 The new “No Name” store at the far east end of Main Street finally has a name: Black Friday Deals. It’s taken over the old Joann’s spot in Beach Shopping Center, and it’s already causing a stir. Every day has its own price point—$4 Mondays, $10 Fridays—spread across three long rows of tables stacked with Amazon packages, most likely returns or overstock. The place feels more like a thrift shop than a retail store, stuffed with mystery boxes, flea market finds, and the occasional new item: bicycles, canvas paintings, refrigerators, sofas, washing machines, clothes. You name it. Whatever the deal, this is Peekskill’s new hotspot. I saw the mayor there. You’ll see your cousins, too, your lovers, your exes—the ones you swore you’d never see again. They’re all here. Old and young, every race, every color, every new color. Everything in a skirt, pants or shorts. The place is packed, and Peekskill is on fire with this new addition at the edge of town, right near the border with Cortlandt Manor. It makes you wonder what a place like this could’ve done for downtown. People need to eat, drink, linger. This would’ve been a plus for Main Street. But kudos to Beach Shopping Center for the find. Not everything can be downtown, after all. I bought a large canvas print to hang over the sofa—something that echoes the Cubism piece in my writing area and the squares in the rug that tie the living room to the dining room. I suppose I’ll be back, even if I prefer the solitude of online shopping. The in-person experience felt cheap, overwhelming—a zoo of wild-eyed species pulling, grabbing, opening boxes like treasure chests or traps. For an introvert, once is plenty. Still, I left with two Ken dolls. Bookends, I told myself. They’ll flank the Greek statue and the David I’ve ordered. A little camp, a little myth. As time passes, I realize—albeit slowly—that not everyone in my life is truly a friend. This lesson extends even to family, where the lines become even blurrier. Sometimes, family members aren’t necessarily out to harm me; rather, they seek out information to use as leverage against each other. They believe they’ve uncovered some truth, but more often than not, they’re mistaken. With hindsight, I finally understand the warnings my mother often shared about certain people even so-called relatives. The ones because of blood are supposed to have your back but that is not always the case. She was attuned to the red flags, alert to the subtleties long before I recognized them. Back then, I ignored her warning—but not anymore. I can’t keep overlooking what’s so obvious now. Going back to the trough, knowing full well what’s there, would only be my own fault. Now, I am reminded that kindness does not equate to trust. Just because I am friendly does not mean I place my confidence in everyone. The circle of those I truly trust is small—so small, in fact, that I can count them on one hand, just as it has always been.  Ken stands watch where prose meets poster, beneath the geometry of memory.  The church spire stands like a memory, the buildings murmur with quiet witness, as Peekskill glimmers in the sunset.
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 The Metro North en route to New York glides like a silver thought between the Hudson and Annsville Creek, Bear Mountain rising behind it like a memory half-remembered. It’s a perky kind of morning—the kind that arrives with a lingering kiss and a soundtrack from the seventies. Moonlight Feels Right by Starbuck was playing through my headphones as the Metro North train curved between the Hudson and Annsville Creek, Bear Mountain rising like a myth in the distance. I caught the image, of course. I’ll share it later. But the feeling came first: the kiss, the moonlight, the sweetness of a night that doesn’t need stars to feel right.
And then, politics. Eric Adams has announced he won’t seek re-election. A mercy, really. The city was ready to vote him out, and who needs that kind of public unraveling? He knew this long ago, but like so many Democratic leaders, he held on past the point of grace. Biden, Harris—same story. The reluctance to let go when the tide has already turned. So here’s hoping for a gentler rise for Zohran Mamdani, whose name may not yet echo through the boroughs but carries the kind of quiet promise that time might honor. Last night’s film—some horror-sci-fi gem on Prime—left me haunted in the best way. New York City was the backdrop, gleaming and shadowed, more alive than I’ve seen it in years. The plot? A doctor, bats, blood, transformation. A bat-monster, maybe. I didn’t save it to my watchlist, and the title escapes me, but the mood lingers. The actors were unfamiliar, but they held the screen like they belonged to it. I’ll track it down eventually. Some stories deserve to be remembered. This Monday began with movement. A run, a walk, a refusal to be distracted by the lens. Only a few scenes caught my eye—most I let pass, choosing rhythm over record. The morning was cool, beautiful, and full of those Southern-style waves from passing cars. Peekskill does that. It’s not New York City, though it pretends sometimes. That mural at Taco Dive Bar calling us the Sixth Borough? Illusion. Peekskill feels more Southern than Yankee, especially when strangers greet you like kin. In New York City, you pass someone and maybe you size each other up. In Peekskill, you stop. You say hi. You mean it. Men are attractive here. Not many you’d want to meet for certain purposes, but enough to make the riverfront feel like a stage. And sometimes, that’s enough.  By the end of October, Depew Park in Peekskill is likely to be all decked out for Halloween. Death, as it turns out, is not the tidy curtain call we imagine. It’s more like a badly written soap opera—dragging on with plot twists, unresolved subplots, and a cast of characters who suddenly care very deeply about a chipped teacup or a dusty lamp. Especially when the dearly departed forgot to leave behind a script. No will, no instructions, just a house full of “stuff” and a bunch of people squinting at it like it’s a Rorschach test.
