Matthew Gallaway

The Morning Light, after the Heat Broke

In an attempt to be more optimistic, I've returned to early-morning running, when the bridge is most beautiful. 

And the city is most magical. 

And the staircases are most haunting :)

But I can't pretend to be thrilled with the 'We Love You' messaging on the pedestrian overpass at 181st Street. Two years ago, it said 'Black Lives Matter.' [Insert ten paragraphs of complaints about our country and its trajectory.] 

I love this part of the run, which is at the top of a long hill that goes through the park. In 2020, it was closed to cars but in the same spirit of denial that has swept the rest of the country it was opened up again in 2021. But there are almost never any cars at 5:30 in the morning. And this morning, it was cool and dry for the first time in recent memory, and my knee and back felt pretty good. As I accelerated down the hill, I could imagine the years falling away. 

After leaving the road, I took the path to an overlook where I could see the sunlight rising over the Hudson. (I couldn't see the actual sun because I was facing northwest.) 

As usual, the oak-leaf hydrangeas have been perfect this summer. 

I was about to say that the park is always empty at this hour, but I just noticed someone on the path in this picture. I'm pretty sure they weren't there when I took it. #spooky 

Plants always look a bit more surreal in the early morning light. 

We're also in cone flower season, which is another good thing to remember when August is bringing you down. 

Lately, when I see this path, I always think about the thousands of car-oriented streets we have in the city, and how much nicer it would be if literally two percent of them were converted back to something like this path. There's a new twitter account that uses AI to transform images of streets in this fashion, and it's both inspiring and depressing to consider what's possible. When I'm in park at this hour, anything seems possible. 

A stream of allium. 

An explosion of echinacea. 

A field of heather. 

Existential Heat Waves

As usual, July unfolded slowly and not without some fear. It began with the dentist, which wasn't too dreadful, before I moved into jury duty -- always a source of obsessive dread -- before landing in the present heat wave from hell. I tried to distract myself with small pleasures and observations to support the idea that despite the staggering denial in which we collectively exist, the end of world was not imminent; for example, I spent time watching the local spiders and admiring their intricate, gossamer webs.  

When we first moved here, the backyard was filled with flies, but as the trees and flowers took hold, the spiders somehow learned about it and moved in. They've been doing good work ever since. Was it too late for me to start a new career as a spider? 

Clio, who supervises the spiders, likes to patrol the garden two and ideally three times each day. She begins with an aerial view from the deck before she heads into the vegetation, looking for traces of her enemies: namely, rats (thankfully only in theory these days) and stray cats, who sometimes spend the night under the hellebores and ferns. 

Each morning before jury duty, I biked downtown on an electric Citi Bike or ebike, which was a good opportunity to think about how ebikes are easily the fastest way to get anywhere in Manhattan and to question why they are not subsidized when we (as a society) should be ramping up bike infrastructure and ridership, and doing everything possible to discourage driving (cars and especially SUVs). Also, the bike lanes -- even the protected ones -- in Manhattan are treacherous and basically wtf is wrong with our stupid city? In Paris, the Rue de Rivoli has been converted into two gigantic bikes lanes and New York City allocates about 18 inches of space for thousands of bikes. In short, biking around the city continues to be a source of exhilaration and bitterness. My one hope for Mayor Eric Adams when he entered office was that he might do something to improve the city's random, hazardous bike infrastructure -- he at least knows how to ride a bike, unlike de Blasio -- but Eric Adams has one item on his agenda, which is giving money to the police. (Actually two items if you count pretending that Covid doesn't exist.) (Actually three if you count partying.) 

