SOMEWHERE VERY PRIVATE

Portsmouth Square: The coming of twilight did not discourage the chess players, deep in their game, with a circle of equally elderly gentlemen standing around them and contemplating their every move. Off to the side a middle-aged woman instructed several companions in Tai Chi routines.
After a late lunch at 金星越南餐廳, I lit up on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, facing the park.
A bent old lady under the pine trees overhanging the opposite sidewalk stared at the flame, then looked away again, uninterested.

The family that had been at the middle table came out - mom, dad, oldest son, teenage daughter, two younger sons. By sheer good luck I had been facing the girl while I ate. She had a lovely face with a good forehead and delicately arched eyebrows. And she coloured nicely, though that was probably the hot-sauce and the soup rather than any awareness of me enjoying the view.

I headed toward Washington Street and turned right.
Slow slow, dallying, to finish the bowl before arriving the office.


Montgomery Street: Wandering tourists move along the quiet street. Why do people visit the city? Why, especially, do they come to this neighborhood? The financial district is deserted on weekends, and other than grey edifices flanking even greyer sidewalks, there is little here. Not even the colourful weekday street people are around, although the news paper bundler is astir in his doorway – his radio is on. On Battery street, two blocks over, a crazed woman with a dog is probably ensconced behind shopping carts.
The folks sipping cappuccinos at the Starbucks opposite had better beware – she tends to belligerate at random, popping suddenly forth from her fortress.
The memory of her haunting that section years ago prevents me from taking that route often.


Sansome Street: The office is dark, overcast skies curtail the outside light.
I could turn on the fixtures, but I’m enjoying the silence, while looking out of the window towards the bank building across the block. Wetness leaks from the windows, the paint prevents them fully closing. A crack lets in a moist breath, and the wood creaks softly, steadily; it needs a rubbing. When rain thrashes down a small puddle forms on the floor. If that happens, I’ll wipe away the wetness so as to leave no trace. Pulling the window handles does not work, the frame is too stiff to yield. The brass knobs feel warm to the touch, as if long and lovingly polished despite their matte hues.
Thirteen floors up. Not a chance of being disturbed on a day like this.
How wonderful!

There’s an armless desk-chair in this room – if it were lowered too much, the surface of the table would be at chest level, but as it is it’s just right. Legs up on wood, lay back, enjoy the darkness.
Should I have a cookie? TWO cookies?
The chair cants nicely, rocking back and forward.
With gentle motion drowsiness comes easily. It’s tempting to stay a while, letting the dull afternoon outside just slide away.
Fall asleep? Dream?

Contradictory impulses – read a book, or smoke a pipe? Make a cup of tea, or take another walk?
It isn’t particularly cold outside. But maybe stay here a little more.
Doze long and peaceful.

Not the most productive of days.
Instead, a very splendid one.
You need a time like this.
It's good for the soul.


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