 The mask waits. The river calls. And I drift, not away, but deeper into myself. Rain fell steadily this morning, soft and unhurried, like a permission slip from the sky. I didn’t write. I read. That quiet surrender felt honest, even necessary. Writing demands solitude, yes—but not always the kind I can bear. Some days I lean into it, shaping silence into sentences. Other days, I drift. Today was a drift day.
History always pulls me in—especially the layered mythos of New York City. I lose hours there, wandering through stories, maps, and photographs, letting the city’s ghosts speak. The patter against the windows made it easier to stay inside, both literally and emotionally. I let the scroll take me. I let the words wash over me. A friend invited me to a samba dance tonight. I considered it. It would’ve been something new, a break from the quiet. But dancing has never quite been mine. I’ve moved in crowds, yes—but I’ve always preferred the stillness inside the motion. The kind of dance where you don’t have to move at all. Just stand there, surrounded, watching the lights shift across faces. That was enough. Lately, I’ve been thinking about aging. About independence. About how fragile it all is. My mother stayed independent until the very end, and I carry that as a kind of prayer. I want to be like that—capable, self-reliant, true to myself. Even on days when I drift. Tomorrow night, I’ll be masked for Halloween. Not metaphorically—actually masked. There’s a party, and I’ll go. The East Village can wait until next year. I’m not in the mood for its chaos. But the mask feels right. It’s the season for transformation, for stepping into other selves. And during the day, rain or no rain, I’ll be on a boat up the Hudson. A Fall Foliage Peeping Cruise, they call it. I call it a ritual of color and quiet. The Highlands will be dressed in gold and rust, and I’ll be there, watching. Letting the leaves speak. Letting the river carry me.
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 He came masked, drank with style, and stayed past midnight. I served trout. He served change. He arrived just after dusk, when the streetlamps flicker like dying stars and the wind carries whispers from the alley. I had invited him—the Alien-Devil—though I can’t recall why. Maybe it was the season. October, when masks are currency and monsters walk freely. I was born in that season in November. I belong to it. The trout was my offering. A foolish choice. Its bones were like secrets—too many, too sharp. I cooked it anyway, sweating under the kitchen light like a man preparing a final confession. He ate with a kind of reverence, as if the fish held meaning beyond flesh. But the eye—the eye stared back. I saw myself in it. Not the host. Not the man. Something else. The martini was a ritual. Shaken, not stirred. A nod to Bond, to elegance, to the illusion of control. He held the glass like a relic, sniffed it like a warning. When he finally drank, I knew: his world was not mine. His toast was not to life as I thought I knew it. The Morning After (Balcony Refrain) He stayed. Of course he did. Monsters don’t leave until they’ve finished their work. I stepped onto the balcony, the city still asleep, and lit a cigarette I didn’t want. Smoke curled like memory. I had changed. Not visibly. Not yet. But inside, something had shifted. A bone out of place. A shadow where light used to be. I am the monster now. And Halloween is home.   Southern Belles: They laughed like they’d been born knowing how to flirt with cameras and clouds. Flashback Friday It’s been six or seven years since I landed on Tybee Island, but the colors, the shrimp, and the southern grace still linger like a well-seasoned echo. That day under cumulus clouds felt like Heaven—until I remembered I’m probably the last person they’d let in without sending me right back to Earth. A clerical error, surely. I was younger, bolder, and apparently charming enough to get a few University of Georgia belles to pose for my camera. The shrimp plate? Out of this world. The confidence? Clearly on the rise. Today, I’m in a food mood and a memory mood—and Tybee delivers both. Heaven may have clouds, but Tybee had mustard-drizzled bread and grilled sausage. I’d take that any day. Even the young belles, radiant and lively as fresh sweet Georgia peaches, added to the fun and charm of that unforgettable day on Tybee Island. Their warmth and spirit, much like the vibrant atmosphere of the island itself, made the experience all the more memorable. Whether posing for a photograph or simply enjoying the sun-soaked afternoon, their presence was as delightful as the southern hospitality that defined the moment.  