 A Coney Island Mermaid Pils — whatever Pils means — just a light, refreshing beer at Whiskey River after the gym, the kind that goes down easy when the night is winding itself toward quiet. Night Walks Thresholds
If beer were the only alcohol in the world, I wouldn’t drink much at all. Two Coney Island Mermaids went down easy—bright, crisp, unexpectedly good—but somewhere in the middle of the third, gifted by the bartender as a parting gesture, my body refused. Full. Bloated. Done. The bar was closing anyway, and only a handful of us remained. In that thinning, something shifted. A small fellowship formed—unlikely, unplanned, but unmistakably real. We discovered that we all talk to ourselves, and not in the first person but in the second. “You need to calm down.” “You’re doing fine.” “You’re going to regret that tomorrow.” Once spoken aloud, it became a shared quirk, a mirror held up to each of us. Instead of embarrassment, it sparked recognition—an odd, intimate bond. Then something whisked through the door. A draft, maybe. Or maybe not. It carried the sensation of someone entering—a presence, a shadow, a memory brushing past. It made me wonder about Whiskey River’s past. What stories lived in these walls when Peekskill was still a village in the Town of Cortlandt, long before it became a city with its own pulse? Walking home, Peekskill was falling asleep. P&K dark. Birdsall dark. Only a few figures drifting out of Gourmet Deli, the last flicker of activity on that side of town. Somewhere in that quiet, something in me loosened. The old turmoil with Joaquin—the ups, the downs, the messiness that once felt so heavy—no longer clung to me. It wasn’t denial; it was release. A soft, unforced clarity. I realized I was over it. Not in bitterness, but in peace. The night had turned a page for me. It felt, unmistakably, like a brand new day.
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 I spent the early part of the day with people I never wanted to be around in the first place — wounded souls who cling to company, dependency, and drama because it’s all they know. I went only to help someone who needed help I couldn’t give, and somehow, I still became the villain when I tried to leave. Even after I fed him because he was hungry, drove him to get what he wanted — cigarettes, nothing more — he turned on me, angry that I wouldn’t stay in that cramped world with him. Their talk was all bitterness, false accusations, and black‑and‑white thinking, a place where truth goes to die. And then, as if the universe wanted to remind me who I really am, I walked into Whiskey River and found my people — the ones who welcome me with open arms, who tell stories of the past to strangers, who live in color and possibility. Their laughter felt like the crickets I once hated on Decatur Avenue, the ones I eventually grew to love, the chorus that carried me to sleep. Tonight, that sound returned in a different form — the sound of belonging. Age has taught me this: I know exactly who I don’t want in my life, and I know who I want completely. Tonight made the divide unmistakable — Hell in the people whose world is small, bitter, and built on false accusations, and Heaven in the ones whose minds are open, curious, and unafraid of possibility. Later, when “Silent Running: Can You Hear Me” began playing on its own — the first song I heard after the death of the man I loved — I understood the day had been speaking to me all along. I hear you, Paul...  Some days stack themselves so high you can barely see over them. Writing deadlines, errands, fasting, prayer — all of it demanding attention at once. Something had to give, and today it was my usual daytime gym session. There simply wasn’t a spare hour to squeeze it in. So the gym waited… and waited… until I finally walked through the doors at 10:30 p.m., which absolutely qualifies as “late night” in my world.
And what a world it was. The place was packed — at least twenty‑five young men, all radiating that unmistakable “Bad Bunny” swagger. A few women floated among them, including one in a pink outfit so tight I briefly wondered if she had been sewn into it. There were also a few “Mary types,” though unless your radar is tuned to the right frequency, you might miss them entirely. The energy was electric. People climbed, strutted, flexed, and lifted with such ferocity that their grunts ricocheted off every mirror and pane of glass. With all those reflections multiplying every movement, there was no escaping the spectacle. And I’ll admit it — as I listened to the chorus of grunts, my mind drifted somewhere it probably shouldn’t have. Is this how they sound in more intimate settings? The thought made me laugh out loud as I ran my heart out on the treadmill. Then it got even more surreal. One of the Bad Bunny types hopped onto the treadmill right beside me, all swagger and cologne. Meanwhile, Donald Trump flickered silently on the gym’s television, completely ignored. No one cared. The real show was the music, the banter, the youthful bravado pulsing through the room. There’s no question: testosterone peaks at Anytime Fitness after dark. And now that I’ve seen the late‑night version of this place — the jungle it becomes, the characters it reveals — I have to admit… I kind of loved it.  Towns have their own barometers, their own emotional climate, and sometimes the people are more dramatic than the storm. Every town has its own emotional weather—an atmosphere you can feel long before you check a forecast. Peekskill has taught me that.
