Matthew Gallaway

My Life as a Plant (Coping Strategies)

One of my favorite places to run is on Riverside Drive, which has a long continuous sidewalk that while in dire need of repair is at least uninterrupted by car traffic. The trees are mature and the light and shadows are hypnotic, even when it's very cold. It's one of the places in New York City where it's easy to pretend that you're in Europe, which is a good coping strategy when (for example) the corrupt mayor goes to Florida seeking a pardon from the corrupt President. 

I'm always amused when I see the world's largest tote bags, which the Parks Department uses to collect leaves. It's only slightly bigger than some tote bags I've seen people bring onto the subway, which is less amusing. 

Over the past few years, the city has rebuilt the overpass between 153rd and 155th Street, where they've also widened the sidewalk. Positive change is possible, I thought, trying to counteract the simmering dread about so much that has otherwise infected my perspective at this juncture of time. 

A barge was headed upriver on the Hudson. 

At home, the winter cactus was blooming. 

How do plants do it? With a bit of soil, light, air, and water, this cactus could live forever (relatively speaking, which I know because a friend of mine inherited one that has been in her family for a century). 

Looking ahead, it seemed like it was time to find out. 

Early January (Flow and Fire)

This week I spent most of my time indoors, thanks to catching a nasty cold and the freezing temps outside. We went outside virtually, however, by way of the movie 'Flow,' which -- at least as we saw it -- starred an animated version of Clio. 

The movie, which has no (human) dialogue, is about a cat that is forced to leave its home after a major flood. It ends up on a boat with some other animals, who have various adventures as the boat moves through landscapes that are by turns wild and post-apocalyptic (urban ruins). The animation is hypnotic, and the animals are likable and interesting but never saccharine. I would have enjoyed it even if the main character didn't remind us so much of Clio.  

It was strange to walk out into the snow this morning knowing that Los Angeles was burning. 

Part of me was horrified by the images and part of me was relieved not to be suffering through another disaster, given my sense that New York City has still not recovered from the pandemic. 

The city is functioning, but I don't believe there's anything approaching a consensus about the kind of city we should be. Is it a city for tourists? Is it a city for residents? Is it for the rich or the poor? Are we going to be a city the pretends that global warming isn't happening, or are we going to take steps to counteract it? 

Congesting pricing started this week, for example, and the mayor had nothing to say about it. It's interesting that many critics are already admitting that traffic has been reduced. Congestion pricing should be one part of a major transformation in how the city operates and understands itself. 

Trump's solution to climate change is to drill for more oil. 

If Trump were a gardener, he would know that nature is always waiting. 

The George Washington Bridge Project (Resolutions)

My resolution for 2025 is to run regularly without injuring myself. So far, after four days, I'm holding to it! 

I want to see the park in every season this year. 

Winter is not the most vibrant time of the year for the landscape, but the sky is beautiful. 

And the heather is just starting to bloom. 

I left the park and ran to the river, where the headwind was strong enough to make me question why I thought running was so great. At least it was flat. 

This year, I thought, if time is the Hudson River, then I want to be the George Washington Bridge (but with better bike lanes). 

DeathCulture@Sea (Every Star, My Sister, The Twin)

2024 was a hard year in many ways, but it was a good year for DeathCulture@Sea. Here's a new song to ring in 2025: 

LINK

If you know me and think you know what this song is about, you're probably right. 

DC@S PLAYLIST 

 

 

 

Life Is Short, Opera is Long (40 Years)

Yesterday, I went to a surprise retirement party that was thrown for Stephen by his colleagues at the Met, where he's worked for the past forty years. In some ways, given that I've known him (and many of his fellow stage directors) for twenty-six of those years, it felt like I was retiring from something too. 

As I returned to the room where the reception was held -- and almost got lost, which is something that's easy to do in the endless levels and corridors of the Met -- I felt extraordinarily lucky to have been introduced by Stephen to the opera (and to the Met), given that I knew nothing about it when we met. Or almost nothing; growing up in the suburbs, I was frightened of opera, sensing that -- like any musical theater (or really, just theater) -- there was something very 'gay' about it, and for that reason alone to be avoided if I didn't want to be tainted by the association. But somehow I found my way out of the suburbs, and somehow I found Stephen, who taught me about opera. He started by throwing me into the proverbial 'deep end,' bringing me to (the dissonant, cacophonous, modern) Moses und Aron, which he was working on, but then, the summer after we moved in together, guiding me through an 'Opera 101' syllabus: La Boheme and Don Giovanni followed by more 'difficult' works by Wagner and Strauss. I took these recordings to work and listened to them repeatedly. Burned out on rock, I was thrilled to realize that my love of music had been rekindled by opera (which in turn would resurrect my affection for rock). 

