
Back on the street, I considered a building on the corner of Broadway and felt that with a simple cleaning, it could be restored to its past grandeur.   Back at the apartment, I looked at the clouds, which during the course of the day had rolled in, so that what had earlier resembled mountains now seemed to be a strip of orange light.

Tuesday Snows Up

I remember being young in Pittsburgh on days like this when my mother -- who grew up in Boston -- would look out the window and turn to me: 'I hate it when it snows up,' she would say with disdain.
Today was one of those days, where the snow felt mostly meaningless, although I did have to shovel twice. I suppose it could have been worse, however; at least the sun wasn't out. I once had a friend in college -- and although I went to Cornell, it didn't snow as much as you'd expect -- who would always say to me: 'Matt, why is it snowing if the sun is out?' Some questions, it seems, are better asked than answered.
In these times, however, I don't like to complain too much about anything, given that I at least have a job, and -- knock on wood -- don't have to face the prospect of taking a trip to 'Job Search Central' like so many millions of others.
I admired the north side 34th Street, between Madison and Fifth.
Back in the office, I took a stroll to the east side of the building, where I wished that I lived in a penthouse apartment with twin discus-thrower statues. I felt confident that if I had such a space, I could improve it markedly with potted alpines; I'm not sure it's in my destiny to live in a penthouse apartment on 34th Street, though.
Back in Washington Heights, the sky was blue and the trees were dusted.
As much as I'm ready for winter to end, I couldn't help but admire the stark beauty of the branches against the purple sky.
Back at the house, I had to shovel away a few inches of slush, which had accumulated since this morning. But here, too, the trees were beautiful and the streetlights resembled distant suns.
On Broadway, the medians were also coated with snow, as though they were a snapshot of another era, but the wet pavement hissed with the endless stream of traffic.

Monday in February: Light and Gray

In honor of President's Day, the sun was very bright this morning.
It was so bright, in fact, that it was almost possible to walk by the melting snow and not really notice the random assortment of garbage that seemed to surface in the drifts.
Or the abandoned houses on the block, because the snow made the steps look like a bobsled run.
I can't say I'm too impressed with this graffiti, not all of which is made equally. Sometimes I wish Banksy would make a trip to Washington Heights.
Because I work for a British company, we don't celebrate President's Day. I didn't mind going into work except for the fact that the MTA was still on 'weekend schedule,' which means they run one train every 5-6 hours. This made for a long commute home!
To pass the time, I photographed the debris floating down the stream in the middle of the tracks.
When I got out of the subway, the gray sky overhead made it more difficult to ignore the bleak, dirty snow.
Sometimes it's easy to walk fast and close your eyes rather than ponder your surroundings.
Or it can be better to look up at the beautiful pre-war architecture through the screen of tree branches.
In the apartment, Elektra was not shy about voicing her opinion with regard to February, especially when informed that tomorrow is going to bring a mix of ice and snow.
The orchids were more sanguine, however.
Like so many things with a very limited life span, they wanted to treasure what time they had been allotted.
The bridge remained ambivalent about such things as snow or litter or seasons, however, given the expectation that it will outlive all of us.

Valentine's Day: Tending the Plants

Today a friend who is soon moving away from the city brought over a plant -- a 'lady palm' -- that Stephen and I are taking in for him.
I sometimes wonder how I would feel about leaving the city, and -- as much as I often long to do so -- one of the hardest things about it, I think, would be leaving the garden, and all the trees and plants there that I have grown attached to.
Of course it would be much easier if I knew that someone else was going to care for them, which is why I was happy to take in this plant, because it had obviously been well tended; I tried to reassure my friend that it would be content here in front of the window, and my fingers are crossed for the best.
Back out on the street, I helped one of my neighbors cut down a branch that had been damaged by a truck in the recent snowstorm.
Although it was a large branch, I think the tree will be fine; it probably helps that this happened in February, which is the ideal time to prune trees, before they've started growing and when it's less likely that a wound will be infested with bugs or a disease.
On the way home, I passed the flower stand, which was doing a brisk Valentine's day business.
On Broadway, the wind was blowing hard but the sun was bright, and it felt like early March. I thought about how any given day in a month can give glimpses of both the past and the future, which is a good example of the porous and fleeting nature of the present. (Much the same thing, of course, can be said about artwork, which is usually never as 'radical' as we like to think and can almost always be viewed on a continuum.)
I had much the same feeling watching the sunset; the low western light recalled the shortest days of December and January, while the illuminated clouds above the bridge already foretold the magnificent days of the summer ahead.