John Steinbeck once wrote in The Pearl: “How news travels through a town is a mystery not easily to be solved… faster than women can call it over the fences.” He understood how a place hums with shared awareness, how information and feeling ripple through a community like a quiet current. Lately, that current has been buzzing with warnings. If you listen to the news, the entire Northeast—New York City at its center—seems to be bracing for catastrophe, with dire predictions of a blizzard barreling in on Sunday. The tone is apocalyptic. But yesterday told a different story. Sunlight broke through. The grass in Pugsley Park appeared for the first time in weeks. A young boy chased a cluster of Canadian Geese off the newly revealed green, laughing as they lifted into the air. It was such a simple, ordinary moment—yet it cut straight through the drama of the forecasts. And that’s the truth of living in a town: the weather on the ground, the mood in the streets, the small human scenes unfolding in real time often tell a more honest story than any headline. Sometimes the town itself is the best forecast.  Johnsonville, SC, as Alicetown, Georgia, in Painted People Story. It’s late again — well past the bewitching hour — and like every other night owl wandering around their apartment instead of sleeping, I’m still awake, tending to small tasks before finally giving in. Oddly enough, I sleep better from 6 a.m. to 1 p.m. than during the hours the world insists are meant for rest. Seven hours never feels like seven hours anymore. I need more than that these days.
I try not to dwell too much on age or the strange process of growing older, especially since I never expected to see forty. Yet here I am — this old body still moving along, while so many people and places exist now only as memory. Progress on Painted People For the first time, I’m genuinely satisfied with where Painted People is heading. That’s not something I say lightly. In my imagination, I’m back in Georgia — in Johnsonville, the town that shaped me and now serves as the bones of my fictional Alicetown. And I have to admit: I’m enjoying the story as it unfolds. It feels alive in a way it hasn’t in years. Below is a small sample from the latest work — a scene I’m finally proud to share. Painted People — Sample Alicetown, Georgia wasn’t the kind of place that let go of its dead. The red clay roads, the leaning pines, the sagging porches — everything seemed to hold the memory of those who’d passed through and those who’d passed on. As Travis followed Miss Etha Lee up the steps of her trailer, the air felt thick enough to swallow. The confrontation with Tyrone still clung to him like sweat, but something heavier pressed in now — a sense that whatever truth he’d come seeking was waiting inside, patient and unblinking, ready to strip away whatever illusions he had left. Once inside the warm trailer house, the woman slammed the door and swished ahead of him, studying him up and down, her fingers tapping the snuff‑swollen side of her jaw. “Well, ya ain’ so weak kneed an’ dat uggy,” she nodded, “an’ ya ain’ necessarily look lak one o’ thom funny fallas I sees up in At lanta. I thinks ya be righ’ phine fir a lily skin boy. But chile, ya needs som’ grits on yar ribs. Don’t ya eat out dere in California?” “Yes ma’am, I eat all the time.” “Den where ’bouts ya put it?” “You mean food?” “Yep — de food ya gotta eat ta live!” “Well, I chew it, swallow it down my thro—” “Chile! It can’t be gawn nowhere. I see I be havin’ ta fatten ya up ’fore ya leave dis house. No one — ’specially a man — oughta be dat poh.” “But I’m not skinny, ma’am.” “Ya is poh, chile. Now let me take yar suitcase an’ ya sat yar sef righ’ down on dat chair ’til I gits back an’ fix us som’ o’ momma’s good ole stemmin’ black coffee and den a hearty breakfast.” Travis cleared his throat and handed her the suitcase. His lip throbbed. His chest still felt tight from Tyrone’s grip — shame, fear, and something else he didn’t want to name. She started out, then swirled back. “Yar neck ain’ botherin’ ya none now, is it chile?” “No ma’am,” he said, touching his mouth. “It’s my lip. The skin’s broken. It stings a little, but I’ll be all right.” “I get ya some ice ta keep de swellin’ down. I guess ya jest shook up afta big ole Ty rone gots hold of ya.” “Yes ma’am. I expect I was a bit taken back.” “Well, dat’s over wit now, chile. What’s done is done. Ty rone awright. He jest upset. He wuz crazy ’bout his big brother Clarence. An’ seein’ Clarence die de poor way he lef dis earth — hurt him. But once ya gits ta know my babie boy, ya gots yarsef a sure enuf friend fir life. Ya hear me, chile?” “Yes ma’am,” he said, clearing his throat again. “And I’ll hear you even better once you get some ice for my lip and put that coffee on.” “Ya got a mighty fine point dere, chile. I jest can’t git gawning lessin’ I have my strong black coffee. It’s kinda like wontin’ a strong black man ’round. I’m always needin’ a good one ta hold an’ squeeze me in his thick arms, but he ain’ never ’round when de spell hits me. Now I reckon you know righ’ well what I’m talkin’ ’bout, chile?” “Yes ma’am, I expect I do.”  