 Only in New York does a statue look like he’s judging your life choices and rooting for you at the same time. Holden Caulfield has always struck a chord with me. Every time I pick up J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye, I end up grinning. Something about Holden’s honesty, his sarcasm, the way he sizes up the world—it all reminds me of my own youth. I remember believing I knew more than anyone else, especially my parents. Back then, everyone seemed phony. I was constantly searching for the real thing, hunting for authenticity in a world that felt fake.
And every time I reread Salinger, one memory always rises to the surface. There was a guy in my class—the first one to grow a beard. The one who shocked all of us by scoring nearly 1600 on his SAT when all of us had written him off as a dumb jock because he played football, wasn't even good at it and was just big. He’d been born in Germany back when Germany was still West Germany, and that beard of his—reddish, almost copper—made his blue eyes blaze in a way that felt both foreign and magnetic. I admired him, maybe even had a crush on him because he was big and confident; I was skinny and shy. But he carried himself with a quiet intelligence that didn’t need to announce itself. Somehow, he understood me. He noticed how I stared at him and seemed to know exactly what I was feeling—maybe before I knew it myself. Gym class was always the worst for me. I hated the locker room—the noise, the swagger, the way the other boys peeled off their clothes without a second thought. I always felt too thin, too shy, too aware of myself. He, on the other hand, moved through that space like he owned it. Confident. Broad‑shouldered. Effortlessly at ease in his body in a way I couldn’t imagine for myself. One afternoon, when most of the guys had already cleared out, he caught me lingering by my locker, pretending to tie my shoes for the third time. He walked over, that reddish beard catching the fluorescent light, and before I could react, he backed me gently against the row of cold metal lockers. Not rough—just close. Close enough that I could feel the warmth of him, close enough that my breath caught in my throat. He looked at me with those blazing blue eyes, like he could see straight through the layers I tried so hard to hide behind. Then he leaned in, his voice low enough that only I could hear it, and said that one day he’d give me exactly what I wanted. I froze. I didn’t know how to answer, didn’t even know how to breathe. I was terrified to admit it, but I understood him perfectly. The excitement was overwhelming—confusing, electric, unforgettable. That moment carved itself into me. It was the first time someone saw me, really saw me, in a way I didn’t yet know how to see myself. Even now, I sometimes imagine the roles reversed—me, no longer that skinny kid, pushing him back against the lockers with the same quiet confidence he once used on me. Not out of revenge, but out of recognition. Out of the strange, tender symmetry of growing into the person I once wished I could be. Holden always triggers memories like this. He makes me reflect on my longing for connection, my search for truth, and the confusion of adolescence. His obsession with phonies echoes my own judgments, my own awkward attempts to figure out who I was supposed to be. I still feel that sense of boyhood longing. This morning, I laughed at a passage from Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye because it felt so familiar. I was surrounded by jerks. I’m not kidding. At the tiny table to my left, nearly on top of me, there was a funny-looking guy and a funny-looking girl. He was the most boring person I ever listened to. It was clear his date wasn’t even interested in the game. But she looked even funnier than he did, so I guess she had to listen. Real ugly girls have it tough. I feel sorry for them sometimes. Sometimes I can’t even look at them, especially if they’re with some dopey guy telling them all about a football game. On my right, the conversation was even worse. There was a Joe Yale-looking guy in a gray suit and a flitty-looking Tattersall vest. All those Ivy League bastards look the same. My father wants me to go to Yale or maybe Princeton, but I swear I wouldn’t go to an Ivy League college if I was dying. Anyway, this guy had a terrific-looking girl with him. She was really good-looking. But their conversation was ridiculous. Both were slightly drunk. The guy was giving her a feel under the table while talking about someone in his dorm who ate a whole bottle of aspirin and nearly committed suicide. His date kept saying, “How horrible…Don’t, darling. Please, don’t. Not here.” Imagine giving somebody a feel and talking about suicide at the same time. It killed me. I started to feel like a prize horse’s ass, sitting there all alone. There was nothing to do except smoke and drink…
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 Not madness, just Monday — and the world slightly ajar. Imagine walking down the street on a beautiful spring morning. March is ending, April is near—even if the air hasn’t gotten the memo yet. It’s chilly, but in your mind it’s already spring. The cool air tingles against your face, waking you up a little more with every step. You’re out early, running errands, enjoying the quiet. Maybe you need half & half or a Bavarian roll—nothing urgent, just enough purpose to justify the stroll.