Gay Modern Love, Two Years Later

Two Valentine's Days ago, I entered a contest at Gawker (via Sheila McClear) that I helped to instigate after complaining quite vociferously about the heteronormative quality of the 'Modern Love' column in the New York Times (which Gawker also posted about, this approximately 10,000 blog years ago when I was very angry and political). Anyway, in honor of VD2k10, I wanted to take the opportunity to reprint the essay below. It's called, 'Thanks to Stephen, I Came Out Twice: First as Gay and then as a Recluse.'
It's late November 1998. I'm 30 years old and a total closet-case: it's past midnight and I'm scrolling through the men-seeking-men listings of Web Personals. During the day, I still like to tell myself that—although I'm not exactly a virgin in the same-sex department—whatever homo tendencies I have are basically a minor health problem; in short, as soon as I meet the right girl, I will be "cured" of the desire to say, head out to Prospect Park at 11:30 on a Tuesday night or—as I have been doing more and more as the days grow shorter—take a walk through the virtual hallways of the internet..." There are three categories to choose from: relationship, friends ("as if") and sex. (Guess which one I go for.) Among the ads that catch my attention (and this being 1998, there are no photographs) is one from a 41 y.o. GWM, 6'3", 240lbs and hairy. Although I'm somewhat deterred by the "G," I imagine a strong and vaguely angry-looking man with a buzz-cut and receding hairline. Moreover, he doesn't use the term "bear" but "linebacker," which appeals to the hockey player in me. Why this gets me going is an unsolved mystery at this point, but it most certainly does; in an agitated state, I send off of a reply: 30 y.o. GWM 5'11"/175 looking for...(whatever the equivalent of NSA was in 1998). It's the first time I've ever used a "G," and while part of me doesn't like it, I figure if it gets me what I want, nobody else will ever have to know.

A few days later, I get a response in my secret "Gay-O-L" account. Stephen suggests we meet at a diner in Hell's Kitchen. For me, the intervening days and then hours are marked by repeated mental games of "what the fuck am I doing" and interludes of queasy anticipation. When I arrive and look for someone matching his description, I am nervous—what if he lied?—and generally relieved that it's five o'clock and already completely dark outside. But to my astonishment, when we find each other, he is not only all of the above—as if molded from my dreams—but has the most intense green eyes; one glance leaves me more naked than I've felt in my entire life. My head is filled with an onslaught of distortion and melody; for once I am living one of my all-time favorite Hüsker Dü songs. My fingertips—the same ones that have memorized every note of Zen Arcade over the past decade—itch with anticipation. I try not to dwell on the implications of this, and think only of the night ahead.

Inside we order coffee and spend a few minutes talking. It turns out his "linebacker" description was a bit of a red herring; though he looks the part, his knowledge of sports is nil. Moreover he works as an opera director; not coincidentally, he has been out since the beginning of time. I don't initially respond to this as we marvel at the power of technology, which has brought together such an unlikely pair. We ceremoniously thank the internet and imagine ourselves as circles on a Venn diagram with infinite degrees of separation.

"And what about you?" he finally asks, expressing (at least as I read it) a mix of real curiosity and—if not disdain—coy skepticism. I'm sure he knows that my "G" was a bit of a stretch. For the first time ever, I'm actually bothered by not being out. I feel ignorant to have worked in a record store for five years without knowing one thing about opera besides "Pavarotti." (And worse, that I have done this in the wake of graduating from NYU Law School.) I think it might not be so cool to share an apartment with 1000 of my Brooklyn friends and cohorts, even if we did build a sound-proof rehearsal room in our basement that's home to an equal number of indie-rock bands; or so impressive that my own band has five records and tours, or that we made the top-thirty on the CMJ radio charts last summer.

