Charles
Journal
Charles
 Moon slipping behind the treetops—where silence meets snow and the world forgets its noise…yet history, like the moon, always returns. In the wee hours of the morning, the moon hung white against the black sky over Fort Hill—nearly full, with a scatter of distant stars, the brightest of which I imagine was Venus. That’s when the C.A.T.S. began their beeping. Incessant. Trucks grinding back and forth, noisily hauling away the inches of snow from my block. I was sure the businessmen would be pleased come daylight; less for them to shovel as they cleared the entrances to their shops from the street where the cars park. It always seems to benefit the drivers more than those of us who walk.
Because the freeze continues—cold as ice—the fallen snow has hardened into boulders. And yes, there are patches of ice just as frozen and twice as slippery, so make sure you’re wearing the right boots and not just sneakers when you head to the gym. It’s damn hazardous out there. All that noise, which normally doesn’t bother me at all, woke me at 4:00 a.m. I got up and ran to the window to take it all in. Hearing one of those C.A.T.S. scraping the pavement felt like watching that scene in The Grapes of Wrath—Henry Fonda standing helpless as the monstrous tractors tear down homes and farms, dust and debris swirling, one lone man fighting to stay in Oklahoma while everyone else flees for California. The scene outside my window had that same eerie, mysterious edge. The moon was dipping behind the treetops, beginning its descent, and the noise of the C.A.T.S. hadn’t stopped. The beeping was even louder than when I first woke. I had planned to dive into Painted People first thing…but as you can see, I’m blogging instead of arguing with Abel and Zeno and Ahab. The moon is nearly gone now, like an old friend saying farewell--I’ll see you tomorrow—and for a moment you feel a little sad at its leaving. Then the beeping snaps you back to the fact that things just keep moving on. So yes, I think I’ll go to the gym early today, get it out of the way, since I have so many other things planned…including finishing this article I stumbled upon about Sally Hemings and the side of slavery we rarely see in Hollywood—the stories of enslaved people who looked nearly white because of generations of forced interracial relationships. And so the day begins.
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 Covered in white—where love kneels and becomes the other. On the Eastside of New York, nestled within the vibrant folds of Harlem, Marcus Garvey Park rises like a quiet hymn. Its lookout tower stands sentinel atop a boulder that, in winter, masquerades as a hill—its dark surface peeking through a blanket of snow where the flurries fall gently, never in haste.
The city hums beyond the park’s edges, but here, time slows. Two lovers lie side by side on the snow-covered grass, facing one another. Their eyes meet in silence, and the world hushes to witness. Snowflakes descend like blessings, soft and slow, wrapping the moment in a kind of magic that only winter can conjure. They sit up for a time. Hoods and scarves drawn close, their faces hidden from the cold and from the city’s gaze. Kneeling in the snow, they turn toward each other—not with urgency, but with reverence. It is a posture of prayer, or perhaps worship. The kind of devotion found in all great love stories, where to love is to become the other. To see the beloved not as separate, but as mirror and myth. In this quiet, the snow covers everything—me, them, the benches, the boulder, the tower. Marcus Garvey Park becomes a cathedral of white. And in its nave, two lovers kneel, not to be seen, but to be known. This is Harlem’s offering. A love story not rare but woven into the fabric of its streets and parks. In a city that never sleeps, love still finds its pause. And in the hush of snowfall, it kneels.  Harlem in snowfall—where memory labors and Baldwin’s ghost walks with the shovelers. The Storm's Aftermath in New York City