Now, this particular house—let’s call it the Scene of the Sentimental Crime—means nothing to me. I didn’t grow up there. I didn’t even summer there. My adopted sister did, so she’s got the emotional receipts. Me? I’m just the distant relative with a front-row seat to the drama, hundreds of miles away, wondering if I’m supposed to care. I mean, I do care. In theory. But in practice, I’d rather be watching the leaves change. Because death, my friends, is not the end. It’s the beginning of a group text that never dies. It’s the spark that ignites a thousand passive-aggressive conversations about who gets the ceramic owl and whether the couch is “vintage” or just “old.” And while the whole thing could be resolved with a few firm decisions and maybe a bonfire, feelings are fragile. Like antique glassware. Or egos. Meanwhile, Bear Mountain is putting on its fall fashion show—yellows, oranges, and a bit of moody green. The Hudson’s doing its best impression of a mirror, and Fort Hill is flirting with foliage but hasn’t fully committed. It’s the kind of morning that makes you want to drive north until your cell signal disappears and your problems dissolve into leaf piles. Poughkeepsie, Beacon, the Catskills—anywhere but here, really. Because here is Peekskill, where the town is small, the gossip is fast, and death is sometimes... premature. Case in point: I get a call. A relative has died. Allegedly. The news spreads through the complex like someone hit “Reply All” on a rumor. A body bag was seen. A neighbor swears she’s gone. I drop everything—laundry, lunch, existential dread—and go check. I knock on the window. She answers. Alive. Very much alive. And understandably confused about her sudden demise. So yes, in Peekskill, you don’t need the Herald to know what’s going on. You just need one neighbor with a vivid imagination and a loud voice. Death rumors, like fall leaves, swirl fast and land wherever they please. And that, dear reader, is life. Or at least the version we get in this zip code.  Rain on the pane, like memory—distorted, persistent, and always returning. Life in a Secured Building
Living behind locked gates and coded entries is a strange kind of privilege. It’s not Decatur Avenue, where the door was a suggestion and neighbors were part of the weather. Here, every guest is a protocol, every delivery a negotiation. Amazon came early—6:43 a.m.—as if the driver were chasing ghosts. I was out on the track, chasing breath. Four missed calls. My phone silenced, as always, during the ritual of motion. Now I wait indoors, tethered to the possibility of a knock, my day rearranged by a package and the architecture of security. Morning at Torphy Field Torphy Field before sunrise is a kind of chapel. Runners, walkers, one lone soccer dreamer. The stars were shy today, veiled by clouds that whispered of rain. Peekskill in the morning is a hush, a promise. The kind of quiet that makes you believe in beginnings. The Solitude of Writing Hemingway called writing a lonely life. He wasn’t wrong, but he wasn’t quite right either. It’s not loneliness—it’s stillness. The kind that asks you to stay put, even when the city calls like a siren. Last night’s storm was a gift. Thunder as punctuation, rain as rhythm. Then came the guest—uninvited, well-meaning, interruptive. Attractive. Alluring. Yes, fucking attractive like a devil in disguise. Sexy. I asked him to leave. Not out of cruelty, but necessity. Solitude is not a preference; it’s a condition. Now, with cathedral windows and a balcony that watches Fort Hill breathe, I can stay in for days. Step outside without leaving. Write without fleeing. Returning to Fiction Two weeks away from the page and the story forgets you. You have to earn your way back. Reread. Re-enter. Relearn the pulse of your characters—their hungers, their grudges, their inevitable ends. Some will not survive. I know that now. The ones who do will carry scars. Distraction is the enemy. Inspiration doesn’t shout—it waits. I sometimes think the ideal town for a writer is one where no one knows your name. Where anonymity is not exile, but freedom. Sweet Smell of Success Last night I watched Sweet Smell of Success again. Burt Lancaster. Tony Curtis. Black-and-white New York, the way it should be—moody, sharp, unrepentant. It’s not just a film. It’s scripture. The writing, the performances, the city as character. Found it free on YouTube, like stumbling on a lost diary in a thrift store. Here are a few lines that still echo:
 Banana and coffee from Saleh, back at the desk—morning light, memory, and the camera waiting to witness. This morning feels different. Not just cooler or quieter—but mythic, like the first day of college long ago, when I was eighteen and leaving home for the first time. That departure marked the beginning of a long letting go, especially of my grandparents, the two people I loved most. I would repeat that distance again, and then again longer, until a decade passed before I saw them once more—by then, I had moved to San Francisco.