A day of solitude, drag‑show memory, fasting, fog, and the small lessons that lift us. Guarding the Quiet Some days the urge to write arrives like a tide—steady, insistent, impossible to ignore. On those days, the smallest interruption feels like a theft. The solution is simple: shut the world out. Silence the phone. Close the door. Let solitude do its work. I’ve accepted that I’m no longer a “phone person.” I prefer to be seen on my own terms, not summoned by a ringtone or a blinking screen. The idea of being a “Zoomie”—someone who thrives on constant calls and video chats—has never appealed to me. I choose when I’m visible. Breaks, But Only the Necessary Ones Even on a writing day, a few breaks are unavoidable. Joaquin is the rare exception—he knows how to exist in my space without disturbing the current, even if he lingers at my bar a little too long. I let him be. The real break comes later, when the fog lifts and the rain gives up. That’s when I head to the gym. The air is still cold, but softer than before, and stepping outside resets something in me. Fasting and Preparation Today we’re fasting until sunset. Thankfully, everything is already slow‑cooking in the crock pot—a gift from a generous bartender at Whiskey River. That small act of kindness means I can write without worrying about food. When the fast ends, a warm meal will be waiting. A Story That Stays With You I’m finishing Amrou Al‑Kadhi’s You Made Me a Monster, a story that has had me laughing from start to finish. Al‑Kadhi writes about the moment his mother told him, at fifteen, “You’re not you, you’re me!”—a declaration that shook him to the core. Labeled a problem child, he spiraled through blackout weekends and bruised returns home. But drag saved him. Drag gave him glamour, power, and a way to turn fear into self‑expression. It let him reclaim the narrative. One line lingers with me: “And even as someone who makes a career out of confident provocation, I yearn for safety and normality too.” Looking at the old photo on the cover for this blog—one I took at a drag show in San Francisco—I’m reminded of the electricity that happens when someone steps fully into themselves. The lights, the glitter, the unapologetic presence—it’s the same energy Al‑Kadhi writes about, that moment when performance becomes power. Drag has a way of turning fear inside out, transforming it into something luminous. Even as an observer, I felt that charge, that sense of possibility. It’s a reminder that visibility can be both dangerous and divine. Safety, Community, and the Places We Call Home I understand that yearning. I love Peekskill, but it doesn’t always feel safe. The gay community here is quiet, often hidden. I’ve been verbally attacked by a stranger simply because of my walk. Even on good days, caution is part of the routine. New York City is different. There, anonymity is a kind of freedom. People don’t care who you are or where you come from. Here, visibility can still be dangerous. A Moment of Peace But then I look up through the fog and see a young eagle gliding toward the river. A small reminder to breathe. To smile. To keep going. These moments—unexpected, fleeting—are what anchor me. Funny how the universe works: a drag queen in San Francisco and a young eagle over the Hudson both teaching the same lesson — rise anyway.  George W. Bush's quote, "I know the human being and fish can coexist peacefully," was made during a speech in Saginaw, Michigan, on September 29, 2000. Reflections on Winter, Presidents Day, and the People Who Shaped Us The Beauty of Winter Mother Nature has been generous this year, giving me exactly what I wished for: a snow‑covered hill that has carried me through January and now well into February. This morning, a flutter of black birds—crows or ravens, I can never quite tell—performed their daily dance among the bare treetops and the tallest buildings downtown. It’s a small ritual, but one that fills me with joy. Snow still blankets everything. Another round fell around 2:00 AM, though by then I had already shut down the world and surrendered to sleep. I used to joke that the coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco, but that turned out to be a lie. The coldest winter I ever spent was the winter of 2026 in Peekskill, NY. And strangely, instead of dragging me into defeat or depression, this winter gave me life. It made me embrace the season rather than endure those bleak, snowless winters of brown and gray. Presidents Day and the Morning’s News Today is Presidents Day—a celebration of all 46 individuals who have served consecutively as U.S. presidents. And in the midst of that reflection came the news that Jesse Jackson has died. He was the one who helped popularize the term African American, a shift that