The start of the great dig out was exhilarating—especially for someone new to New York and unaccustomed to witnessing such an intense storm unfold in just 24 hours. Rather than feeling overwhelmed, I found myself embracing every moment. Even when traversing certain parts of the city proved difficult, I pressed on and explored anyway. In Marcus Garvey Park, I saw a couple lying together in the snowstorm, occasionally sitting up to take selfies. They were well-prepared, bundled in insulated puffer coats and scarves. Nearby, parents watched as their children sledded down the park’s steep hillsides. On 125th Street, kids from less affluent backgrounds improvised with cardboard boxes, sliding joyfully through Harlem’s snowy streets. Groups of men, each armed with shovels, eagerly sought work—clearing inches of snow from brownstones and storefronts. The cold and snow couldn’t dampen New York’s spirit. The city carried on, undeterred, and that energy resonated deeply with me. In the Big Apple, people are always out and about, no matter the elements. Community Effort in Peekskill Peekskill mirrored that same spirit of resilience and collaboration. On Nelson Avenue and Central Avenue, large sections of road were closed so workers and volunteers could clear snow and assist stranded vehicles. The entire community seemed to rise together to meet the storm’s aftermath. A Sense of Belonging Witnessing these communal efforts was a sight to behold, and I feel grateful to be part of it. I’d gladly join the shoveling—just as I’ve done before, even when it meant blisters on my fingers. The shared determination and camaraderie in both New York City and Peekskill are inspiring, and they make me eager to contribute. As I finish this entry, I’m glad to see much of North Division Street and Nelson Avenue cleared. But the work continues, with another storm in the forecast for this weekend. And even now, tiny snowflakes are already dancing outside my window—fluttering like confetti in a winter carnival. Carnival is on my mind, thanks to Black Orpheus, the English-dubbed version I watched this morning. It kicked me into motion with smiling and a little dancing too, all before noon. And so, I return to fiction—indoors at my desk, where it’s warmer, and the snow keeps swirling like a samba of the season.  Winter’s hush at Lounsbury Pond—red berries bright against the silence, joy tucked in the branches Unexpected Connections and Lost Phones Today brought one of those small, surprising adventures that end up lingering longer than expected. It began with my visit to SunRiver, where my good friend Emma greeted me with the kind of laughter that instantly lightens the day. I had stopped by to give her her Christmas present before meeting my new doctor—an appointment I assumed would be routine. Instead, I found myself sitting across from a beautiful Indian woman who immediately upended my long‑held preference for male physicians. Within minutes, we were talking easily, discovering shared interests I never would have anticipated. She was poised, warm, and—let’s be honest—an absolute knockout. Only later did I learn that she isn’t just a doctor at SunRiver—she’s the doctor, the head physician above the others. Somehow, without even trying, I ended up connected with the very best. But our introduction was far from smooth. I was only half present, distracted by the sinking realization that I had misplaced my phone. I asked Emma to call it, but we heard nothing—not from my pockets, not from my bag. The thought of losing everything stored on that device was maddening. For a moment, I cared more about recovering that phone than the appointment itself, though thankfully the visit still went well despite my scattered state. The mystery resolved itself with a knock on the exam room door. Emma stepped in, phone in hand, triumphant. She had found it on the lobby seat where I’d been sitting earlier. And suddenly it all came back to me. Before the appointment, I had been browsing the free bookshelf, picking up two titles—including one by Richard Bachman (Stephen King always finds his way to me). That’s when a little boy in a green pants suit caught my attention. Normally, I’m not particularly fond of children, but this one—with his black hair, bright eyes, and stunning Latin American complexion—was irresistible. He broke away from his guardians and toddled straight toward me. I tried to ignore him at first, but he waved his tiny fingers and was seconds away from climbing into my lap. It must have been then that my phone slipped away. His older brother retrieved him, and I assured him the little one was cool before they disappeared around the corner. Emma’s Thoughtful Surprise Emma truly saved the day by returning my phone, but she also gave me something else—one of those moments that makes you laugh long after it’s over. The Meaning Behind the Gift When she opened her Christmas present, she became emotional in a way that caught me off guard. She realized how closely I had listened to her over time—her hopes, her small desires, the things she longed for but didn’t yet have. That’s what I wanted to give her: something simple, something meaningful, something hers. But before she unwrapped it, she thought—based on the way I had packaged it—that I was giving her my book. She believed I had finally finished Painted People and that she was holding the very first copy. The misunderstanding brought tears to her eyes. In truth, the book remains unfinished. Only God knows when Painted People, long overdue, will finally be complete. And yet, being in this new place, in this new season of my life, I feel closer to finishing it than ever. How could I not? Closing Funny how a misplaced phone, a kind friend, and a chance connection can remind you that life still knows how to surprise you when you least expect it.  