Today began with a walk. Not the track field this time, but the streets—Crompond Road stretching toward Beach Shopping Center, still cloaked in dawn. CVS glowed like a lighthouse, the only place open. Planet Fitness was shuttered for renovations, and Joann’s had vanished, replaced by a new store with windows full of bicycles, linens, lamps, clocks—things I might buy, but probably won’t. I’m a reluctant shopper. Online is easier. Still, I have a soft spot for thrift and vintage stores, where the past lingers in objects and prices feel like whispers. Macy’s Herald Square is the exception. I love riding that old wooden escalator from the fifth to the ninth floor—the creaking, clattering thrill of it, like a rollercoaster at Myrtle Beach, long ago. And then, Saleh. He stood with his back to me, smoothing his black hair, mosque music playing softly from his phone. When he turned, his face lit up with a bashful smile that made me smile too. I said good morning. He said it back. I didn’t need anything, really. But how do you tell someone that? That you came just to say hello? It’s rare for me. There aren’t many people I want to greet in the morning—or any time of day. Saleh is one of the few. So I bought a coffee, weak compared to the Coffee House brew, but it was something. He handed me a banana, free with the coffee. That was kind of him. I’ll go back later and buy something real. He’s got to stay in business. That corner of Division and Main needed someone like him. PK Candy Store is a welcome addition. Soon, the Mayor’s Tea Shop will reopen, with apartments above in a building designed to look old—like the rest of downtown Peekskill’s architecture. Blondery is gone after nine years. The sign blames foot traffic, but I think it was the prices. It never catered to the common man. And now, it’s vanished. Today, I return to fiction. I think I’m ready. The weekend was a descent into horror films—Universal Monsters on Prime Video. Some were classics. Others, grotesque. One called The Inferno Green nearly undid me. A jungle tribe torturing American protesters trying to save the rainforest—cannibalism, graphic violence. I barely made it through without retching. Let’s hope Painted People doesn’t do the same to me.  The D’Angelo family at rest—four souls by the river, watching the town wake. Some mornings, the words won’t come until your feet have done the talking. You walk—not to escape, but to listen. To the sidewalk. To the river. To the ache in your own shoes. Feedback? Doesn’t matter. You write what you need to write, after the miles have softened your edges. Why not.
