Charles
Journal
Charles
 Monday’s offering from the Kingdom of Sheets Though I’ve always preferred to write at my desk—where discipline leans in with a knowing look and the chair has learned the precise geometry of my back—there’s an undeniable magic to the laptop: a freedom machine. It lets you write where inspiration stumbles in half-awake, hair wild if I had any and thoughts wilder. Today, it’s in bed. In the sanctuary. That’s what a bedroom is supposed to be, isn’t it? A place where the noise of the world goes to wait in the hall. Where even God knocks softly before entering. This morning, in the cradle of duvet and quiet light, I found myself considering origins. Of the universe. Of Mondays. Of how something—everything—could come from nothing. Perhaps God has always existed, lounging in pre-time, trying out blueprints on other worlds that fizzled and faded. And now it’s our turn—Earth’s chance to finally get it right. Ambitious, that Earth. I admire her optimism. Yes, it’s a farfetched musing, but that’s what writing in bed is for: detours and daydreams in equal measure. This year, I celebrated Pride silently. Not in the streets or under glitter-confetti skies, but in the quiet triumph of knowing who I am—without needing a parade to affirm it. That said, it did my heart good to see celebration bloom worldwide. Even in Budapest, where Pride was officially banned in Hungary, the mayor ignored the memo and one hundred thousand souls showed up anyway. I like that mayor. New York, of course, did its usual million-strong turnout. But let’s be honest: as the tradition ages, the crowd seems to get younger. You look around and feel like the parental chaperone who wasn’t invited but brought snacks anyway. Eventually, you start wondering if maybe the dancefloor isn’t yours anymore. And that’s okay. This year, Pride was a velvet-rope affair, guest list capped at three: me, a reconnection that once felt lost to time, and a kind soul who sat across from me with a drink and no judgment. In that small communion, I found my parade. So here I am. Writing from a bed that doubles as a launchpad and chapel. Feeling lucky. Feeling mildly enlightened. And feeling, always-- Bee Yourself. 
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 A Pride Parade taking place Market Street in San Francisco. Maybe our youth in San Francisco was just as brutal—we just didn’t recognize the scars. No social media, no digital breadcrumbs. And to be gay? That was still a tightrope walk—half liberation, half secret-keeping. So many things I didn’t know. So many I chose not to. Back then, I couldn’t picture life beyond 25. We gathered, night after night, in the glow of places like The Pendulum, Midnight Sun, The Stud, El Rio—little altars of belonging. The Haight was a no-go—skinheads made sure of that—except when the I-Beam called us, and dancing felt like communion. The Tenderloin was taboo. “Don’t go,” they warned. “You’ll get robbed. Or worse.” So naturally, we went. Into pitch-dark bars to find one night stand trouble, scandalous theaters with live male revues, and bathhouses that pulsed with an unspoken rhythm. Come sunrise, we retreated to sanctuaries: Zim’s, Sparky’s, Church Street Café, the always-lively Grubstake on Polk, and that donut shop on 18th and Castro, where pale, wiry boys hustled for cash or crullers. A block from the Motherland—the Castro—Collingwood climbed past 19th, then leveled at Eureka Playground. After 2 a.m. when the bars closed, boys leaned against its cold stone wall while men idled in cars nearby. They took us home. Or to the 21st Street Baths, parading us like trophies beneath tired fluorescent lights. For open-air rendezvous, we had the Windmills at Ocean Beach, Dolores Park near the Mission, and Buena Vista Park—rising above 17th at Ashbury like a secret in the trees. Wild, feral, alluring—for those who preferred bark underfoot and danger in the dark. When the fog held its breath and the wind forgot to bite, stars glittered above Buena Vista’s summit. The Big Dipper hovered low. Crickets chirped like broken metronomes, their songs echoing down the hillsides. Cars circled quietly below. And in the brush, men whispered nonsense—crooning, murmuring, calling out to be seen.    Hudson Avenue slopes down to the waterfront in Peekskill, NY, a cool morning, in contrast to the heatwave experienced the day before. I sometimes wonder if violence—something most of us abhor, something we try hard to abstain from—has anything to do with the temperature. Especially when it creeps past 98 degrees and stays there, heavy and unrelenting.
