It’s 79 degrees in my apartment. Hot. The ball of my foot is aching and blistered inside my cons chucks. Back from skating at Chelsea Park, where the sun shears down relentless. I’m sleepy, I can’t concentrate. Directly outside there are workmen. They have devices pinned to their ears. They are knocking chunks out of the basement below me, making the floor shake gently. They are hefting concrete debris into a dumpster. There are sirens. In the news another crane has collapsed uptown and killed somebody and injured some other people. Some website tells me about shootings in my neighbourhood. It’s 79 degrees in my apartment. Hot. Harvey Korman is dead, dead, gone. Known less for the Star Wars Holiday Special and more for the ever-loved Blazing Saddles. Danieru identified me as a spurmo, which sounds like something unpleasant from Futurama. I take my camera out onto 23rd to try and capture Manhattanhenge amid the Friday night screechers. The sundown is covered with clouds. Sun is gone. 79 degrees, debris, dead, gone. Hot.
{ 30 05 2008 }
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