If Heaven has shrimp like that, maybe I’ll behave just long enough to get in. Or maybe I’ll just keep writing my way back to Tybee.     One uneventful afternoon, I found myself talking to someone about the incredible slider burgers from Whiskey River. I was raving—rightfully so—about how delicious they were, but I only mentioned “sliders” without naming the restaurant. Instantly, his face lit up. “White Castle?” he asked, eyes gleaming with nostalgia. Now, I’ve certainly heard of White Castle. I even ate there once or twice—back when I didn’t know any better. That square burger? I thought it was cool at the time. There used to be a White Castle on Market Street near New Montgomery, but that was a different era. A different me. Market Street has changed since then—some of it for the better, some of it completely downhill. These days, places like Whiskey River stand out. Whiskey River is the heart of Peekskill. The rest of those grub joints? They don’t compare. They’re not like us. Not like me. That distinction—between what was and what is—mirrors how my tastes have evolved. After living in San Francisco for over 40 years—the majority of my life—I’ve developed a certain level of snobbery, especially around food. You can’t help it. The city trains your palate. You learn to expect more. You learn to care. The sliders from Whiskey River aren’t just food. They’re an experience. They’re not fast food—they’re fast poetry. They knock your socks off, then hand them back to you folded. Then came the question. The woman with him—someone I used to like, or thought I did—asked, “How much do they cost?” What do you even say to that? When you’ve embraced the San Francisco food snob lifestyle, price becomes irrelevant. You don’t ask. You don’t calculate. You hand over your card, leave a generous tip, and savor the moment. Especially if someone else is footing the bill. That’s just how it is in San Francisco. Manhattan. Peekskill is becoming that way. Maybe I am a snob. Maybe I’ve become one of those people. But I’ve made peace with it. It’s part of the culture—then and now. And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.  He smoked the cocktail like a priest blessing the altar—so I forgave him for calling Peekskill ‘upstate.  Painted for the city—where a Joker's mask meets memory on the midnight train. New York in fall, where the streets flirt and forget in equal measure. The city’s allure isn’t just its skyline or its myth—it’s the men. Every type, every shade, every rhythm. They move through the streets like fragments of a larger mosaic, one that never quite settles. Some you like instantly. Others make you wonder. A few leave you wishing you could let your guard down—if you had any hair left, maybe you’d even let it down. There’s a strange kind of freedom here. For a day or a weekend, you can forget who your heart belongs to. You can let the city hold you, just for now. No guilt. No promises. Just the thrill of a gaze held too long, a voice that lingers, a moment that feels like it might mean something—until it doesn’t. Hell’s Kitchen. A dive bar. Dim lights and a man whose eyes meet yours with just enough heat to stir something. You remember the old New York Boy’s Files you used post. Estelle’s “American Boy” playing in your head like a soundtrack: “Talkin’ that slick talk, walkin’ that walk…” You used to kick it. You still could. But you’ve changed. Too many broke boys. Too many nights that ended with nothing but a cab ride and a sigh. Maybe you’re over it. Maybe not. Estelle again: “Five-foot-seven guy who’s just my type… confidence peakin’…” You’re not a fan of his jeans or their jogging shorts. They’re like slices of white bread—one on the bottom, one on the top—and you’re content being sandwiched in between. Maybe it’s what’s underneath that catches your interest. Then—without warning—a parade. You stumble into it like a scene from a film noir you didn’t audition for. The Hispanic Day Parade, Fifth Avenue, flags and drums and dancers. You don’t know why you’re here, but you’re glad you are. The city does that. It surprises you. It seduces you. It forgives you. It’s just another weekend. But New York in the fall feels like a new lover—cooler, crisper, less desperate. The jungle heat of summer fades, and the city becomes something else. Something you want to hold onto, even if just for a moment. Hispanic Day Parade
 