carried cultural weight and dignity. Back in December 1988, he stood before the press and declared that the community preferred the term African American, emphasizing heritage, identity, and continuity. That moment changed the national vocabulary. It’s remarkable how a single voice can redirect the language of a country. Remembering Influential Figures We also lost one of my favorite actors—Robert Duvall. I remember him best as Boo Radley in To Kill a Mockingbird, in the haunting Twilight Zone episode “Miniature,” and later in Network, where he delivered yet another unforgettable performance. He was one of those actors who didn’t just play roles—he inhabited them. My Thoughts on Presidents Now, when it comes to presidents, my friends may think I’m out of my mind, but I always had a soft spot for George W. Bush. He was far from perfect, but he made me laugh—especially with those famous Bushisms. There was something endearing about the way his tongue would twist itself into knots. It reminded me of myself whenever I have to speak publicly. Words betray me just as easily. The Best of Bushisms Maybe that’s the secret to Mondays in retirement: letting the past of an old photo surprise you just enough to pull you into the day. Adjusting to a New Rhythm
Even after reminding myself—sometimes out loud—that I am retired and no longer expected to show up in the Financial District by 9 a.m., Mondays still arrive with their old weight. The body remembers what the mind tries to forget. I wake up groggy, disoriented, tempted to stay under the covers as if the commute still waits for me somewhere out there. It’s funny how deeply routine burrows into us, how long it lingers even after the job is gone. An Unexpected Lift This morning, in that half-awake haze, I opened my laptop with reluctance, hoping to find the file I needed. Instead, I stumbled onto something else—an old photograph buried deep in my archives. A saxophone player I met in the West Village nearly twenty years ago. The moment I saw it, something shifted. New York stopped feeling like a distant craving or a place I used to dream about. That photo reminded me of the exact moment I realized I wanted to belong to this city, to its pulse, its improvisations, its late-night corners where strangers become part of your story. The memories came rushing back—bright, warm, unashamedly joyful. And just like that, the heaviness of the morning loosened its grip. Nostalgia can be a kind of medicine when it arrives at the right time.  The alley wasn’t burning, though the camera insisted otherwise. It was only a light—ordinary, steady—but the lens transformed it into something feral, something alive. Maybe that’s why I kept the shot. It reminded me of those Tenderloin nights when nothing was quite what it seemed, and everything carried a pulse beneath the surface. Reflections on a Challenging Week
Some weeks arrive with a strange mix of clarity and confusion—highs that lift you, lows that knock the wind out of you. This one has been no exception. There were days I felt steady, even victorious, and others when I wished I had stayed under the covers and let the world spin without me. But life doesn’t pause for our moods. We get up, face what’s in front of us, and try to make peace with what’s missing. A Quiet City and Lost Work Dark clouds rolled over Peekskill today, and the city felt unusually still. The after‑school kids who usually flood Main Street were nowhere to be found—probably tucked away at home, or scattered between Field Library and the Youth Center. I stopped by the library myself, not to trouble Frank, who always prints things for me without hesitation, but to search for something I thought I had saved. Instead, I discovered the opposite: in a moment of distraction, I deleted everything. Gone. Just like that. Now I have to rebuild from scratch, and the weight of that loss sat with me longer than I expected. Lingering Thoughts and Unexpected Bonds Maybe that’s why my mind kept drifting back to last night—running into Salah, the warmth of that embrace, the way it lingered longer than it should have. Our bond has grown into something deeper than I ever anticipated. I’m not someone who lets people in easily; I keep my walls high until I feel safe. But once I do, everything shifts. Something about him has shifted things. The Painted People Story Most of my creative energy lately has gone into the Painted People Story. Some days, the characters feel so real that I have to remind myself they’re not living in the room with me. They breathe, argue, love, and unravel with such intensity that it feels like I’m carrying their emotions alongside my own. When it gets too heavy, I sit quietly and remind both them—and myself—that I’m still me, separate from their world. The cover image I attached today echoes the darker corners of their universe, especially the Tenderloin threads woven through their past. Those alleys and shadows are familiar to me in ways I don’t