I was surprised and not surprised to find the area around City Hall and the courthouses depopulated and militarized. Many commercial spaces were vacant. There were a lot of cops, SUVs, and metal barriers preventing pedestrians from walking across formerly public plazas. This is the future of the United States, I thought, and then corrected myself: No, this is the present. Small remnants of urban anarchy and chaos could be found, thanks to the neighborhood's proximity to Chinatown. As I waited in the security line, I longed to be doing high kicks and light calisthenics with these older women (i.e., my age) instead of participating in the prison-industrial complex. I would have taken more pictures of jury duty but my phone was confiscated even though the website said that 'jurors are permitted to bring one (1) cell phone to the courthouse.' When I queried this misinformation, I was told that they wanted jurors to bring the cell phones to the courthouse so that we could answer the Covid questions, but we were not allowed to have them in the courthouse. 'Why can't you explain that on the website?' I asked the jury clerk, who shrugged. I would have complained more, but I was worried that the clerk might take revenge and keep me for two weeks in a large room with 150-200 people. 

I went through voir dire (the questioning of potential jurors) twice and did not make the cut. When the judge asked if any of us had moral objections to serving, I thought, how could you not? I didn't actually say that, but other features of my background made me an unlikely selection for the jury. I felt sad watching the other jurors get questioned about their hobbies: so many of them answered 'shopping on Amazon.' One guy answered 'getting ordered around by my wife,' and everyone laughed like we were in a sit-com, even though an actual defendant was in the room awaiting trial for crimes that could land him in prison for many years. In contrast, I was released from jury duty after three days. 

Later that week, I went to Sandy Hook, which is a beach/state park in northern New Jersey (that looks like a hook). I had heard a lot of good things about it over the years, and a friend invited me to go for the day. Waiting for the ferry, I worried that we might end up in Ikea. But I remained full of complaints about our neoliberal infrastructure: seriously, why is the ferry to Ikea 'FREE' while the ferry to Sandy Hook is $47.00 USD? I dreamed of living in a different dimension where the government invested in public transit and made it accessible to all. (And where the planet wasn't overheating.)  

Sandy Hook used to be a military base, which meant there were a lot of decrepit houses to admire. It was also a pretty day, with bright skies and just enough cloud coverage to keep the sun from feeling oppressive (in contrast to now, for example). 

The beach grass was lovely. This is what the earth will look like in 10,000 years when the remains of our present civilization have been mostly buried by nature. 

A school bus ferried us across an enormous parking lot for private automobiles and dropped us at the path to the beach. Being gay, we selected the gay beach, which was also clothing optional. I had never been to a clothing-optional beach. I imagined something remote and windswept, dotted with naked beachgoers who would drift in and out of the waves like water naiads before disappearing back into the dunes.  

In fact, it looked like this. 

I wasn't deterred. I ate lunch and napped and swam for a few hours until it was time to go back to the bus: in short, I did everything I expected to do at the beach. It was relaxing and made me wish it were easier (and less expensive) to get to the beach from Washington Heights. Spending a day at a nude beach made me think that probably all beaches should be clothing optional, because nudity stops being titillating when it's everywhere. I mean, sure it's (sometimes) fun to look, but it's kind of like, okay, this person has a body, they are using it to move through time and space, welcome to the club.  

But somehow I don't think our country is ready to be more relaxed about nudity, given how unrelaxed we are about everything else that strays beyond the narrowest confines of proper sexual conduct and appearance as defined by the Christian right. Could our country be any worse right now? Sadly, I think we all know that the answer is yes. 

Back home, I spent time with Zephyr, who is turning sixteen in August. I hate to admit it, but he's getting old. 

He was not the only one, I realized, as I checked the forecast.  

 

DeathCulture@Sea (Night Fires)

Here's a new DeathCulture@Sea song to get you through the rest of July: 

Link. 

DeathCulture@Sea PLAYLIST!!!

Stay cool, everyone :)

March of the Torch Lilies

As I read a tweet this week expressing jealousy from the writer about their dog's unawareness of the Supreme Court, I realized that I could never write the same thing about Clio, who is not only extremely aware of the Supreme Court and many other failing institutions in our country, but is also unhappy about it. 

Each morning we discuss the latest developments and try to assess the trajectory of our lives in this political climate.  

There are reasons to be hopeful, but almost none of them have anything to do with politics. 

There is the late-afternoon summer light in the garden. 

