Images

Red Hook at dusk

By August 13, 2010No Comments

Dusk

After a swim at the Rec Center, about 8:10 or so; Red Hook Park, as a soft­ball game was get­ting star­ted. The col­or of the sky and the crisp­ness in the air and the slight wind took me back, weirdly, to my early boy­hood in Fort Lee, and the songs I used to hear com­ing from my uncle’s VW Bug when we’d drive past some park in town on just such a night; The Kinks’ “Tired of Waiting For You,” that’s one I recall quite dis­tinctly. 1965, then. And I am SO much older than that now, but at moments I can believe that I don’t really feel all that much older at all, or that I under­stand any­thing bet­ter than a par­tic­u­lar feel­ing of being glad to be alive. Odd, strangely magic­al, I guess I can call it; a moment when the envir­on­ment compels/allows you to recede into some never-really-changing state of sol­it­ary blessed­ness, in which you feel a part of everything but sim­ul­tan­eously utterly removed from everything as well.

No Comments

  • jwarthen says:

    Thanks for your what-the-hell decision to post this. I have a sharply etched equi­val­ent: 1958, a newly-created Little League field shim­mer­ing in S. Georgia’s July heat, and the PA sys­tem of an adja­cent pub­lic pool blast­ing “Do You Wanna Dance?” as back­ground to my base­ball appren­tice­ship as an 8 year-old.

  • cmholbrook says:

    Literary Interlude from Netherland, which is excel­lent by the way:
    We drove in rain to Red Hook, a rot­ten water­front dis­trict of trucks, potholes, faded road mark­ings, reck­less pedestrians.

  • Claire K. says:

    I’m not sure if it’s sad or funny or both or what, that when I remem­ber my own crisp fall even­ings spent wait­ing in the car for my broth­er to fin­ish soc­cer prac­tice, the song I most imme­di­ately think of is Deadeye Dick’s “New-Age Girl.”

  • Gareth says:

    Lovely moment/photo; as soon as I saw it, the pic­ture reminded me of a sim­il­ar moment from my own young­er days, a long, quiet, sub­urb­an road near my par­ents’ house in Dublin where I liked to run at dusk, and where, just for a couple of minutes, I felt like the only per­son in the world, with a ghostly fog­horn echo­ing from the har­bour a few miles away. It was a com­plete illu­sion: on the oth­er side of the wall along the road was a crowded hous­ing estate but for some reas­on you could­n’t hear a sound from inside.