 Prada's window displays on 5th Avenue are always strikingly dramatic. TIMES SQUARE
  Guardian of dusk—where Wilder’s stage meets Brontë’s ache. Martini weather and Scorpio ghosts in Peekskill
At 67 degrees, Peekskill feels more inviting than it has in recent memory. The foliage shifts into flame—orange, gold, and rust—painting the town in a palette of memory and change. Halloween decorations begin to appear, and with them, the presence of ghosts: not just the playful specters on porches, but the quieter ones that stir beneath the skin. Scorpio season arrives, and with it, a crispness that makes everything feel both well-worn and entirely new. A Balcony View Today’s gentle temperature makes the balcony a kind of altar. I sit with a dirty martini, gazing out at the trees on Fort Hill. Turning east, High Hill’s treetops burst with color. The air has shifted—last night’s stale breath replaced by something lingering, maybe chimney smoke or the tang of burning wood from someone’s fireplace. A breeze stirs. Even the cars along Main Street, more highway than street, seem softened. Their hum rolls like distant surf—until an engine revs and Spanish rap music rises from below, sharp and alive. Memories of “Our Town” These moments recall high school days (Junior Year) and our collective reading of Our Town. I remember performing it in English Literature in Miss Powell's class, giggling as sixteen-year-olds when Steve Furches had to pretend to kiss Terry Holder. Did they actually kiss? That question lingered like perfume. It was a time when we began to notice each other differently, as adolescence reshaped us. The Turning of Leaves and Passing Time Rain arrives with Monday. The tree that stood green on Friday now burns orange, its leaves swirling like forgotten pages. Despite the rain, patches of blue sky peek through thick clouds drifting eastward. The wind slants, and my thoughts drift to The Blood on Satan’s Claw—that 1971 British film with its boldness, its infamous satanic scene where a young girl loses her virginity in the most horrific way, its refusal to flinch. British cinema knew how to haunt. On Painted People Painted People isn’t forgotten. I simply haven’t returned to it yet. But it remains ever-present, like Catherine Linton’s love for Heathcliff: “He’s always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being.” Painted People is my own being. It waits, not as a burden, but as a mirror.  Crack is Wack still shouts through the fence—its orange defiance framed by rising towers and fading echoes. East Harlem—El Barrio—at the terminus of East 128th Street and 2nd Avenue, near the Crack is Wack Playground, feels almost deserted. A forgotten corner of New York, it echoes the city’s turbulent past. This place still carries the memory of the crack epidemic, a devastating era that tore through neighborhoods, fractured families, and left scars that haven’t fully healed.
Keith Haring’s anti-crack mural, though weathered by time and acts of vandalism, endures. Now protected behind a fence, it stands as a bold and battered symbol of resistance and remembrance. It marks a chapter that has largely passed, yet its shadows still drift across the streets. In daylight, between parked cars, one might still witness unsettling scenes—men and women, half-clothed and under the influence—bearing silent testimony to struggles that persist just out of view. Yet beyond the Harlem and East Rivers, change is unmistakable. From this vantage, the transformation across the water is visible in the rise of Bankside at the edge of the South Bronx. Brookfield Properties is developing a massive 1,350-unit project in Mott Haven—a seven-tower complex that will span both sides of the Third Avenue Bridge at 2401 Third Avenue and 101 Lincoln Avenue. Brookfield’s $165 million purchase of these waterfront parcels from The Chetrit Group in September 2018 set the stage for a new era. Construction is already underway. Despite the contrasts—between the lingering hardship of East Harlem and the promise of renewal across the river—there’s something about this corner of New York that feels inviting. In its grit and resilience, it’s a place I could imagine calling home.  The kindness of strangers—found between trains, beneath rain, and beside a voice that felt like home. Even when you’re tucked into your own world—playing Monopoly Go on your phone, minding your business—someone might come along and ask you a question. And because she’s elderly, in her golden age, you pause the game and give her your attention. That’s how I met Miss Martisha.