You’re feeling good, wearing fewer layers than you have in weeks. There’s a briskness to the air, like that blast you get when you open a freezer door in a warm kitchen. You cut through the garage, your usual shortcut from Park Street to Nelson Avenue. That’s when you notice the same car you saw before—back passenger door still hanging open. This time, curiosity nudges you closer. You wonder if someone’s inside—passed out, or worse—though you’d never expect to stumble onto a crime scene. You’ve heard stories about Peekskill, sure, but you’ve never witnessed anything yourself. Still, you stay alert, even on the safest-seeming days, and especially if you indulged a bit the night before. No one’s there. The car is quiet except for a baby seat in the back. You picture a parent juggling bags, bottles, and a stroller, forgetting to close the door in the morning rush. It happens. You’ve left your own front door open before. After making sure everything seems fine, you gently close the car door and continue on your way. As you walk, your thoughts drift to March Madness. You haven’t kept up with the tournament this year, but seeing that UConn shocked Duke and is heading to the Men’s Finals made you smile. And on the women’s side, you’re eager to see whether South Carolina can push past TCU tonight and make their seventh Final Four since 2015. There’s something about these spring rituals—morning walks, basketball upsets, the sense of new beginnings—that brings a little extra energy to the season.  Whiskey River uniform — worn like a memory, poured like a confession. When I think back to my younger days, I remember a time when energy felt limitless and the thrill of the night called to me without fail. New to San Francisco and still very green, I threw myself into the whirlwind of late‑night adventures. Living up on Twin Peaks, I’d simply roll down the hill to the Castro, hopping from bar to bar until last call at 2 a.m., only to be swept into the electric pulse of South of Market — or, God help me, Collingwood Street or Ringold Alley after dark. Sleep was an afterthought, a brief intermission before the curtain rose on another day.
Looking back, I marvel at how easily I juggled a demanding 9‑to‑5 job with those wild nights. It became a point of pride to walk into work a little bleary‑eyed but ready to tackle paperwork, meetings, and whatever chaos the day threw at me. My boss — always a blonde, always perceptive — knew exactly what I’d been up to and never cut me any slack. If anything, she pushed me harder. Somehow, I thrived in that madness. There was a kind of invincibility to it. I’d laugh off the fatigue, work twice as hard, and count the hours until I could collapse into bed for a nap before starting the cycle all over again. Of course, those days didn’t last forever. The mind remembers the thrill, but the body has… other opinions. There’s a bittersweet nostalgia now — a longing for those nights when the city felt like mine and exhaustion was just another challenge to conquer. I miss the reckless camaraderie, the laughter echoing through darkened streets, and the sense that anything could happen after midnight. And often enough, it did. These days, my adventures are more sporadic, quieter, and far more deliberate — like the occasional lively evening at Whiskey River with a certain Irish friend who has the uncanny ability to turn an ordinary night into something unforgettable. He brings an energy that almost convinces me those old days aren’t gone. Almost. But after a night like that, it takes more than a cup of coffee to bounce back. I need the whole next day — sometimes more — and I’m not ashamed to admit it. It’s not a hangover anymore; it’s a deep, bone‑level exhaustion that politely reminds me I’m no longer twenty‑five. The biggest shift, though, is moving from working for someone else to working for myself. Back then, I had to summon every ounce of energy to survive the office grind. Now, the pace is my own. There’s freedom in not feeling rushed, in letting projects unfold in their own time. I decide when I start, when I stop, and how hard I push. There’s a quiet satisfaction in that — a sense of control and acceptance that was missing when every day felt like a race. Sometimes I miss the thrill. I miss feeling unstoppable, certain the night held endless possibilities. But