Stillness and company — four sentinels on the ice, watching the season unfold. Of all the seasons, Peekskill is at its most stunning during winter. Snow blankets the hills and city streets, transforming the landscape into something hushed and cinematic. The only ones who don’t appreciate it are those tasked with shoveling it—stoic figures clearing sidewalks and storefronts while the rest of us marvel at the view. Christmas officially ended when my friend from California arrived and picked up his gift from beneath the tree. Two presents remain, waiting to be delivered before I finally take the tree down. I’ve come to realize that the past isn’t always as daunting as it once seemed—especially when it reappears, softened and free from the ache that used to accompany it. There’s comfort in seeing old memories refreshed, no longer heavy, but luminous. They offer reconciliation, a quiet hope, and a way forward. Before the rest of the weekend unfolded, I stopped into Birdsall House on Main Street and ran into Ronan from Whiskey River. A brief exchange, a familiar face, a small spark of continuity — the kind of moment that anchors a day before it drifts into something larger. Then the adventure began. Writing has been scarce these past few days. I managed a few sentences in Painted People, but no blog entries—just handwritten notes in my journal. It’s difficult to focus when hosting a houseguest, especially in a space as intimate as mine. Still, I cherished the time with my friends. They live far away, in the place that shaped me, and I wanted to savor every moment before they returned to the world I left behind. The snow did not disappoint. It began falling the day they arrived and continued into the next. We hiked through Depew Park and Blue Mountain Reservation, and I even walked across Lounsbury Pond—a frozen threshold known for its dam and the European water chestnuts that bloom in warmer months. I nearly reached the snowman couple someone had built, but my friend’s voice called out: “Charles, look—here’s a ladder and life preserver… You better be careful.” I turned back, reminded that beauty and caution often walk hand in hand. We had breakfast at the Peekskill Diner on Park Street at North Broad. I was struck by the atmosphere—walls adorned with canvas prints of old downtown parades and storefronts, including Woolworth’s and others long gone. The booths, with their gray backs and laminated cherry-wood tables, felt like time capsules. We ordered orange juice and cranberry—grapefruit wasn’t available—and skipped coffee, having already had plenty at home while watching the snow fall. Our meal: the Peekskill Diner Omelette with avocado, toast, and potatoes, and the Combo—two eggs any style, fluffy pancakes, bacon, sausage, and ham. The portions were generous, the prices surprisingly modest, and the service warm. One of the owners even stopped by to check in—a gesture that felt rare and genuine. I imagine the Peekskill Diner will remain a beloved fixture at the edge of downtown east for years to come. It’s more than a place to eat—it’s a place where memory lingers, where winter mornings unfold slowly, and where the past feels close enough to touch.  Crossing into winter’s hush — where memory waits beneath the snow.  The road curves through silence — one step at a time, the past lets go  Sledding Hill in Town of Cortlandt: Joy returns in boots and laughter — the hill remembers every child.  Cranberry and orange juice and canvas prints — breakfast at the edge of downtown in Peekskill Diner, where memory lingers in every booth.  Peekskill’s evergreen, laid to rest beneath an overcast sky. It stood for joy — now it bows to time. Joined a new gym and met a trainer named Angel — the kind of man who makes you forget why you walked in there in the first place. He’s got a romantic Spanish accent that rolls in warm and unhurried, big brown eyes that linger a second longer than expected, and biceps carved like they were meant to be admired. One session with him and suddenly the treadmill wasn’t the only thing raising my heart rate.
