Eric Darton
L’embuscade
The sills and lintels are talking to me, yeah. The window panes are buzzing within and without – four on four, six on six – on up.
The bricks are calm but keep your eyes on a spot and you’ll see their chroma shift – like chameleons they are – all the while maintaining their shape.
And let’s not slight the mortar. Who says that silence can’t be active?
The park palings look expectant, their forebears have told them about certain times when they were crowned with heads.
The trees, for their part, are kind of keyed-up. I’ve never really seen them this jumpy – on the point of asking me questions – as if I knew! As if I knew!
Most of the garden plants, though, have that resigned quality – you know: weary of time. They know that as warm as the air may feel, the season’s already turned. “We’re outa here, brother. Our leaves and petals will blow off, if not today, then soon. But you, you hold onto your hat, OK?”
The birds, one might well ask about them. Well, they can’t agree on anything. A million prognostications. But still, if only by purest chance, one of them’s bound to be right.
Only the koi seem unaware that something’s up, or if they are, they’re sending no signals. Not the ones in this pond. Not today – this still-pliant midday.
Tadpoles galore in the shallows, half-hidden by the lily pads. But the frogs, yeah, they’ve gone to ground.
I’ve left my bike chained up outside the garden, and this time when I unlock it, the poor thing’s really spooked. “Where were you? I thought you weren’t coming back. Listen, I’ve always carried you wherever you wanted and kept my mouth shut. But for Christ’s sake, just this once, I’m begging you, take us someplace safe.”
As if I knew.
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Deep Nest
The university built a library on the vacant lot where, as a child, I used to run my dog.
From the ninth floor window, I can see the little red brick building on LaGuardia Place – it will always be West Broadway to me – through whose doorway I used to enter, then walk down the alley to the back building and up a flight of stairs to our home, two separate apartments converted into a floor-through.
If I lean toward the window, I can also see some pretty trees, mostly bare for now, but whose leaves will obscure my view of the old building come spring.
Having discovered this aerie, I plan to become a regular. You see, I’m after a degree in art history, all lower case, and conferred by my ancestors themselves.
Down there, in our living room, Rubens’ three graces once danced in a big, framed poster hung over the sofa. Right now, on the table before me, Fra Filippo Lippi awaits, several hundred color platesworth plus a text I may or may not read. Masaccio’s just down the shelf from the gap where Lippi lives, and to which he’ll soon return.
Marking my place with the ribbon, I can’t help but think: if I could somehow toss Lippi out the window, would it be possible to run downstairs fast enough to catch him? And what would my dog, Fixit, think of that?
*
Hand of God
The Washington Square Arch is shrinking, visually – and measurably – at the rate of one to three inches per day, parks officials say.
The diminution in the landmark structure, one of the city’s most popular icons and the storied gateway to Washington Square Park, was first reported by a self-identified “resident” of the park who gave his name only as Tyson. “You don’t got to have 20/20 to see it. You can tell when the pigeons take off all at once. Whoa – there it goes again.”
Numerous local residents and civic leaders have expressed alarm, and studies are underway determine the cause. Thusfar, experts are puzzled because Tuckahoe marble, the arch’s chief building material, is subject to weathering from environmental forces, but is not known to contract.
Even as the search for a means to halt the process goes on, City Council member Lance Bothwell has proposed that the current arch be demolished in favor of a replacement whose size would exceed that of the Arc de Triomphe, in Paris. “This is New York,” he said. “Done and dusted.”
When this reporter asked a passersby about the possibility of the monument’s ultimate disappearance, she seemed philosophical. “It’s been there forever,” said Thalia Willendorf, an NYU urban design student whose purple watch cap was, perhaps ironically, emblazoned with a white silhouette of the arch. “Maybe it’s time for something else,” she added. “Or, you know, just leave the space open.”
Victor Escalara, a Parks Ranger who has worked on site for three years, likewise sounded unfazed. “We’ve still got the circle. Garibaldi doesn’t look like he’s going anywhere. And neither are the chess players.”
Standing nearby, Tyson peered through a set of Bausch and Lomb binoculars. When asked by Mr. Escalara how he’d come by them, Tyson replied, “Couple hours ago this white guy who was watching from over there comes up and says he’s got to leave and will I hold these for him?” And I say “Sure enough, brother, just give me your number. That way if you don’t get back in time, I can text you when it’s gone.”
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