waka waka waka

Feeling a bit cooped up earlier today, I took myself for a longish walk in Prospect Park, which begins right at the end of my block here in Brooklyn. It was was just what the doctor ordered; few prescriptions can rival in therapeutic value the simple act of getting outside.

Well, time to lay off politics for a moment – although there is plenty to talk about, in particular that narcissistic moonbat Hugo Chavez’s statesmanlike performance at the UN, and the heartening domestic response in which even familiar left-wing drones such as Nancy Pelosi and Charlie Rangel paused in their bastinadoing of the C. in C. to circle the wagons. “Hey! You can’t slander the President of the United States,” they cried with one voice. “That’s our job.” Clearly, what is needed for world peace is an attack from space.

But there will be ample opportunity to get back to world affairs soon enough. Yes, the clash of civilizations rages on, the polar icecaps deliquesce, insane despots smirk approvingly as atom bombs roll off the assembly line, and the Pope lays his plans for the Rapture, but all that must wait.

I whacked a mouse.

The great Ukiyo-e master Katsushika Hokusai is perhaps best known for a series of prints called 36 Views of Mt. Fuji. These images vary greatly in their depiction of the mountain; in some of them, Fuji-san is the focus of the picture, while in many others it is a barely noticeable feature off in the distance. The images show people working, playing, on the street, in town, in the country, on boats, and so forth. But the great volcano is there, somewhere, in every frame, and the set gives, in its distributed way, a sense of what a powerful presence the mountain is. Its snowclad, tapering summit often seems to float in a sea of purple mist, as though it belonged more to the heavens than the world below; at the same time, though, it is a looming token of subterranean power and mystery, and an insistent reminder of the ungraspably enormous scale at which the life of the Earth proceeds, and of Nature’s majestic indifference to the fleeting life of Man.

Have I mentioned that I rather dislike the weather here in the summertime? It reminds me of the popular television program Iron Chef, in which the antagonists are given some key ingredient – cuttlefish mantle, say, or babirussa tongue – and ring its changes by serving it up as hors d’oeuvres, soups, salads, entrees, desserts, and even beverages. Well, here in New York, the theme is humidity – enervating, spirit-breaking humidity – and the merciless Gotham microclimate dishes it out in every way imaginable.

Well,, we’re back. My daughter Chloë and I had a splendid drive from Ann Arbor to Brooklyn, with a stopover on Saturday night in State College, Pennsylvania.

We traversed a splendid transect of rural and industrial America, and took a couple of little detours. The first was a brief hop northward from Route 80 to catch a glimpse of Lake Erie; we achieved this in the town of Lorain, a western suburb of Cleveland. This was the third year I’ve made this round trip to fetch Chloë at the end of the school year, and each time I’ve been aware of the Shining Big Sea Water just a few miles away, all unseen. This year we decided to take a peek.

It was a beautiful spring day in New York; much-needed balm, as I was deeply weary and full of dark thoughts.

I went for a long walk in Prospect Park, where the sun was shining in a clear blue sky, the air was fragrantly astir, and the daffodils were blooming. I saw thousands of smiling happy people – gamboling and frolicking in the Long Meadow, thumping away at Drummer’s Grove, playing at the ballfields, pedaling their bikes, sitting on the benches, tossing footballs, pushing strollers, and sleeping on the grass. There were Jamaicans playing cricket, and Russians playing chess. I saw Muslim women in hijab, Lubavitchers in long black pants, and sunbathers in bikinis. Two middle-aged white guys were playing Gypsy guitar music, very well indeed, while a few feet away attractive young woman was telling the equally attractive young man she was playing Frisbee with that she was sorry she didn’t speak German so that they could understand one another better. She said she felt badly about it, but the only languages she spoke were French, Spanish, English, Italian, Arabic, and a little Farsi.

And there were children everywhere, in all sizes, shapes, and colors – in strollers, on foot, slung upon their daddy’s shoulders fast asleep, laughing and shouting and crying, and eating ice creams, and nursing at their mother’s breasts, and drinking at the fountains, and flying kites, and running around and falling down and getting right back up.

And all the time the Sun was shining on down, same as always. And tomorrow it’s supposed to rain, same as always.

I feel much better now.