Peekskill yawns early. By 4:30, Valley Brook flickers to life. Leo’s already there—punctual as sunrise, handsome as ever, full of caffeine and charm. He wants to move in. I tell him I’ve only got one bedroom. “So what?” he grins. I laugh. “I’m difficult,” I say. “Even to know.” He’d hate me before coffee. That gets a real laugh. He says he likes energy. I say I’m okay with that. The Riverwalk calls. I answer. From Annsville Creek to Charles Point, the boardwalk slick with dew and dog prints. That woman again—same question, same urgency: “Do you read the Peekskill Herald?” She’s got a dog this time, dragging her like a freight train. I say yes, again. She warns me about the wet planks, says someone ought to call the city before someone breaks a hip. Then she mistakes the woman I’m talking to for my mother. That woman had just asked where I was from. I say, “Right here. Peekskill.” She forgets. Says she’s Jamaican from the Bronx. Wants to be friends. I take her number. I probably won’t call. She’s looking for something I’m not. And that’s the end of that. By five, the town is stretching its limbs. Trucks hiss open—milk, bread, bottled water. Coffee walkers nod like monks. Migrants gather on South Street, waiting for work. The freeway hums toward Manhattan. Buses idle by the library, engines purring like cats. I grab a java at Valley Brook, trade banter with Leo, then drift to Pugsley Park. The air is soft. The morning is kind. I close my eyes. Thank the heavens. And breathe.  Main Street hums in lamplight. The moon stayed hidden, but the night still spoke. 🕯 It’s Saturday night. From the balcony above Main Street, the hills flicker with candlelit windows—little houses, lofts, apartments glowing like quiet lanterns. No street closures tonight. No festival drums. Just the scent of backyard BBQ drifting up from someone’s porch. Across the way, a woman walks her dog in a rooftop garden. I’ve heard artists live there. This is the Arts District, after all—where lofts are meant to be affordable, where creativity is supposed to have a home. Then there’s another kind of Saturday night. Or maybe it was a Friday night. Nights become blurred and they merge like in a dream in a writer's twisted prose. North Division is closed. The crowd is alive. A woman with a smooth, sultry voice leads the band outside Whiskey River. She owns the street. And there he is—my favorite bartender. Black shorts, black tee, wild white hair like he’s either a genius or a madman. A lovable madman. He sees me, kicks me in the ass, and we’re laughing again. Some people you can still love with their hands around your neck. I suppose he’s one of them. He slides behind the bar to tend to demanding customers. I get back to filming. Back to the music. And in the wee hours, with YouTube humming in the background, I realize: I’m better off than the blog I didn’t publish. Better off with a lot of things. And I can finally see what I need to let go of. Because sometimes, moving on isn’t optional. It’s sacred.  Order, grit, and unexpected grace—this kitchen held the chaos of a move and the quiet triumph of loyalty earned. There’s a concept many know: Two Men and a Truck. A moving service. A brand. A promise of muscle and motion. But mine? Mine was a DIY remix—equal parts necessity and improvisation. I don’t drive, so I rented a U-Haul, hired a driver, and enlisted two young men to do the heavy lifting. It was rushed. It was raw. And it worked better than I ever imagined. One of them was my couch-surfing friend. A man of strong opinions and stronger habits—wake, smoke, sip, scroll. YouTube shorts on loop until the algorithm itself begs for mercy. I didn’t expect much. But when the time came, he transformed. Took charge. Hauled boxes. Lifted furniture. No complaints. No drama. Just sweat and resolve. I saw a side of him I hadn’t met before, and I respected him for it. Deeply. The other guy? Same story. I had my doubts. But he matched the energy, matched the effort, and earned my admiration. These weren’t just hired hands. They were lifelines. 🧼 The Clean Mind in a Messy World Now, understand this: I’m not just tidy. I’m compulsively aligned. If something’s out of place, my brain short-circuits. There’s probably a clinical term for it—compulsive domestic clarity, perhaps. Whatever it is, it governs me. And when disorder isn’t my doing, it breeds a quiet rage. A simmering resentment. You hate the sonvabitch who caused it. Because the discomfort doesn’t fade. It lingers. It infects. So imagine the chaos of a move. The dust. The disarray. The existential offense. And yet—these two men stepped into my world and didn’t just move furniture. They moved me. ❤️ Loyalty, Earned and Sealed Today, I love these boys. Not in the Hallmark way. In the real way. The “I’d do anything for you—within legal bounds” kind of way. They showed up. They worked hard. They didn’t flinch. And they earned a place in my heart reserved for the rare few who get it done. Insult them, and you’ll meet my wrath. Because loyalty, like a well-organized spice rack, is sacred. Never Gonna Fall in Love Again
 We mourn selectively. We forget collectively. We learn nothing. I hate politics. But sometimes, we must stare into its broken mirror—especially when the reflection is unbearable.