with that nostalgia comes a new appreciation for the slow, gentle rhythm of my life in Peekskill. My memories are scattered like clothing after a wild night — each one a reminder of who I was and how far I’ve come. I laugh at the image of myself waking up on a Sunday morning, piecing together the previous night’s escapades from the trail I left behind. And in the quieter moments, I reflect on the deeper lessons. Even when I stumble, I trust that mercy outweighs judgment, and that growth lies in moving forward, not looking back with regret. The journey from endless nights to peaceful mornings has taught me to savor both the wild and the restful — to celebrate change as a sign of living fully and honestly. That, more than anything, is what personal growth means to me.  The original name of The Secret Storm (a CBS 1950s-1970s soap opera) was The Storm Within. The title was changed to "The Secret Storm" after the sponsor, Bromo-Seltzer, expressed concerns about the title's association with upset stomachs. (Wikipedia) I’m not saying I’m the best cook, but when it comes to food safety, I at least try to behave like a responsible adult. Which is why my current situation is entirely my own fault. I ate something in someone’s house that I absolutely should’ve known better than to touch. But there I was, trying to be polite when what I really should’ve said was, “Oh, I’m on a diet,” or “I’ve taken a vow of fasting,” or even, “My doctor says I can only eat air before noon.”
But no — kindness won. And I accepted the meal. A simple burger, I thought. What could go wrong. Well, plenty. Especially when you know the cook has a… let’s call it a relaxed relationship with refrigeration. I already suspected the meat had spent a little too much time out in the wild before being tucked away. And sure enough, my stomach confirmed it. The result? The kind of sickness no one wants to discuss but everyone understands. Let’s just say I’ve become very aware of my digestive system’s hopes, dreams, and immediate needs. Mild, thank God — but still not ideal on a day when I have to be out of town and pretending to be a functioning human being. Thankfully, modern medicine has invented things for exactly this scenario. So that’s the plan: take one of those things and pray I don’t have to excuse myself every five minutes during an appointment. Sometimes kindness comes at a price. Today, that price is… urgency.  A town in watercolor — traffic hums, clouds linger, and something inside begins again. Already the day has begun, and it carries a different weight than yesterday. Low, heavy clouds drift overhead, promising more rain—even if only a thin, persistent drizzle. The air is cool but no longer sharp, softened from the harsher mornings earlier this spring. Traffic hums steadily through the streets; headlights glow in the gray light, not quite necessary, yet catching on the damp air all the same.
People move with purpose—bundled against the chill, gathering at corners, striding toward work or whatever early destination calls them. Watching the morning unfold from my window, I feel the familiar quiet settle in, the kind that lets me take stock of myself. These small, unremarkable moments have helped me recover from a stretch of deep exhaustion. I prayed. I wrote. And finally, I allowed myself the rest I had been resisting. Somewhere in that stillness, the thoughts I’d misplaced in fatigue found their way back to me. This morning, I feel renewed. Clearer. More myself. Perhaps some of us are simply built for solitude. I’m beginning to accept that I’m one of them—someone who gathers strength alone, away from the noise and the subtle pressures of other people’s moods. Not out of avoidance, but because the quiet is where I return to who I am.  Peekskill is painted. By weather. By memory. By the faces you see twice in one afternoon. By the stories that cling to the river fog. By the quiet, by the awkwardness, by the warmth. Peekskill is a place where intimacy and privacy walk hand in hand, shaping daily life in ways that cities like New York or San Francisco simply can’t replicate. Here along the Hudson, tucked inside this little enclave wrapped by Cortlandt, keeping a comfortable distance from your neighbors isn’t just possible — it’s practically a requirement for anyone who values solitude, especially writers.