What struck me first was her voice. It reminded me of Miss Ruby, a woman I once knew in Florence, South Carolina. Not a relative, but someone who felt like one. For a moment, I thought I was speaking to Miss Ruby herself. Same chocolate complexion. Same cadence. But no—this was Miss Martisha with a Jamaican accent. We met at Harlem’s 125th Street station. She seemed unsure whether she was in the right place, or maybe she just wanted to chat. Either way, I put down my phone and listened. She was waiting for the New Haven line—what she called the Connecticut train—but had just missed one and wasn’t sure when the next would arrive. She sat beside me and asked, kindly, if I could look up the schedule for her. Though she had a phone, she preferred my help. Her train was due after mine, the one back to Peekskill. There is something about brief encounters with unfamiliar people that draws me in, while the prospect of regular socializing holds little appeal. I was, indeed, savoring those precious minutes spent with someone I had never met before. In my experience, strangers often prove to be more entertaining than the people you already know. Each brings their own unique stories and personal history—baggage that is wholly theirs. What you share during these brief encounters is always fleeting, yet undeniably real. There’s a certain freedom in knowing that there is no obligation to meet again. The interaction exists solely in that moment, unburdened by expectations. Unless, of course, you happen to cross paths by chance once more. That possibility, I find, is something I can comfortably embrace. She joked that her train should come first—because she was a woman—and laughed at the impossibility of changing timetables. I laughed too. Before I boarded my train, Miss Martisha said she hoped we’d meet again. I agreed...As Blanche DuBois once said in A Streetcar Named Desire: “I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.” And sometimes, it’s the kindness from strangers that stays with us longest.  Two figures pause in the hush between footsteps—held by sky, by season, by each other. A Moment in New York’s Constant Motion
So much happens in New York in a single minute that it’s nearly impossible to absorb every detail. The energy in Times Square—the crossroads of the world—is electric, pulsing with entertainment and constant movement. On days like the Hispanic Day Parade, the city feels even more alive. Bursts of color, music, and dancing spill into the streets, raising the city’s vibrancy to new heights. Yet despite all the excitement, one quiet moment stood out to me most. Among all the photos and videos I captured, my favorite was of a mature couple pausing during their stroll in Central Park. In the midst of a busy Sunday in New York, that peaceful, shared moment between them became my most cherished memory of the day.  🎃Until recently, I had no idea how intricate the Halloween pumpkin process could be. That changed after meeting a girl named Hope. Her name immediately conjured memories of Hope from Days of Our Lives—the long-running soap opera that migrated from NBC to Peacock after ratings dipped. We laughed about the legacy of soap opera names. How many girls were named Hope because of her. How Nicole became popular first through Nicole on The Edge of Night, and later through Days of Our Lives again. Names carry echoes. Sometimes they carve us before we carve them. At the Coat Factory, there’s a hidden world where pumpkins are transformed. Gutted, carved, decorated, and shipped to places like the Chicago Botanical Garden. These creations travel by truck from Peekskill, NY, carried by volunteers and paid artists alike. Hope told me the giant pumpkins smell like melons when opened. I believe her. We both like pumpkin flavor—but not pumpkin pie. Too close to sweet potato pie, which I’ve never liked, even growing up in the South. The pumpkins come from Amish country in Pennsylvania. Once they arrive, they’re turned into art and sent to Chicago, Long Island, and likely other corners of the tri-state area. I’m still not sure how one gets involved in this ritual, but I’m glad it exists. I don’t eat much pumpkin, but I love how it looks. That vibrant orange—like fire made friendly. It warms the season, decorates the days. Meanwhile, fall is reshaping Peekskill. Anytime Fitness is moving into the old RiteAid at Crosstown Shopping Center. Across the street, the space that once held Junita’s is becoming the new Peekskill Diner. I’m looking forward to it. I used to love all-night diners in New York before the pandemic. Chelsea Square Restaurant with diner atmosphere might still be open, but I haven’t been in ages. Fall always feels like a return. To the city. To tradition. To the quiet thrill of new places opening their doors. Like New York City that's always changing, Peekskill is changing again. And I’m walking with it. |
AuthorCHARLES PEARSON 
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