 On Monday, April 28th, the southbound Metro North train to Grand Central ran on Track 1 instead of Track 2, which was pretty confusing. The world felt backwards yesterday — like stepping into a twisted Twilight Zone where the rules you rely on quietly rearrange themselves overnight. What had worked the day before suddenly didn’t. Even the trains were confused. Instead of running southbound to New York on Track 2, as they always do, everything had shifted to Track 1. If you didn’t hear the announcement — and most people didn’t — you would’ve stood on the river side as usual and watched your train glide right past you on the opposite platform. The whole thing felt off, awkward, slightly tilted. And for once, I swear, people here were in a mood. Faces tightened, shoulders hunched, everyone radiating that low‑grade irritation that spreads through a crowd like static. And when you’re Black, you feel that shift immediately — the way tension in a space can land on you first, even when no one says a word. It’s the kind of thing no one wants to talk about, think about, or acknowledge, but there it was, humming under the surface. I felt it all the way into the city — that strange, unsettled energy, as if the day itself had woken up on the wrong track. Some days just arrive crooked, and all you can do is move through them gently, hoping tomorrow remembers how to run on the right track  Track 1 is usually for trains heading north to Poughkeepsie. But not this week — everything’s running in reverse.  Headphones: I'm Not the Enemy by Lina
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 Gazing at the Capitol dome from Union Station in D.C. I once wrote a whole blog about our times — and about our President — back when he threatened to wipe out an entire civilization. But somewhere between the outrage, the fatigue, and the sheer absurdity of it all, I decided not to post it. I didn’t want my name floating across the wide world web attached to that kind of grief, especially in an age when everything follows us long after we’re here or even gone.
These days, I imagine him waking up in Washington, eating his fast‑food breakfast on some terrace‑like perch overlooking a city I refuse to visit during his administration. I’ve even hated the thought of passing through the Amtrak station (Union Station) there, as if the air itself might be contaminated by the mood of the moment. And I picture him in the morning — the only time his hair might look truly unguarded, unstyled, unbothered by the machinery of image. In that early light, you probably couldn’t tell what color anything is — hair, skin, truth, fiction — all of it washed out in the same pale glow. But here’s the strange part: he loves New York. He loves my city. He even loves my mayor. He wants to see it shine and sparkle more than any other time in his gilded history, just as I do. And somehow those tiny facts — his and mine — are sometimes the only positive points I can find in the whole mess, the only things that keep me from spiraling into pure cynicism. But I’m off track — the way he often is when he wanders through a sentence. I imagine him standing there in his two minutes of solitude, staring out at Washington and thinking, “Here I am.” Not the quiet, spiritual kind of I am, but the loud, self‑declared one — the kind that fills the room, the headlines, the country. And that’s where I stopped writing the original blog. Because the truth is, I didn’t want to spend another ounce of energy trying to understand a man who seems to wake up every day astonished by his own reflection. I didn’t want to immortalize my frustration. I didn’t want to leave behind a digital monument to my own exhaustion. And maybe that’s the part that surprises me most — that in the middle of all the noise and bluster and headlines, the one thing that softens me is knowing he loves New York as fiercely as I do. That tiny overlap on the Venn diagram of our times. It doesn’t erase anything. It doesn’t excuse anything. But it reminds me that even the people who exhaust us, bewilder us, or dominate the news cycle are still tethered to something human — a city, a memory, a place that shaped them. So instead of posting the old blog full of anger and adrenaline, I’m posting this one — the quieter version, the one written after the storm passed. The one that admits I’m tired but still paying attention. The one that lets me laugh a little, sigh a little, and keep moving. Because in the end, history will sort out the rest. I just want to leave behind a record of how it felt to live through it — with humor, with fatigue, and with a stubborn love for the city — this maddening, miraculous place a hundred million others, like myself, like him, like all of us, fall in love with.  Agave plants, native to Mexico and Southern California, thrive in San Francisco's Salesforce Park with a stunning view of the Financial District. At last, I am back into Painted People. How many times have I said that, only to falter after a few weeks of progress? But it’s that time again — the air is sweet and warm, and the bees are back, flinging themselves at my window. They’re trying to get into the loft because they smell sweetness. Not pollen from the gardens and woods where they belong, but something from me. Full of myself, I know. But sometimes one is that way when one is feeling well, when the cold breath of winter no longer feels right in the spring. The grass is turning green. A fly has already made its way into the apartment because I left the terrace door open. That’s something to think about in spring and summer — insects. Annoying but necessary insects. The coffee is perfect this morning. I mixed two blends together and added the tiniest hint of cinnamon, the way I remember Jack Strang doing it in San Francisco. The aroma takes me back to those mornings when the breeze felt just right. Today the breeze is coming through the screen again, keeping the bees outside, and it feels like a small blessing. Speaking of Jack… I ran into another Jacks — yes, Jacks with an “s” — the one I met on the bus coming back from White Plains. He