Unlike the ceaseless anonymity of New York City, where running into the same person twice in a day feels like a statistical impossibility, Peekskill moves at a slower, more deliberate rhythm. Faces repeat. Patterns form. You’re bound to bump into the same locals more than once, sometimes within the same afternoon. That closeness means you can count your lovers on one hand — a feat unimaginable in sprawling urban landscapes where encounters blur together and memories fade until you’re not sure how many there even were. And that familiarity extends beyond romance. After a night out and a few martinis, you might wake up somewhere unexpected or remember saying something you wish you could take back — an experience that’s both humbling and oddly comforting in a town where everyone knows your name, your habits, and your history. There’s no disappearing here. You live with your choices, and somehow that makes them matter more. As for writing — while my Painted People Story is coming together at its own pace rather than mine, the beast is at least taking shape, molded by the peculiar rhythm of small‑town life. There’s something about Peekskill’s intimate atmosphere, its blend of privacy and connection, that grounds you. It gives every story, every regret, every triumph a texture you can’t find anywhere else. The warmth, the quirks, the accidental confessions, the awkward run‑ins — they all add up to a life that’s deeply personal and undeniably real. For a writer seeking authenticity, Peekskill is a surprisingly perfect home.  Another Painted Person waking up on the canvas — even in 2026, still asking to be seen. And so the story goes on. After a month‑long break, I’m finally returning to the Painted People Story. What began as a modest idea decades ago has grown into a sprawling, intricate creature — a monster that evolves year after year. Its complexity deepens because the characters, much like myself, are always reaching for freedom in a monstrous world.
Writing isn’t quick for some of us — myself in particular. It unfolds slowly: word by word, sentence by sentence, paragraph by paragraph. Yes, there is an outline. Yes, there is a plot. But Painted People is a character‑driven world, and characters have a way of revealing new truths when you least expect it. Sometimes, after weeks away from the draft, a detail or a voice appears as if it had always been waiting there, insisting on its place in the story. And suddenly, entire chapters must shift to make room for it. Those changes ripple backward, syncing with earlier events — especially those in Chapter 1 — so the narrative remains whole. A creator’s work is never truly finished… until the moment it is. Every story has a beginning, a long and winding middle, and eventually, an end. No matter how slow the journey, the ending must come. With each return to the manuscript — whether it’s the second time or the hundredth — the story sharpens. Characters take on new shades, new contradictions, new depth. Abel, for instance, is no longer simply a jealous lover. His controlling, possessive nature has stepped forward. He has become the gravitational force of Painted People, pulling every character into collision. There is a tragic, operatic irony at the heart of Abel’s actions. In trying to control Zeno’s world, Abel inadvertently connects Zeno to the very man (Travis Weatherford) who will unravel everything. Abel becomes the bridge — and the fuse — in a chain of events he cannot foresee. In many ways, Abel is a ticking time bomb embedded in the narrative. Every character in Painted People is being unmasked and propelled toward this bomb Abel himself has set — a fuse that may lead, ultimately, to Abel’s own destruction. Despite the challenges and complexities, I say: carry on. The sun begins to rise. And I know for some of you that’s hard to imagine — the sun up here is hardly present in the morning. Except on certain mornings, when you open the terrace door and the coldest air you’ve ever felt rushes in, and you can see yellow and orange breaking in the east. But still no sun yet. You close the door quickly because it’s too cold — the kind of cold that settles in when the snow is gone, when winter refuses to release its grip. And yet, even then, the light returns. So does the story. So do I — and a few faithful followers.  Tonight, the fog lifted just enough to reveal the crescent moon above Fort Hill — a soft curve of light hanging over rooftops, steeples, and the green dome that watches over Main Street. I stood at the window, thinking of my friend who shared this Ramadan with me, and of the quiet ache that comes when a season of reflection nears its end.