And a blue jay that recently moved in. 

A few days ago I woke up and saw a rainbow across the street. 

And there's the park, which is more beautiful than ever. 

The sprinklers were on when I walked through the gardens, and a few drops of water landed on the camera lens. 

At first I thought 'oh great,' but I decided not to worry about it. And when I got home and looked at the pictures, I wasn't disappointed. The water made everything look a bit gauzy, but in a nice way. It reminds of something Andy Warhol once wrote about how the world used to be more interesting before people started wearing eyeglasses, because everyone saw things very differently. (I might be imagining or fabricating this quote, but I think it's somewhere in 'The Philosophy of...' because I remember laughing about it with my friends in college when we were doing a project on Andy.) When I teach my photography class, my first lesson will be: place a few drops of water on the lens. You might be pleasantly surprised by the results! 

The heather gardens are lush and green. 

The cone flowers are starting to bloom. 

I'm pretty sure this is foxglove, still wet from the sprinkler. 

And a blurry (water drop effect) picture of the elm trees and astilbe (I think). 

I have no idea what this is, but it looks like an angry orchid. The park is always beautiful, I thought, but it's not always serene. 

And wtf is this?* Even the park, it seems, is preparing for a fight. 

*A torch lily :)

Death Culture at Sea (June)

Hi everyone -- strange times. 

Link. 

Under The Elms

On a recent morning while running through the park, I stopped to use the public bathroom and saw a flier about the elm trees. 'Fort Tryon Park has 4-dozen elm trees that are over 100 years old! These irreplaceable trees and their expansive shade canopy are in jeopardy of contracting Dutch elm disease. Your donation can help the Fort Tryon Park Trust underwrite a $55,000 inoculation treatment program to sustain the health, scenic, and ecological benefits of these majestic trees. A generous donor is providing a matching challenge grant. HELP US MEET THE MATCH. FortTryonParkTrust.org/donate.'

Sigh. Before I start complaining, let me begin by thanking everyone involved in saving these trees, whose beauty is -- objectively -- otherworldly. For as long as I've lived uptown (six hundred years and counting), I've gone to the park and almost every time I've made a point of stopping to admire these trees. They are the gods of whatever religion I follow. 

But (commence complaining) what is our government (city, state, and federal) doing if it can't spend $55,000 on these trees? That's literally like a fraction of a penny in the grand scheme of things. It's the cost of ten nails for the Department of Defense, or one truckload of cement to refurbish an unused stretch of highway in ____.*

*I'm too lazy to find actual examples, but I'm sure they're out there! 

Why do we have to rely on a 'matching donor'? And why can't the donor just shell out the $55,000? 

And why can't Mayor Eric Adams, who is turning to be exactly as inept and unfocused as we all knew he'd be, give the parks department one percent of the city budget, as he promised to do in his campaign? 

It's depressing to think about how much of our tax dollars are spent on weapons and police (and infrastructure for cars and oil), and how little is spent on things that really matter, like elm trees. 

The theme of 2022 is turning out to be the same as it was in 2021 and 2020 and every year since at least 1968 2016. I'm worried about where we are and where we're going; I need to go stand under the elms and think about the possibility of good things.  

DeathCulture@Sea (Miracle of Light)

Just in time for summer, here's something new from DeathCulture@Sea: 

Link. 

'Miracle of Light'

See the waves, see the waves

Overtake the lives

Made enough, made enough

Here again, the lies

In the case of a memory we had

The night is coming and the day is looking bad

We all know about the bills we have to pay

What's it matter when our hands are tied?

There's nothing left to say

It's a miracle of light

Over time we might open up our eyes

It's a miracle of light

We are watching as the birds are taking flight

We are waiting for the pay

Into the Trees

I recently went back to Pittsburgh, where the woods near my parents' apartment were dense with new leaves. When I had last visited, a month earlier, spring had still felt like a dream or a hallucination. Except for the tips of certain branches, the trees had been mostly bare; the ground had been coated with a faint sheen of green. Now the green was a carpet, a ceiling, and -- maybe -- a calling. 

