I walk to the park as an exercise in observation, a la William Burroughs: I'm to look for signs, portents, synchronicities, the ways the world is attempting to communicate with me all the time that I never notice.
Alas, despite a beautiful day, and a lovely blue sky, the world remains stubbornly mute, with at most a helicopter going over the neighborhood on the way to the park and then, maybe, the same helicopter a few minutes later going the opposite direction over the park while I sit beneath a tree and watch the clouds.
Resigned to my decidedly non-portentous life, I pull out my notebook and write a lightly poetic meditation on directions and looking for meaning in the world, afterwards relaxing in the shade and eavesdropping on nearby conversations until I push to my feet to amble through the sunshine out of the park.
On a trail out of the park, I see, coming into the park, a guy dressed in the exact same outfit I'm wearing (a blue t-shirt with little white palm trees on it, and olive green shorts), and he looks at me, looking at him, smiles hugely and says, "Strange, isn't it?"
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One year ago: Phrasing
Two years ago: Flatbush Creek
Three years ago: It Works if You Work It
Four years ago: Brooklyn Midsummer
Eight years ago: too hot, too humid, too crowded
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