regret, even if they belonged to a version of myself I no longer inhabit. Weather and City Life Snow and rain traded places throughout the day, washing away some of the white still clinging to rooftops and sidewalks. But Peekskill’s hills remain treacherous—if you’re not wearing track shoes, prepare to slide your way through town. Emotional Connections and Cultural Pride I spent time with my best friend Emma today. She told me she cried during Bad Bunny’s Halftime show—tears of pride, of recognition. As a Dominican, seeing the performance open in a sugar cane field from the DR hit her deeply. And hearing how he refused to charge locals for tickets, boosting Puerto Rico’s economy by drawing tourists instead, only made her love him more. Her emotion was contagious. Apartment Life Outside, the cold bites. Inside, my apartment feels like a furnace. Even with the heat off, I have to keep the terrace door open and the windows cracked just to breathe. Winter on the street, summer in the living room.  Mangú by the window — the kind of breakfast that lifts the day before it even begins. Discovering Mangú
What exactly is Mangú, the dish we enjoyed for breakfast? My first taste came from Latin Deli & Grocery on Main Street in Peekskill, and I found it unexpectedly delightful. Mangú is a classic Dominican side dish made from mashed plantains, usually served with salami, eggs, fried cheese, and pickled red onions—though I still insist on calling them purple onions. It’s the kind of meal that warms you from the inside out, especially on a chilly Peekskill morning when you’re hiking the hills and need something hearty before burning it all off again. A Late Breakfast, Holiday Mood Since our breakfast was rather late, we chose beer instead of coffee—perfectly acceptable given the holiday atmosphere. Sitting inside the deli, sipping beer with Mangú, watching Peekskill residents drift in and out, felt like its own small celebration. With the recent addition of a Lottery Station, the deli has become even more of a downtown hub. The New Lottery Station I’m not personally drawn to gambling or buying lottery tickets—unless we’re talking about emotions and matters of the heart—but I did notice that the only other place to buy tickets nearby is Valley Brook, three blocks down. So Latin Deli’s new Lottery Station will surely be welcomed by those who enjoy the thrill of a scratch-off or a quick pick. The excitement around the lottery doesn’t resonate with me, but everyone has their own joys. Who am I to judge what entertains others when I have my own peculiar habits and fascinations? We all find pleasure in different ways, and there’s no harm in that. As for me, I’ll stick with the Mangú. And yes, I’ll keep buying my milk and vegetables there too. The owners and employees treat me well—shouldn’t I support them in return? Burger Diner: Almost Back On my walk, I noticed that most of the interior work at Burger Diner is nearly finished. Hopefully it will reopen soon. I remember eating my first Peekskill burger and fries there when I arrived from New York, knowing almost nothing about this town except that I had cousins here. I liked the atmosphere, the food, the simplicity of it. I ate there several times—even breakfast—before the fire about four years ago, back when I lived on Howard Street. Painted People Calling My buddy Frank printed out several pages of Painted People for me to reread and edit, and that will likely occupy most of my day after the gym and a walk along the waterfront to feed the birds. But it’s Painted People that’s calling. I’m eager to dive back in and see which character will finally bite the bullet I planted. Henry Slesar of The Edge of Night shaped me more than I realized; sometimes I think I’m just another Slesar character wandering through his own plot. The true essence of me—of Charles—is known only to us. From the Pages of Painted People He felt the boy’s breath warm against his cheek, a fleeting heat in the cold November dark, and for a moment he let himself believe the night might hold them gently. But when the boy pulled back, the shift was immediate—a flicker in his eyes, sharp and guarded, as if some private warning had passed through him. The look was brief, but it cut through the quiet like a blade, leaving Abel with a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. Love Plaza Speaking of weather, it’s cold but sunny and beautiful. I’m thinking of a moment with Joaquin, Mark, and a new acquaintance named Kevin as we stood chatting at the driveway entrance to Peekskill Plaza. Mark said Joaquin and I were two of his favorite people and that we should call that corner “Love Plaza.” We liked that. So that is our Love Plaza—where we stood, hugged, laughed, beside an empty but frozen can of Natural ICE beer, where we lived in the neighborhood. Seeds for a new novel are always being sown. The mind can’t help it. |
AuthorCHARLES PEARSON 
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