A guy sat down on the bench right next to me. On the same particular bench I was sitting on. With no metal divider to separate us. No metal arm rest delimiter to comfort me. This brash man had a sketch book and a felt-tip pen. The sketch book appeared to be about four inches by six inches in size. The pen was a Sharpie. He made a quick sketch of the scene in front of our bench. People sitting on the steps of the pedestal of the flowing fountain in the center of this small gem of a park. And the trees and building in the distance.
I refused to brandish my notebook and ball point pen in the presence of the old fart with the Sharpie. It was bad enough that he had surprised me with my Susan Howe Souls of the Labadie Tract wide open to the poem "118 Westerly Terrace". I had to abandon my idea of pulling out my Dixon Ticonderoga Black #2 pencil and trace the forms created on the pages of Susan Howe's book by the modulations of sunlight and tree shade right on the pages, pages speckled with tiny dots of black ink, apparent printing plant imperfections.
I saw Japhy Ryder at the Knitting Factory in New York City last night. I enjoyed seeing some of the regulars from other NYC gigs in the crowd. I got the tour of their new Econoline van after the show before they departed for Connecticut. Their "Trampled Under Foot" was right on. - Uncle (illegal alien from Santababylonia) Jed.