I once saw an episode of Alfred Hitchcock Presents that explored just that—the idea that sweltering heat might fray the last threads of human restraint. It was unsettling, oddly compelling, and a little too timely for what’s been unfolding lately. Here in Peekskill, during the latest heatwave, a 13-year-old girl struck her mother with a frying pan after an argument. Disturbing, yes, but what unnerved me further was the response: the police arrived at Bohlmann Tower—our towering block of public housing on the west end of downtown—guns drawn, cocked, and ready for action. A child lashed out in what was likely a moment of instability or neglect, and terror met terror at her doorstep. Was it just lack of discipline? Was it the mercury pressing down on already-strained nerves? Elsewhere, in Johnsonville, South Carolina—where I went to high school—a 16-year-old was shot and killed in the Prospect community. It's the same area that once bore the notorious Pee Wee Gaskins, so tragedy isn’t foreign there. But this? This happened in the same oppressive heat. And in nearby Lake City, another layer of sorrow: a funeral director—the same man who once oversaw my mother’s service—stabbed to death by his own daughter. In the same home, another conflict escalated until another person was shot and killed. Is it the heat? Or is it something deeper in our collective DNA? A flicker of Cain, that first betrayer, buried in us all? I woke today groggy but un-tempted by coffee—who needs hot bitterness when the air itself is already simmering? Still, I walked. Along the waterfront, the breeze off the Hudson offered relief, a little clarity. I was due to meet a dear friend at 1 p.m.—meant more as a walk-and-talk than a sit-down lunch—but the sun had other plans. I jogged to Charles Point instead, craving some rhythm, and found that the city, like me, had started to cool. Peekskill was smiling again. Under overcast skies—gray, familiar, forgiving—people moved like themselves again. A return to our rhythm, our New York grit. We can take on anything. But that kind of heat? That’s best left to the states where the cicadas shriek all summer long and the air forgets how to move. A Summer Day at Peekskill Farm: Gardening Tips, Weather Reflections, and Upcoming Pride Celebrations6/25/2025  St. Joseph's House in Peekskill, NY, was formerly part of the historic St. Mary's Church and convent located on Fort Hill. Yesterday unfolded like a page from a countryside diary—minus the polite penmanship—as I wandered through Peekskill Farm and met a young woman who seemed to have bloomed straight out of the rows she tended. Her name, if memory serves me right (and it sometimes doesn’t after two cups of sun), was Nubi. She had a radiant smile and a frame as slender as a reed, moving with the grace of someone who knows plants better than people. Honestly, she looked like she could photosynthesize. She picked mustard greens for me and a handful of snap peas that snapped with the kind of attitude only freshly liberated legumes possess. They were so crisp and sweet, I ate them raw like a rebellious rabbit. While harvesting, Nubi offered a tip—one of those deceptively simple gems: pick the bottom leaves first. It clears space and encourages the baby leaves to flourish, kind of like good parenting or workplace management, if corporate life had more chlorophyll. As the sun clawed its way higher, the heat became an unrelenting companion, draping itself over Peekskill like a hot yoga mat nobody asked for. We're not used to three straight days of this kind of simmering, especially not while volunteering ourselves as solar panels out in the fields. This heat wave had commitment issues too—it lingered deep into the night like an awkward houseguest, still making itself known at 4 a.m. But! A breeze of mercy is inbound. Cooler temperatures are on the way, and the partly sunny skies should arrive just in time to cast a golden glow on this weekend’s Pride celebrations. In Peekskill, we’ll gather Saturday at Pugsley Park—a proper, shade-friendly patch of joy—for a family-forward celebration that reminds us the best kind of heat is the one we bring with love. Yesterday held contrasts: brutal temperatures softened by kindness and snap peas, and a meeting of nature’s rhythm with something even messier—human connection. As the air cools and the weekend nears, I carry Nubi’s wisdom and those rebellious legumes with me, along with a growing excitement for a celebration that honors every color in the garden. If Peekskill were a British soap opera, its theme would closely resemble that of Emmerdale Farms.