I finally decide to answer him directly: Nobody knows. (That is, except a few anonymous strangers.)

"Not even your mother?"

"Are you kidding me?"

"What about your friends?"

"Nope—no one."

He nods slowly and I try not to think how this must look. To my relief, his beautiful eyes remain placid, forgiving and even desirous. After all, I remind myself, it's only sex. I change the subject. "Where did you say you live?"

"Uptown—Washington Heights." Once again I have no idea what he's talking about, but decide not to make my usual quip about never going above 14th Street.

I ask him what led him to move there.

"I'm a bit of a recluse," he says, before explaining that it's cheap and that he doesn't mind being an outsider; sometimes he even prefers it. Unlike me, he has only a few friends he sees rarely and is not particularly "close" to his family. As I listen to this, my mind begins to race as I picture myself in his shoes. What would I do without my friends? (Where would I get drunk?) If I came out, would they forgive me for selling so many years of lies? And my family! All of my older brothers and sisters, married with children, what would they think if I ever described our relationship so perfunctorily, with such distance? Equally disgusted and intoxicated, I could suddenly see myself like Stephen—a recluse—obsessively devoted to the most queenly pursuits of silverware, mid-century modern, Schopenhauer and alpine gardening.

He laughs as he considers me, and seems to understand what he represents in terms of both yearning and doubt. "So—do you want to come over?" He places his hand over mine for a second and removes it.

"More than anything," I say, and now—ten years later—his is a destiny I am happy to call our own.
Happy Valentine's Day! xoxo MG

Friday Repairs: Snow Melts and Life Resumes

This morning it was seriously bright outside, between the sun and the snow and slick pavement.
As beautiful as the snow was a few days ago, it now already seemed very tired, and I longed for it to be gone.
I have no records to back this up, but my sense it that this has been the coldest winter we've had in a while, perhaps the coldest since I moved to Washington Heights ten years ago. On the other hand, I mentioned this to someone the other day, and he was like: 'oh no, last year was much colder,' so I'm not really sure what to believe.
In the subway, I spent a few minutes observing this movie poster, with which I've become oddly obsessed since it went up a few weeks ago. It seems amazing to me that this project -- which no doubt cost millions of dollars to make and features a big ensemble of 'stars' -- was ever 'green-lighted,' given how horrible it looks on every level. I felt greasy and perverted looking at it, as though I were watching a gruesome car accident, but I couldn't turn away.
I even read a few of the reviews today, and nobody had anything good to say about it, which seems like it couldn't have been a surprise to anyone involved. Maybe it'll be 'big in Europe' or something, which I guess is how Hollywood movies make money these days, although this is also not exactly a fun thing to consider, i.e., the fact that (along with weapons) the biggest export of the United States is shitty culture.
Thankfully I had forgotten about it by the time I reached midtown.
I had to stop in to the hardware store to buy some ventilation tubing for the dryer in the tenants' apartment, which I learned (via a midnight e-mail last night) was broken. (I like to make repairs asap, though, so they won't be hanging over my head.)
The guy in the hardware store tried to sell me some 'cheap plastic shit' and then acted insulted when I asked if he had anything 'heavier-duty,' even though in fact he did have the tubing in aluminum, and it was more expensive than what he had initially tried to sell me. Sometimes the laws of commerce seem to break down at the epicenter of the commercial world, much like the eye of hurricane. Nevertheless, I was impressed by the amount of goods crammed into the tiny little store.
At lunch I went back out into the blinding sun and took some low-angle shots. Clearly this person was not too concerned about the snow!
Lately I've been noticing more and more bikes, which compete for places to be locked up. Even though New York City is a lot 'safer' than it used to be, I'd feel pretty nervous leaving my bike outside for more than thirty seconds. (I also would be nervous about getting hit by a bus.)
This is the building where I work, on the top floor. (The elevators are always broken, which is another cause for concern.)
My office faces west, which is why I can enjoy the setting sun almost every night.
Back in Washington Heights, the sky held a trace of sunlight, a harbinger of the coming spring.
Arriving at the house, I was annoyed that 1) the city did not pick up the garbage today (Washington Heights is always the last on the last, it seems) and 2) that my neighbor insists on putting his trash right on the edge of his property; he does this so that if the Department of Sanitation is giving out tickets, as they sometimes do for the most venial offenses (e.g., a bottle cap in the recycling bag), they might get confused and give it to me instead. I put my bag away and split his open and threw the trash all over his front yard. Just kidding! I left it where it was, and probably won't even say anything to him, because I'd rather just pay the stupid ticket than get into some kind of confrontation.
Besides, I had more important things to worry about, such as repairing the dryer vent.
I switched out the plastic tubing with the aluminum and taped it all together. (Seriously, what did people do before duct tape?)
As with any repair I have ever made, I said a prayer in the hope that it would last for a little while.
To celebrate, I took a GPOYF and then washed my hands. I had bought new toys for all the cats, and was anxious to get home.

