Decibel Levels

I wasn't gonna write tonight. I should be in bed, because I have to be up in seven hours for the documentary extravaganza. But all of a sudden, ire began to develop as two duos walked down 6th Ave. seemingly talking at the tops of their lungs. What happened to the volume level suitable for a discussion between two people? You're not talking to an auditorium full of graduates or a classroom full of bored students. You're just talking amongst yourselves. And just because this is New York, doesn't mean you gotta scream! Seriously. Ire. Tonight on the train, I didn't have my headphones on. They were around my neck, but for some reason, I lacked the energy/interest to put them on and listen to music. So I just sat on the R and read. Tried to read, that is. Because at Whitehall, two dumbasses boarded and decided that their dumbass conversation needed to be heard throughout the train. Taxes and percentages. And they had no interest in the potential annoyance they were causing. I fantasized about a confrontation. "Pipe down over there," I would say. That's the G-rated version. Dumbasses. Then, while they were talking, two more dumbasses got on. Duo voices, people, duo voices. None of us need to hear your conversations. The train is loud, sure; screeching around corners, doors opening, conductors talking. But you can still hear one another. I promise. I can listen to music loudly, but talking, even on television, it seems to grate on me. And so this morning, 1 a.m., four more dumbasses walked by talking way too loudly. For crikey's sake. Shut...the...FUCK....up! Excuse the second-person rant. I wasn't gonna write. But now that I'm here, let me light a clove and settle in. I finished reading Poisonwood Bible last week. I'm now reading Henry Miller, A Life by Robert Ferguson. I started it yesterday. I somehow can't get enough of my god. And already this morning, I had a moment.   I've not read many biographies. Only one, in fact. That of photographer Diane Arbus my freshman year in high school. So I'm not sure if biographers usually give addresses of homes and work locations. Ferguson does. 5 West 31st St., I read this morning, was the location of Miller, Sr.'s, tailor shop. Henry worked there for a time, begrudgingly at first, but was comfortable for a time. His father drank a lot and in the morning would cross the street to Hotel Wolcott to drink breakfast and stay through the afternoon to drink lunch. Henry joined him for lunch, but wouldn't drink himself. So says Ferguson. A couple of weeks ago, I got in the habit of walking down 31st from the train to the job in the morning. There's a guy on 31st and 5th who has my coffee waiting for me when I approach his cart. I'll grow out of this phase sooner or later, I'm sure, perhaps once I buy a stupid coffee situation to carry my hazelnut with me from home. So as I was reading, I was thinking 5 West 31st St...I wonder if it's on the east side by the river or the west side by the river. That was the extent of my wonderment, and by the time I exited the train this morning, I forgot about it. Until I was walking my route. Scaffolding is popping up all over this city for some reason and it's putting a damper on my tanning time. There is scaffolding that also runs along 31st and for the last couple of weeks, I have been passing by construction workers on their breaks, confident that none will whistle. This morning they weren't there. I figured it was the rain and continued at my pace. When I emerged from the cover of the scaffolding, I glanced up a bit to see if the rain was bad enough for me to open my umbrella. And there it was. Hotel Wolcott. I slowed down a bit. If that's Hotel Wolcott, I thought to myself, then. I stopped and looked to my left. 5 W 31. Henry Miller. I stood there. I wanted him to come out. But he's dead. I looked through the cracked window of the unkempt waiting room. A waiting room for what, I know not. But I didn't care. Because Henry Miller was there. Ferguson, and Miller himself, wrote that he did some of his writing while working at his dad's shop. I can't imagine I'll be giving up this route anytime soon. That was the moment. And tonight on the train ride home, something to relate to:

By his own account, most of the writing he did at this period was in his own head. Going to work he would take the elevated line from Brooklyn across the bridge each day, get off at Delancey Street and walk the rest of the way to 5th Ave. and 31st Street, all the while planning the books and plays he was going to write when he got the time, when he had the talent, when he was ready, when the weather was better, when the pencil was sharper, when the pages were all numbered and after he'd cleaned his shoes. Some writers run into a block once they've said all they had to say, but Henry had the block even before he started.