 Collard greens, as part of a low sodium diet, may reduce the risk of high blood pressure. The problem with studying website stats/traffic—unknown unique visitors, repeat visitors, and that mysterious bounce rate—is the risk of becoming almost obsessed. Like wondering what to write about tomorrow, or spiraling because a blog post you didn’t even pour your whole heart into gets more traffic than anything else. Case in point: that Easter Sunday blog in New York. I still don’t know why it resonated—but the numbers don’t lie. Yesterday’s heat didn’t bother me much. I stuck to my routine while a friend of mine, skinny as a reed, looked like he was dissolving into the sidewalk. Sweat poured off him in rivers. Climbing the hill to visit me was like trekking through a sunlit hell, so I did what anyone with a fan and some greens should do—I took care of him and cooked us dinner. Two options. First: collard greens and kale I picked fresh from Peekskill Farms. Stirred them slowly over a flame with both chicken and veggie broth, onions, garlic, and at the end—bright orange peppers, just for drama. Poured that over some macaroni-like noodles (don't ask me the name—I was low on the pasta I actually wanted). The second was meatier: chicken spiced with something on the “hotter than comfort” scale, slicked with sauce and spooned over the same noodles. The kitchen was quite warm, and for once, I did not place much importance on the presentation after completing all the cooking. He ate and liked both, and for someone barely tipping 120 pounds, he put it away like a competitive eater. Meanwhile, if I ate that much? Let’s just say I hate catching myself in storefront reflections—always takes me a second to register that the guy looking back is me. This morning’s already warmer, the kind of heat that makes me nostalgic for San Francisco’s worst Indian Summer week, when the mercury hit near 100 and the fog went AWOL. No one had air conditioning there. Everyone pretended that was normal. I had AC here last year. This year I do not. But weirdly, the fans and open windows are doing the job. I actually prefer it. AC gives me the chills, literal and otherwise. All that cold air just makes me sniffly, like I’ve caught a minor plague. Anyway—I’m ready to write. Fiction, that is. Been waiting for a particular moment to return to it, but maybe the moment is now. I just need time. Solitude. And less “entertainment,” which lately has felt more like a distraction dressed in sequins.  Peekskill Regeneration Farm located between Hadden Street and Decatur Avenue, adjacent to Oak Elementary School at Lepore Park. It is open to the public free of charge, and individuals are welcome to assist with the farm they have the time.   At the summit of Fort Hill, the Abbey Inn & Spa offers a luxurious restaurant and bar, as well as an elegant ballroom, all featuring breathtaking views of the Hudson River and the city of Peekskill
 A view from Fort Hill overlooking Bear Mountain and the Hudson River in the afterglow of a sunset.  One could adopt this style to stay cool during the summer, as observed at Peekskill's Juneteenth celebration on Central Avenue. Among the crowd, I encountered an individual who stood out as the epitome of coolness. I felt compelled to express my admiration directly, as he was also exceptionally charming. The heat is on, as they say—and so be it this week for those of us in the New York City area, all the way up through the Hudson Valley to Peekskill and beyond. I’ve vowed not to complain about the heat this year. Honestly, I could care less about it after enduring what felt like the coldest winter of my life—one that rivaled even the coldest winter ever spent in June in San Francisco. Peekskill held its own in the frigid sweepstakes with three months of chill and a streak of unshakable cold days and several inches of snow. But if the heat does get to you, Peekskill offers a few natural reprieves that may just be easier than surviving the concrete steam bath of the city—especially this week, as NYC celebrates Pride in honor of that fateful night in June 1969. It was then that gays, queers, drag queens, lesbians, and yes, straights too, took a stand at the Stonewall Inn. Legend has it the queens, grieving Judy Garland’s death just days earlier, had reached the point of no patience. Their grief turned fiery, and they fought back so fiercely that the police barricaded themselves inside Stonewall—fearful of the blowback, a Molotov cocktail among it. But that story, delicious as it is, deserves its own spotlight on another day. Right now, I’m supposed to be writing about this heatwave barreling toward us—temperatures pushing 100 degrees in New York City on Tuesday. Peekskill won’t be far behind. Even the city that never sleeps may find itself craving a good siesta when the mercury spikes. Still, if you're lucky enough to be in Peekskill, you can always head to the river where it’s cooler than downtown. Or escape into the hills—Fort Hill and Blue Mountain—where shade and trees provide a leafy sanctuary, and a breeze is almost always hanging around. Bring a book, kick back. Speaking of which, I’m in the middle of a good one right now—not my own, but a classic by the master himself: Doctor Sleep, by Stephen King. He was my favorite author as a teenager, and I guess this summer I’m rediscovering him… and, maybe, a few pieces of my younger self, too. Heatwaves, hills, and horror novels. Somehow, it all fits.  Any location atop Fort Hill, overlooking the river 374 feet below, remains cooler than the downtown area at the base of the hill during periods of high temperatures.