Today, I mourn the death of a Ukrainian woman who witnessed her own brutal end at the hands of a man so disturbed, so unchecked, that no one was safe until she was gone. Her death is not just a tragedy—it’s a symptom. A nation shaken, yet again, by violence it refuses to understand. We ignore the sickness until it devours someone whole. And then we grieve, briefly, before forgetting. We never seem to learn. As for the death of Charlie Kirk—I feel no tears, no tremor of sympathy. He would never have spoken to me. Not because of my words, but because of my skin. In America, whiteness often masquerades as virtue, while calling Black grief “hate.” Why should I mourn a man who would have thrown me under the bus for a soundbite? BlackNews.com captured his legacy with brutal clarity. Kirk’s rise through Turning Point USA gave him a platform to weaponize grievance politics. He framed equity as an attack, mocked Black leaders, and sowed mistrust toward Black professionals. His death leaves a void in conservative youth organizing—but his record ensures that race, privilege, and civil rights will remain tangled in his shadow. And yet, I know what comes next. He will be martyred. Elevated. Sanitized. That’s the way of this world—a world that’s been bleeding since Cain and Abel. A world that never stops hating, never stops killing, never stops pretending. So I say this to my brethren, especially those who voted for Trump: pay attention. Don’t let grief be selective. Don’t let memory be manipulated. Don’t let silence be your legacy. The only peace for man is the return of Jesus—the second coming, a date unknown. But until then, we must keep living. Keep healing. Keep tending to wounds and hearts, even when the world insists we stop.  Apartment 6S—where memory softens, music muffles the world, and the view invites you to smile again. Imagine living in the sky in New York. Such a view. Such scenery. From my perch overlooking Main Street in Peekskill—just thirty minutes north of the city by car—I watch the hills roll gently past Fort Hill Apartments, the villa and spa, and old St. Mary’s, now part of the hotel complex. Fort Hill is slipping into the last days of summer. You start at the green crown of the hill, descend, then rise again. The colors are fading—lighter, duller—as autumn prepares her burst. Peekskill, ever theatrical, is changing her dress for the new season. It’s easy to sit here and stare instead of write. Instead of do anything. The view is that perfect, that still. One rarely, if ever, wants to leave home. And why would you, when you have all this? Except for the weekly drop-in at your favorite watering hole—mine being Whiskey River, less than a block from my new loft in the sky. This is what I need to write. To stay home and finish. At least one manuscript. Then another. And maybe another. And we’ll keep going until… well, memory is no more. Suddenly, I miss my couch-surfing BFF. I hope he’s well. I’m sure he is—I’ve seen him from my window, down at the Salvation Army, where everyone picking themselves up again seems to go. Perhaps soon I’ll run into him and invite him to dinner. He’s the only person I know who actually liked my cooking. Now, back to Painted People. I took a week off after the drama of my move. That was a nightmare—an LL whose wife I like just fine, but every time I see him, my skin cringes. Even when he’s trying to make nice, you wish a great big hole would open up and swallow him whole. He’s that irritating. On the other hand, there’s the Optimum guy who installed my internet. Not irritating. A beautiful ginger man with a full beard, slightly darker than his hair. Though you couldn’t see much of it—those white work helmets obscure everything. He was kind and patient, even after I opened the door so stunned by his beauty that I forgot to pocket the key. We locked ourselves out until a maintenance worker with a master key let us back in. He’s soft-spoken. Very sexy. My type. The kind I wouldn’t mind having around 24/7—without one gripe. And although my heart belongs to another, it’s okay not to close your eyes to others. As I opened mine, there he was. Salah. Next in line at C-Town this morning. His eyes said so much. That smile—infectious. I was happy to see Salah. Then there’s the unhappiness. The thing I never really talk about, but always think about. I avoid sitting in front of people who give off negative energy—especially on the bus or subway. I think about that poor Ukrainian girl who escaped war only to be stabbed to death on Charlotte’s light rail by a schizophrenic man who thought she was spying on him. It’s something out of a horror movie. I wish it hadn’t happened to her—or anyone. People are so disturbed these days. You never really know when someone will attack you for no reason. It’s happened to me. Probably to everyone at some point. There’s a man here in Peekskill—light-skinned, older, Black—who verbally attacked me the other day when I said hi. I was wearing those “hot” green shorts that probably showed too much leg. He went off, screaming “Sodom and Gomorrah,” saying he hated queers, and using the F-word I won’t even write—not even in fiction. I think he’s on some kind of medication. The other day I saw him again. I didn’t say hi, of course. But he was… normal. Still mean. Still angry. He saw me, recognized me, but didn’t open his mouth. I got away as quickly as I could. But back in your loft—where silence lives despite the noisy hum of Main Street—you seem to rise above it all. The traffic, the voices, the fragments of conversation drifting up from below. Sometimes what you hear makes you laugh out loud. Other times, you turn up the music, let it muffle the world, and retreat into your own rhythm. And in that loft, you forget about a lot of things. You remember the good. You smile again.  Apartment 6S, morning: the view from the bedroom, where Fort Hill greets you before coffee and the angels above the bed remind you to rest between chapters. |
AuthorCHARLES PEARSON 
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