In April, my father -- who last year was diagnosed with dementia -- still seemed like himself, but he had recently been going through a rough stretch. He now seemed more distant and disoriented, especially at night, and parts of his personality that I remembered would appear for a moment and then disappear. He was fading into and out of himself, the same way the leaves fade into and out of the forest.   

On this trip, when I spoke to him, he often met me with a blank stare. Did he understand? It was hard to say. But at other times, he revealed his trademark sense of humor. 'Is everything okay?' I asked him at one point as he was struggling to do something. 'What do you think?' he said. 'I'm old.' We both laughed a little. 

I knew he was still in there somewhere. 

According to the internet, dementia is 'a chronic or persistent disorder of the mental processes caused by brain disease or injury and marked by memory disorders, personality changes, and impaired reasoning.' 

There are stages to the disease, beginning with benign symptoms -- forgetting how to button a shirt, sleeping more than usual -- and progressing to 'complete cognitive decline.' No two cases are exactly alike. 

It's not always obvious what stage a person has reached. It only becomes clear that they need help in ways they once did not. 

Like so many conditions in life, dementia is not apparent until you're in it, although in retrospect it's easy enough to see the warning signs. I remembered the fall of 2020, when my brother and I got into a fight with him on a Zoom call about his ongoing support of Trump. 

If you had asked me then if he had dementia, I would have said 'yes,' but in the same way I would have said our entire country has dementia. 

There can be plateaus, periods when you can believe that the end is not as close as you might have feared. 'You need to live in the moment,' said the hospice nurse who has been attending to my father. 'Appreciate the good days when you get them.'

It seemed like a good philosophy, even for those of us who don't have dementia. 

I've been running through these woods for several years now, but they are still big and unfamiliar. It's easy to get lost, which even with a smart phone can be unsettling. 

But this fear -- and the corresponding remoteness -- is what makes the woods enticing. As I thought about my father, I hoped that for him, getting lost -- leaving behind the life he has known -- also has its moments of beauty. 

These days, my father no longer seems interested in politics. Like me, he seems frightened of the news. 

It was nice not to have to worry about arguing with him anymore. I stopped thinking about him as a Republican and remembered that he was my father. 

Instead of the news, he now likes watching nature shows, or just turning off the television and watching nature. He loves to see the birds and other animals crossing the field outside of his window. 

Perhaps, I thought, when I saw him happily watching the wild turkey, he was not as lost as I thought. 

Late Afternoon Light and New Leaves (Spring Break 2022)

It's only been raining for one day and I feel like I've been sentenced to solitary confinement. Maybe the lockdown is finally catching up with me, or maybe it's because the weather earlier this week was so beautiful that it feels almost cruel for it to have ended. 

On Wednesday afternoon, I went to the park, where the late afternoon sun was shining through the new leaves and flower petals. 

The Mayapples were on the march. 

It's really been one of the best springs I can remember, at least in terms of the weather. 

We had a few cold days at the end of March, but none of the crippling heat I remember from recent years. 

 The conifers are happy. 

There's so much information in the world. 

Here I couldn't remember any of it. 

March of the Camellia

I knew that spring had finally arrived when the camellia started to flower. All winter I had been watching the buds, which slowly swelled until one morning when I discovered that a few of them had opened. It happened overnight. I felt like I could breathe again. 

This year, for the first time, we had three plants blooming at the same time: red, white, and pink.  

The pink camellia is the first one we planted, and it has the most flowers. They float around the statue like perfect little clouds. Sometimes, I thought, it's possible to plan something for years that, when it finally happens, doesn't disappoint.  

I did feel sad thinking about Elektra, who loved the garden. 

 It's easy to ignore the outside world when the camellias are flowering.  

But camellia season is now coming to an end. Most of the flower petals have fallen off and now litter the ground; only a few remain attached to the branch. The outside world beckons and threatens. 

It's hard to see the flowers go, but I'm already looking forward to next year.