Maybe that’s why the cold feels sharper this week. Without snow, the nights have been colder, and inside the house the heat is warm enough but too humid, too heavy — the kind that makes you crack a window just to breathe. Too much heat makes me sluggish, irritable, restless. But even that discomfort feels like a blessing when I think back to last year in that basement apartment on Decatur Avenue. No matter how high the thermostat was turned, it never got warm. The landlord complained if we opened the windows — “I’m paying for heat,” he’d say — as if that solved anything. His patchwork fixes did nothing, and eventually the rodents came. A nightmare. I almost got a cat, but after Newman, I realized I didn’t want another creature depending on me. A pet is like a child, and I don’t want a child. I only want to take care of myself — and maybe him, if he were here. I would take care of him because I love him. I’ve tried to move on, but the truth is he’s the only one who remains constant. Everyone else feels temporary, passing through like weather. A man fulfills his needs when circumstances require it — so be it when there’s no commitment. It makes me wonder about myself. Am I polygamous, or have I simply not found anyone who stays? He’s the only one I know who would stay and never go — the only one I’d want to stay and never leave. And yet he isn’t here, not physically. He’s 6,843 miles away, living in my heart instead of my home. But he’s with me always, a presence that doesn’t fade. Life goes on in its small, ridiculous ways. Grocery shopping, for instance. Some of us are terrible at it — especially now that you have to bag your own items. This morning at C‑Town, the clerk started bagging for me, but a man behind me seemed in a rush, so I told her it was fine. That meant I wasn’t paying attention, and of course I left something behind: tofu. It’s probably long gone by now. In a place as busy as C‑Town, who remembers tofu? On my way there, half awake but warmed by a message from Saleem — laughing at how cold I said I was last night — I saw workers removing the Peekskill Christmas tree. I stopped to take pictures. The sight made me unexpectedly sad. That tree spent years growing, only to be cut down, decorated, admired, and then dismantled, chopped, and recycled into mulch. It reminded me of Soylent Green — a strange association, but the mood fit. The whole scene felt as dreary as the overcast sky hanging over the city. And somehow all of it — Angel’s accent, the heat in the house, the memory of Newman, the man I love across the world, the forgotten tofu, the dismantled tree — belongs to the same day. The mind doesn’t move in straight lines. It loops, it leaps, it lingers. It remembers what it wants to remember. And today, this is where it wandered.  Peekskill, Past Last Call Crown Fried Chicken really was tasty — at least, I think it was. After several martinis at Whiskey River, it’s hard to say exactly what my taste buds were doing at that hour. All I know is I found half a box in the fridge this morning, so clearly I enjoyed myself. The atmosphere at CFC is always part of the charm: employees joking with each other, people drifting in and out for takeout, and a few regulars holding court at the small tables on Main Street overlooking Bank Street. I’ve been to the Harlem location before, and now the one here in Peekskill, and honestly? I’d rate it above KFC — and at a better price. From Baltimore to Jersey, Harlem to The Bronx, and all the way up to Peekskill, CFC has earned its reputation for crispy, crave‑worthy chicken. It’s often compared favorably to its competitors, and the menu goes beyond poultry: burgers, subs, milkshakes, and halal options round out the lineup.  After Whiskey River, Comes the Crown — where memory meets midnight hunger, and the mural watches over it all.  After houss hunger, murals, and the myth of Peekskill  Where the Night Ends (and the Chicken Begins)  CFC: Where martinis fade and memory sharpens  Saturday night at Whiskey River — packed as usual. Met a crew of Eagle fans, including Vicky, who swore Jalen Hurts had made her a believer. “America’s new team,” she said, eyes lit. I stayed loyal to my 49ers, like Vicky’s mother, who wasn’t there but would’ve had my back. The martinis were flowing, the TVs blaring, and the debate over hot quarterbacks was very much alive.  That martini at Whiskey River was so smooth I could’ve had three more — but I didn’t. Victoria’s mixology ranks right up there with Ronan and Nathan G. A top-tier trio, no doubt.  Found in the fridge this morning — box upside down, one last piece clinging to the corner. The chicken was still good, the mashed potatoes and gravy even better. Midnight goo, morning grace.   This is what it looks like—when manipulation masquerades as need. Personal Reflections