The Day After

This morning it was clear and cold, which meant that some of the snow remained on the streets of Washington Heights.
Unfortunately, even though I shoveled twice yesterday, a layer of ice had formed on the sidewalk in front of the house. With little to be done about it, I shoveled as much of it away as I could and then threw down some salt. Sometimes it's better to ignore problems than to fully acknowledge them, with the hope that they will just go away.
As I walked up the block, part of me wished that the snow had permanently obliterated the cars, instead of just burying them for a little while.
I felt sorry for a bike that had been left out in the storm.
Even piles of garbage can look interesting under a few inches of snow.
In the subway, I admired the handiwork of our local 'poster boy,' who likes to switch mouths on different advertisements. I'm pretty sure the one on the right belongs to Julia Roberts [update via Lukas!] Anne Hathaway.
In midtown, most of the snow had already been removed from the streets and sidewalks, but there was still some sign of what had come to pass on the serene rooftops overhead.

The Hudson River in Snow

After shoveling the sidewalk in front of the house, I went down to the river, because I was curious to see what it looked like in a snowstorm. In fact, it was quiet and cold and beautiful.
I spent a few minutes watching the birds and remembered episodes of my past involving snow; how in second grade, after my brothers and back neighbors built a 'track' -- roughly analogous to a bobsled run for sleds that went all the along the side of our house before curving down through three levels of backyard -- while riding on the back of 'Bone' (the nickname of our neighbor) I went off the final jump and flipped into the air so that I landed on my face and ended up with a big black eye that I proudly wore to school the next day.
Or how a few years after that, while at a hockey tournament in Erie, I was tackled by a man in snow boots after hitting his car with a snowball, having mistaken it for that of our coach.
Or in junior high, when we used to line up on opposite sides of Bower Hill Road and spend hours after school lobbing snow balls at each other (again, sometimes severely perturbing drivers of those cars who happened to be in the line of fire).
None of this, it's fair to say, prepared me for the massive snowball fights I witnessed -- and to some degree participated in -- in Ithaca, where seemingly thousands would line the streets and launch heavy artillery at those on the opposing side. These were events that resonated with a sense of complete anarchy; there was no rhyme or reason to which side of the street you ended up on: you merely picked one and went to war. I was honestly surprised that more students weren't seriously hurt during these affairs.
As disruptive as the snow was to the local economy today -- my office was closed -- it seemed to have no bearing on the massive ships sailing up and down the Hudson.
As I watched the ship sail under the bridge, I was struck by the idea that the 20th century was really the first in which the flow of commerce seemed to completely transcend even the most disruptive forces of nature.
It seemed incomprehensible to me that (to give one obvious example) over 230,000 people in Haiti just perished in an earthquake, yet even this -- or so I have to imagine -- will not have any serious impact on economic growth, at least as measured on a worldwide basis.
On a certain scale, it seems, none of us has any more significance than a single snowflake; we each fall from the sky, last a little while and then melt away, leaving the earth no different than before.