 
 “Indian summer is like a woman. Ripe, hotly passionate, but fickle, she comes and goes as she pleases so that one is never sure whether she will come at all, nor for how long she will stay.” ― Grace Metalious, Peyton Place  The heat wasn’t so bad in Peekskill yesterday. Low 80s, I’d guess. The city? Probably roasting somewhere around 90. I love New York, I do—but when the streets start to simmer and smell faintly of roasted pretzel and regret, I’d rather admire it from a distance. It’s a city best appreciated between September and April, when the concrete cools and people remember how to walk without wilting. Peekskill, by contrast, offered a more tempered affair. Humid, sure, especially downtown, where the sidewalk radiates warmth and the shade is more theoretical than actual. Trees are scarce there—nature took one look at the strip mall planning and said, “You’re on your own.” However, Peekskill's downtown area is notably historic and charming, characterized by a greater number of restaurants compared to retail establishments, well as an abundance of beauty salons and delis. Now, if you were in the mood for solitude (and I was), the best escape was by the Mac Gregor Brook–Watershed. Tucked behind Beer World and Family Dollar, it’s not what you’d call “picturesque” in a travel brochure sense—but hear me out. There’s a waterfall. A proper one. This is where Penelope Pond once rippled proudly, back when the schoolkids from Finktown used to play all year round—summer splashing and winter skating like they were born wearing mittens. Penelope Pond’s gone now. Just a memory dressed in cattails and mist. But the water still trickles down from the hills, slipping beneath downtown before it reaches the Hudson. And if you sit there long enough—if you hush the buzz of your phone and lean into the breeze—you’ll hear them. The echoes of 1949. The Finktown gang. Laughter skipping over water like a well-thrown stone. Here, the humidity didn’t dare enter. The breeze stirred the trees (the ones that had the decency to show up), and the water’s endless hush softened the afternoon. I sat on a rock, not exactly meditating, not exactly doing nothing, just thinking about what’s gone and what still lingers.
  A boulder stands prominently at the entrance of Depew Park on Union Avenue Egg prices continue to bob and weave here in Peekskill, but in the Pearson household, omelets remain non-negotiable. We've scaled back from two eggs to one, true, but that lone egg still holds the line in the budget, proudly anchoring breakfasts with quiet dignity and an occasional dash of salt. Usually, I'm up early to write—except Sundays, when I sleep in and let my creativity hit the snooze button. But today, at a scandalous 9:41 a.m., I’m just getting started. The outdoor cats, Peshwari and Daisy, clearly noticed. They usually wait by the door like expectant doormen, but with the heat rising early, they took up shady residence in the courtyard. I spotted them from the bedroom window—tails flicking with the distinct feline expression of, “So… are you coming or…?” Over coffee, my mind drifts to global affairs. I’d read an article in the New York Times just before pausing my subscription (we’re on a break until August 14). I love the Times, but lately it feels like it should be renamed the New York Trump Times. Every headline’s a rerun, and frankly, I can only take so much before reaching my personal gag limit. One day, I hope we’ll live in a world where the Trumps and their cronies are mere footnotes. And when Clarence Thomas retires or floats off into judicial obscurity, well… I’ll raise an egg toast to that too. Yesterday’s workout was “late” by my standards—meaning after noon. I prefer my workouts like my coffee: early and with minimal heat advisories. But there I was, back at the old Nicholas Colao Field (or something that sounds like a pasta dish), just east of the newer Torphy Field—the same one where the Jets used to train before retreating to fancier turf. At this time of day, the field becomes its own little theater. Baby carts get pushed, dogs get dragged, and teenagers in purple shorts and flip-flops escort their equally half-awake girlfriends around like sleepwalking ducklings. A woman in a cropped red top, headphones bobbing, smiled like a summer anthem. An older gentleman speed-walked by, meteorologically alarmed, and we agreed that if the mercury hit 90, we both had a date with air conditioning. And then there was Buddy—a dog who might’ve been part bear. I asked the owner if Buddy was friendly, and he nodded. The second I called his name, Buddy launched himself toward me like joy on four legs. I nearly fell, but honestly? Totally worth it. I’ve always loved dogs. Always will. As for Iran, the headlines churn in the background of my brain. My feelings twist between empathy and hard truths—how do you hold compassion for a country when it punishes love? Somewhere deep inside, I feel a fire of fury, tempered by the understanding that geopolitics, prophecy, and ethics rarely ride in the same cart. If Iran really is Elam in the Bible, as some say, then destiny might have plans we can’t decode—not with eggs, not with headlines, and certainly not before coffee.  A winter coat is unlikely to be needed today in Peekskill, NY, if temperatures indeed reach 90 degrees.