Sometimes, when I sit down to write these personal thoughts, I worry they might come across as mean‑spirited. That’s never my intention. I don’t hate anyone—not even the people I have no desire to see again. Some relationships simply run their course, and when they do, the healthiest thing is to let them go without regret. That’s how I try to live: not clinging to the past when there’s nothing left to gain or learn. It surprises me that, even with all these tangled experiences and memories, I’m still able to keep blogging and continue writing Painted People. The chaos of those characters swirls in my mind—especially now as I contemplate Zeno’s hunger, a drive so unlike my own yet endlessly fascinating. This issue has been simmering for a long time, but it resurfaced sharply after my return to Painted People. My discomfort isn’t rooted in dislike for the individual involved; it’s the persistent attempts at manipulation that unsettle me. At first, their motives seem sincere, even warm. But the moment alcohol enters the picture, everything shifts. The cycle resumes, and I find myself listening—again and again—to stories about what’s been taken from them. These tales repeat so often they become almost unbearable. Examples of Manipulative Requests This person frequently expects you to run errands or handle tasks for them—going to the store, buying cigarettes, picking up items they frame as if you need them. In return, you’re offered a couple of dollars, which in 2026 barely covers anything. Then come the more personal favors: fixing their phone, deleting their messages, even cleaning their house. The “payment” is minimal, sometimes literally pressed into your hand or pocket, or balled up and tossed on the floor for you to fetch—as if you were a dog. That’s where the line finally draws itself. These constant demands become exhausting. They wear you down. Recurring Narratives and Emotional Pressure What troubles me further is the repeated boasting about their past achievements. The stories grow grander with every drink: “I was head of my department! They hired me right after high school. The girls were jealous. I was valedictorian. My mother was so proud…” Everyone present knows these stories aren’t true, yet we let them slide. We enable the cycle. We allow the manipulation to continue because challenging it feels like stepping into a storm. Trying to Understand the Behavior In trying to make sense of all this, I did some reading—not to label anyone, but to understand the patterns so I could avoid falling into them again. One description struck me: “When a person tries to buy your time to keep you around longer than you want, it can be a manipulative tactic to monopolize your attention and create a power imbalance.” That resonated deeply. It mirrors what I’ve experienced, though I choose not to name the individual out of respect for their privacy. Impact and Coping I continue to show kindness, but the wasted time has become draining. It leaves me feeling low, especially when I’d rather be anywhere else than stuck in a toxic environment that refuses to change. And somehow, no matter what I do, I end up cast as the villain. Writing this isn’t about revenge or bitterness. It’s about clarity. It’s about reclaiming my time, my peace, and my sense of self. It’s about recognizing when a pattern is unhealthy—and choosing not to step back into it.  Just as the fog lifts, the world still turns. As the fog lifts… A mystery writer, having slept in after a late night of revision and rumination, emerges between forbidden lines-- coffee in hand, bald head ashy, and half a sentence still clinging to his skin. The hillside whispers secrets. The rooftops remember. And somewhere in the mist, the next chapter waits to be written.  It always amuses me that certain dishes—salads especially—taste infinitely better when someone else makes them. Whenever I prepare one at home, I lose interest halfway through; mine always land on the plate a little too dull, a little too dutiful.
A bartender at Whiskey River once shared her secrets for making salads more exciting, the tricks she uses for her own. Maybe one day I’ll try them. For now, I’ll keep admitting the truth: the salads at Whiskey River have a magic my Charles Pearson–style attempts simply do not. A Sunday at Whiskey River Yesterday I found myself back at Whiskey River, where the regulars drifted in like familiar characters entering a scene. The important ones appeared just as I settled into a Caesar salad with shrimp and an old fashioned—so much for “dry January.” Clearly I’m not ready for that particular discipline. If I do decide to stop drinking, I may wait for February. It’s a shorter month, after all. Conversations and Company Talking with the owners, Cynthia and Patrick, is always a pleasure; I enjoy them both as friends and as a couple. Ronan was his usual whirlwind of chatter and energy, somehow aware of everything happening in the room at once. Paul arrived looking almost unrecognizable with his longer, fuller hair—at first glance, he could have passed for a rock star. He greeted me in that deep voice of his, and for the first time I saw him with his family. Meanwhile, the Giants were apparently doing their best to lose to the Cowboys to secure the first draft pick—this according to Dave, another friend and fellow writer, who delivers sports commentary with the same dry wit he brings to his prose. A Quiet Winter Day Sunday carried an odd energy. It didn’t feel like a Sunday at all—more like a Monday disguised in weekend clothes, perhaps because of the break from Thursday’s holiday. The day unfolded quietly, a welcome pause for anyone seeking simplicity in the colder months. Outside, the world had turned into a winter postcard, complete with Canadian Geese who, instead of migrating south, decided to stay put. Watching them made me think about how weather is always a personal experience; each of us feels it differently. And not every writer needs to channel László Krasznahorkai or chase prizes on Earth. Sometimes it’s enough to sit with the snow, the stillness, and the small stories that drift through a winter day. |
AuthorCHARLES PEARSON
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