remembered me, still fidgety, still kind. This time he needed help with a necklace, a cross he couldn’t clasp. I closed it for him, and he was forever grateful. We promised to see each other again, which is more than likely in a town you can walk from one end to the other in less than an hour. Along the way, you end up running into everyone you know, have met, or have seen in passing. It’s a small city, so the faces you encounter are always the same as yesterday. The persistent buzz of bees reminds me that nature is waking up again. And as I sip my coffee, my mind drifts — to New York City, to Charleston’s past when it meant something more than it does now, to the people who flicker in and out of my life like scenes from a film. Sometimes these memories come in the middle of the night. But more often these days, I find myself at prayer. Maybe that thirty days of fasting did something to me, left something behind. A quietness. A clarity. A sense that prayer is more important than all these things — the bees, the breeze, the coffee, the memories — and yet somehow connected to them all. At last, I am back into Painted People. And maybe this time, the momentum will hold.  On North Division Street in Peekskill, being such a small city in terms of land, you’re bound to run into a familiar face—just like here at Whiskey River.  Joaquin’s presence — drifting in and out of my life like a tide that refuses to obey the moon — has left me anxious all week. So anxious that my sleep has turned against me. Night after night, the dreams come heavy, thick with symbols I don’t want to interpret. In one nightmare, I’m killed — murdered — though somehow not dead. I awaken inside the dream, telling myself I’m not gone, and the confusion clings to me even after I open my eyes. In another, I’m with my childhood friend Shirley. We’ve been summoned to fix something down a cliff by a river that looks more like an ocean. The water swells into the shape of a humpback whale, rising and rising until the whole basin floods. The dark water climbs over my body, cold and merciless, echoing the tightness in my chest. Shirley is swept away, and I call for her, but she’s nowhere. I float upward, climbing the cliff, thinking suddenly of my classmate Pam Lewis — as if my mind is stitching old memories into new fear. I am kissing her. Then the scene shifts again. I’m on a street with a handsome stranger, both of us intoxicated. I recognize him but have forgotten his name. His hands are everywhere. Children pass by, and I worry they’ll see us, but he doesn’t care. We tumble down the steps, and I try to shield us from their eyes, but I can’t. Eventually I stop caring who sees. Shame dissolves into something else — something raw, exposed, almost liberating. Suddenly I couldn’t care less if they were children; honestly, they had no business looking in the first place. But the truth is, Joaquin’s problems seep into my own. His burdens slide under my skin, and I wish they didn’t. Every time he asks for help, I feel torn between compassion and exhaustion. How many times can someone be homeless. How many times can “just one night” turn into two. His needs can almost overshadow my ability to breathe, but I refuse to let them. And the hardest truth is this: as much as I care for him — as a friend, as someone who feels like the light-skin son with straight black hair I somehow inherited without ever having to mate — a role I never asked for, but one life keeps assigning me anyway — he is not the one I want beside me for eternity. That place in my life, in my spirit, belongs to someone else entirely.  Dark & Stormy is one of the many coffee bean varieties available at Peekskill Coffee House. Sometimes, coffee feels a lot like relationships. When you have too much of one thing — whether it’s a favorite brew or a romantic partner — the excitement fades. That familiar spice loses its spark, and suddenly the taste, or the game, needs to change just to recapture that first thrill. Relationships, like coffee, thrive on new blends and unexpected flavors; sometimes the best way to keep things interesting is to try something you’ve never tasted before.
This week, I decided to shake things up with a new coffee called Dark & Stormy from our local Peekskill Coffee House. I always buy the beans so I can grind them myself. There’s something irresistible about that first burst of aroma in the morning — it fills the kitchen and gently nudges me awake. And if I’m honest, some mornings I’d rather stay in bed, wrapped in comfort, scrolling through the world at my fingertips. But even on the reluctant days, the ritual pulls me out: grind the beans, breathe in the scent, start the day. Today, Dark & Stormy delivered a clean, satisfying jolt — a welcome change from the recent lineup of Arabia This, Arabia That from C‑Town and the various blends from Stop & Shop that never quite hit the mark. It’s pricier than Peet’s or Starbucks, sure, but the experience is worth it… for now. Still, once I look at the price tag again, I might find myself crawling back to the old standbys. Just as trying new blends keeps mornings interesting, adapting to small‑town life has its own surprises. The more time I spend here, the more Peekskill grows on me. I find myself embracing its quirks, settling into routines I never expected to love. It’s not the same passion I once felt for the big city, but it’s a different kind of affection — a quiet appreciation that sneaks up on you, revealing itself only when you’re back in the city, suddenly nostalgic for the calm you left behind.  Half-winter, half-blossom — the river knows the truth. Right now, outside, winter lingers, even as the calendar insists it’s spring. Our bodies are ready for short pants and tank tops, for picnics and cookouts, for lazy days by the river with a breeze soft enough to make you close your eyes. You can almost smell the blossoms, hear the river’s steady hush. Under the gazebo, a few of us drink too much beer. That’s spring after the half‑winter, half‑spring effect has finally passed — a season I now call Wining, where both worlds overlap.
