"Drift Day"

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.