This Eid, I wanted to offer something simple: a blessing painted into the skyline. So I brushed the town in twilight strokes and added a crescent moon — not just for tradition, but for tenderness. The caption says it all: “Happy EID MUBARAK… From Peekskill wishing for you that this EID Allah blesses you with happiness, success and PEACE!” It’s a wish for those near and far. For those who fasted and prayed. For those who watched from the sidelines but felt the rhythm of the season in their bones. For those who need a little peace, a little success, a little happiness — and maybe a little forgiveness, too. From this hillside town by the Hudson, I send it out with love.  As the sun drops behind the hills, the city keeps marching, the wind keeps moving, and I keep watching—content to let the day pass without needing to chase it. St. Patrick’s Day in the City
St. Paddy’s Day is always a major event in the City, crowned by the iconic parade that sweeps up 5th Avenue past the historic St. Patrick’s Cathedral. The route stretches from 44th Street all the way to 79th—a familiar green river of bagpipes, banners, and tradition. Most years, I’d be somewhere along the route, taking it all in. This year, though, other commitments kept me home. The parade, of course, carries on without me; my presence has never been required for the City to do what it does best. This year’s march includes the newly elected Mayor, Zohran Mamdani, who began his day with breakfast at Gracie Mansion and a Catholic mass alongside Police Commissioner Jessica Tisch. Congratulations are certainly in order. Personally, I find “Mamdani” easier to say than “Zohran Mamdani”—the same way I always defaulted to “Mulder” instead of “Fox” on The X-Files. Some names just land better on the tongue. Observations from Home As I write, the sky is performing one of those quiet miracles—clouds drifting in slow procession, reshaping themselves with every gust. The wind has been fierce lately. Last night, if you’d stepped onto my terrace, you might have been swept straight into the Hudson. The gusts were strong enough to rip down my wind chime, which still lies where it fell, waiting for me to restore it to its rightful place. There’s something fitting about watching the sky move on St. Patrick’s Day—nature’s own parade, indifferent to schedules, crowds, or tradition. Prime Video Updates Many of you already know that Prime Video has long offered a deep library of classics and comfort films. Starting April 10, though, Amazon is introducing a new tier called Prime Video Ultra, which adds an extra fee for 4K streaming. Here’s the breakdown: Prime Video Ultra
Standard Prime Video (no Ultra)
For someone like me—an occasional watcher who doesn’t need 4K to enjoy a good story—there’s no reason to change anything. Commercials or not, my subscription stays exactly where it is.  A horizon that still remembers the time before form. I came across one of the most powerful statements I’ve ever read — a verse that stops you, makes you sit with yourself, and consider your own beginning.
The Words of Surah Maryam Verse 67 of Surah Maryam reads: “Does man not remember that We created him before, while he was nothing?” (19:67) It’s astonishing to think that although we have no memory of our origin, there was a time when we simply did not exist. That feeling of nothingness — the quiet you sense when you’re alone, when everything goes still — perhaps it’s familiar because it is where we all began. I believe that the suggestion here is a reflection of our first creation from nothing that becomes evidence of our eventual resurrection. That we are returning. That our existence, our death, and whatever comes after are all part of a larger process — Allah’s process. And yet, many of us struggle to imagine that return. As the verse continues, the tone shifts dramatically — almost like stepping into a scene from a horror film. It describes humanity gathered with devils, brought to their knees around Hell. “We will indeed drag out from every sect the most rebellious against the Most Compassionate (Allah). For sure, We know best who are most worthy to be burnt there (in the Hellfire).” The picture it paints is unsettling, but it nudges you to look inward. Every soul will cross the Bridge over Hellfire — a decree from the Lord that must be fulfilled. Inevitable. Unavoidable. A moment written into the architecture of existence. And when something must be fulfilled, it suggests that everything is already decided. That realization doesn’t frighten me; instead, it nudges me toward living in the moment. If the path is already written, then perhaps the only thing left is to walk it with awareness. Just my own zany thoughts on a Sunday morning — reflections stirred by a verse that reaches deep into the origins of existence, accountability, and destiny. |
AuthorCHARLES PEARSON 
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