And in the ensuing years, I went to the opera, a lot. I attended final dress rehearsals with busloads of students and seniors, I attended performances with rich patrons, I even saw a piano rehearsal in one of the cavernous rehearsal rooms in the basement, where I sat in a folding chair next to the wall as Valkyries galloped past, just a few feet away, singing their famous 'Hojotoho! Heiaha!' war cries. As remarkable as it was to attend the actual performances -- to feel the electricity of the audience as it was (on certain nights) molded by music and drama into something that at moments can feel strangely and exhilaratingly cohesive and even spiritual in a world that's otherwise marked by so much division and chaos -- there was for me something equally magical about seeing the inner workings of the Met, of watching members of the chorus and orchestra and musical and production staff exit the stage door minutes after the curtain went down, clearly happy to be done with work as countless other employees rushed (or lingered) around doing any number of other jobs necessary to keep a massive opera house running. 

What I've noticed over the years is that everyone who works at the opera loves the art form and that everyone (like Stephen) who works on the actual productions is (no surprise) deeply knowledgeable about it -- they are professionals in every sense -- but they don't fetishize it in a way I associate with certain opera critics and obsessive fans, whose adoration of the art involves a different kind of passion and knowledge. And while there's clearly room for both types in the world of opera, I always felt more at home among the former, meaning people (like Stephen) for whom opera was both an art form and a job or craft to which they had devoted their lives, which always brings a different -- and to me, more interesting, and often more nuanced -- perspective to any venture.  

Far more than just a magical evening at the theater, opera becomes a metaphor. 

As long as you are alive, there is time for a new act. 

Mid December (Winter is Coming)

Every December, most of the leaves are finally off the trees, which means that it's time to sweep them up. This process used to be more work-intensive, with an embarrassingly loud leaf blower and (equally loud) leaf shredder, but last year I decided to just 'let it be' and I only swept the path. The garden seemed to be no worse off for it, so I decided to repeat the strategy this year. (It's sort of like how I gave up shampoo twenty years ago and never looked back.) One difference this year is that the city has instituted composting, which means that the leaves (and other debris), when placed into a large, clear bag, will be collected and composted. It's just a small thing, but I did feel better knowing that the leaves weren't headed to a landfill. It's nice to think about participating in a natural cycle. I was tempted to put myself in a bag for pick-up and composting.  

Several years ago, someone from one of then neighboring apartment buildings started 'paint-balling' our garden and those of several of our neighbors. I want this person to be caught and forced to clean up trash in a park or something, but I also understand the impulse. I often fantasize about incinerating the cars that have colonized the sidewalks on my block. (But I don't.) Everyone should have a garden, or at least have the option. Skeptics will say, 'but where would you put these small gardens?' and I would say, 'where we now allocate public space for the storage of privately owned vehicles.' To have rows of community gardens lining the streets instead of 'parking' is my urban-planning dream. But as much as I know that Donald Trump loves community gardens, I'm not optimistic that my proposal is going anywhere soon. 

I love the (almost/sort of/maybe not) tessellated rows of yellow leaves on the climbing hydrangea. 

It was also time to put the candles away. 

And when it was all done, everyone was finally ready for the cold. 

Early December

In theory, my favorite thing is to get up early and go for a run, but in reality I've been waiting until the late afternoon, when the light is similarly beautiful. 

According to the internet, Ronald Reagan's 1984 political ad 'Morning in America' is considered by many to be the 'most successful presidential ad campaign in history.' 

But 'Sunset in America' feels like a better metaphor for what's happening around the world right now. (It also would have been a better metaphor in 1984.)  

Sometimes I wonder if I exaggerate my fears. After all, this perfect path has existed for as long as I've lived in Washington Heights. What more evidence do I need?  

But I also understand how much work it takes to maintain the park, and how -- in any garden, no matter how healthy -- there are always warning signs. What will this park look like in two or twenty or forty years? 

Have I been too fixated on the warning signs? 

I sometimes feel like my past is littered with wreckage: failed ventures, broken relationships, financial precarity, uncounted hours wasted on the subway. It's like that Weyes Blood line from their latest album: 'We tend to live long, that's why so many things go wrong.' But I can also look at my life now and say that not all of the things have gone wrong. So what's the answer? 

Something tells me that we're about to find out. 

Late November

With the news still unbearable, I tried to focus on some good things that were happening. 

At least the park was still beautiful. 

After spending many months nursing injuries, I was thankful to be finding my stride. Soon, I thought, maybe I can rejoin my gay running group. 

Every year I'm startled by these berries, but I've always deleted the photos, which are never good, and forgotten about the plant. This year's photo is no exception, but I'm posting it anyway, with the hope that I'll remember the name of the plant: Callicarpo dichotoma 'Early Amethyst' commonly known as 'beautyberry.' Beautyberry seems like such an easy name to learn and remember: how did I not know it before now? 

I've always loved the late-blooming roses. 

Soon it will be winter. 

The ferns have gathered. 

Everything is turning pink and red. 

DeathCulture@Sea (Free Ride on Me)

For your Sunday morning listening pleasure, a new rock song from 'musical collective' DeathCulture@Sea. 

Link.

The full DCAS playlist can be found here.

Sunset in the Park (November)

I took advantage of the warm, dry weather by running through the park. 

The sun was setting earlier and earlier. 

It hadn't rained in weeks, and brittle leaves were scattered everywhere. 

The light was beautiful in the smoky haze. 

The elms reached for the sun. 

Everything was already changing, faster than we could have imagined.