The first word I heard this morning came through WhatsApp. It was the first word I read, and in my mind I heard it in his voice — Really… — a reply to last night’s conversation. For him, it was still yesterday; twelve hours can stretch a day into two different worlds. The second words I heard today were, "Good morning sir," from a young lad heading off to school. "It’s a very cold day, isn’t it?" he said. "Yes," I replied. I wondered if he felt as cold as I did, both of us shivering with our hoodies pulled over our heads. "It is that." Down by the river, the air cut sharp and cold — the kind of morning that could fool you into thinking winter still has the upper hand, if not for the blossoms clinging to the trees and the tail end of cherry blossom season, with only a few petals left. Welcome to a new week — a time to begin again, or simply continue from where we left off.  The room divider knows everything. It just won’t tell. The morning sun pours through the bedroom window, painting everything gold, including you — a person who has not yet had coffee and is therefore unprepared for moral dilemmas. You peel back the twisted sheets from the night before and your hand hits something crisp. Not a note. Not a phone. Not even a sock. Cash. Actual cash. Wedged between the pillowcase and the mattress like the Tooth Fairy got sloppy. You blink. You stare. You count. Three hundred dollars in Benjamins. Your heart thumps because this is not the kind of money that just appears unless you’re in a movie or a very different profession — and you are absolutely, definitively not a sex worker, despite what these sheets are trying to imply. The scent of cologne still lingers, along with the faint echo of midnight laughter, but the money feels foreign, like it wandered into the wrong apartment and is now embarrassed about it. So now what? Do you keep it? Pretend the universe tipped you for good behavior? Tuck it in a drawer and let future‑you deal with the ethics? But honesty taps you on the shoulder, clearing its throat like a disappointed aunt. You know what you have to do. You reach out to the person who stayed the night. The conversation is awkward in that very specific way where you’re trying to return money that makes you look like you might have earned it horizontally. Your cheeks burn. Their eyes widen. Relief floods the room. The money goes back to its rightful owner. The sheets get washed. The world rights itself. And you — lighter now, forgiven by the sun and the spring air — walk away with a lesson: sometimes doing the right thing costs nothing, except maybe a good story and a blush that lasts until the next Whiskey River run. The Logical Song
 This morning, the treetops still wear the look of late winter—bare, no icicles, no heavy snow, but not yet ready to burst into full bloom. If you look closely, though, you’ll see red buds at the highest tips of certain branches, tiny signals that the season is shifting. A faint haze of light green and pale yellow is beginning to outline a few trees, soft strokes of early spring brushing the neighborhood awake. The air smells fresher, carrying that damp, earthy promise of new growth. Today, at last, it truly feels like spring. You can see it in people’s faces as they walk through town: a lift in their expressions, a brightness that wasn’t there last week.
But something else catches my eye on the streets of Peekskill—everyone seems to be wearing red. Bright red coats, cherry‑red sneakers, a scarf here, a hat there. I can’t explain it, but the boldness of the color makes the town feel even more alive. Red has always been an odd color for me. My bedroom was once painted a deep crimson—a dramatic choice I sometimes regret. I’ve worn red before, but it never felt quite right against my skin. Too stark, too loud. It’s not about politics or trends; it’s just a matter of comfort. For some, red is confidence and energy. For me, it’s a color I admire more than I wear. Spring is here, and with it, the streets are full of movement. Boys and men—yes, “men,” as some insist—stroll by in red tank tops and red-trimmed black short pants. The sun glints off their clothes as if highlighting the city’s shift from gray to technicolor. I start to wonder what people might be wearing today in the Village. The thought brings a quiet smile, a private amusement that tugs at my focus. I know I should be writing, working on my Painted People project, but I hesitate. If I dive into that world, I might not resurface in time to enjoy this day. So I bargain with myself: one more paragraph, then I’ll stop: She came back into the living room, offering the ice pack and settled in with her snuff cup, facing him across the coffee table. Her manner shifted—direct, curious, but not unkind. “Ya borne in San Francisco, chile?” she asked, pushing the ice pack toward him. “No ma’am,” he said, pressing it to his lip. “I was born in Waco, Texas.” “I ain’ never heard of no Waco. Where ’bouts dat?” “It’s about a hundred miles south of Dallas. You’ve heard of Dallas?” “I sees somethin’ ’bout a Dallas on dat blame TV dem grandchildreum puts on—mens runnin’ an’ tusslin’ like wild animals. Somethin’ dey calls football. But I don’t like it an’ don’t want my grandchildreum playin’ it. It’s a dirty sport.” There’s a pull to get outside, to step beyond the terrace and desk of Painted People six stories above Main Street and join the festival of colors below. The city feels festive, almost like a living painting—new leaves, red attire, and the restless energy of people eager to celebrate the season. I want to be part of it, somewhere, anywhere, in this April spring where the streets are alive and everyone seems to belong. That’s where I’d be, if only for a little while, basking in the warmth and color of a world waking up again. |
AuthorCHARLES PEARSON 
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