 Nicolas J. Colao Memorial Field, Depew Park, Peekskill, NY  Since I have lived here, now in my third June in Peekskill, NY, this month appears to be the rainiest, with the lingering chill of winter still. Hear it pour. Softly, in the grass and weeds of the backyard—now lush, green, and grown so high it must feel like jungle to the creatures who pass through: the wild cats, Daisy and Peshwari (though truthfully, they’re not so wild anymore), other strays who drift in and out, raccoons, skunks, birds, and that beautiful little baby chipmunk. I think that’s who I’ve spotted recently, nibbling at the weeds. Hear the rain, hear it pour. A slow beat. A pita pata on the concrete. A pita pata on the windowpane, in the alley, where it taps the propane tanks and the leaves that drape overhead—one limb reaching for my kitchen window, as if to greet me each morning with a quiet “Hola.” Hear the rain. I do hear. Clearly, now. On days like this, reading feels right. Anything does, really. But reading is my favorite—well, next to creating. Next to writing. Next to making love. Though lately, that last one feels more like a chore than the sacred ceremony it used to be. I crave it less. And that’s okay… Because I know who it is I truly crave. The rest? Just passing shadows—fillers— until he returns, like the rain, echoing now in my ear. Jogging will be delayed this morning. That’s for sure. Rain falls the backyard on Decatur Avenue, creating an atmosphere reminiscent of a jungle.
 Peculiar things you notice when you start cutting back on drinking (but still drink, because moderation is also a vibe): You develop what can only be described as a bloodhound’s sense of smell. Not for flowers. Not for danger. For people. Specifically, their post-binge body scent after they’ve spent the night in your bed or your sofa, marinating in vodka, beer, and probably bad decisions. You wake up thinking, Is this eau de regret? It’s not awful—but it is persistent. Like a cologne called "Distilled Choices." And naturally, once you notice it on them, you spiral into self-awareness: Do I smell like this? Have I been bringing this same fragrance to brunch? It’s the kind of realization that makes you reach for herbal tea with a touch of existential dread. Last night’s dream? A cinematic fever dream dropped straight out of 1975. I was trapped inside a movie trailer, complete with dramatic lighting and the ABC Movie of the Week theme swelling in the background like a soap opera scored by a kazoo. The music’s still in my head. I even looked it up on YouTube this morning to make sure it wasn't some neurological condition. It wasn’t. It’s just my brain’s new ringtone, apparently. Some folks say hell is eternal fire. I say it’s reruns. And Earth? Just Hell with commercials. Same plot, new channel. We get up, do our rituals, check the news, scream internally, repeat. Speaking of endless reruns: Trump, post-G7, is apparently back in his Putin phase. Like a toxic situationship you keep re-following on Facebook. He wasn’t into him, now he’s back into him, probably sending late-night “You up?” DMs across geopolitical lines. As for me, I’m pausing my New York Times subscription. Between the reruns and the rent, something’s gotta give—and I already canceled my gym membership that I never used, so journalism drew the short straw. Sorry, democracy. It's not you, it’s capitalism. |
AuthorCHARLES PEARSON
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