It is 3:24 AM.

I am in the attic office and it's raining out. A minute ago I heard heavy footsteps tromp across the roof from somewhere around the chimmney. Wind? No steps. Step, step, step. Must be a man, a big man. It, no correction-he, pauses seemingly right above my head. Chills. My first thought: "The shovel is right over there and I can get it before he can." I edge over to the shovel. Pause. Listen. It's late I must be imagining things. I should be asleep. A big rat maybe? Then, unmistakably, more heavy steps. He stops at the skylight (all the townhouses from the early 19th century have skylights over the stairwell). I am a few feet from the skylight and I am furious that this person is on my roof. I creep over to the opening with my shovel to see what I can see. There is a face and two hands peering down through the thick 19th century glass. He doesn't see me yet. At this point, it gets hazy because I am in a rage, but I bang the shovel against the frame like a madman and in a full terror, yell, "GET OFF MY ROOF!!" The face vanishes followed by the sound of quick footsteps slipping and sliding over to the next house. Now silence.

Ahh Brooklyn at night. I will sleep with one eye open.

Mr. Apagya is photostudio photographer based in Accra in Ghana. He takes studio portraits in front of hand painted backdrops. I find the text in the accompanying article a both mildly patronizing and silly (and obnoxiously all in lower case), but ignore the text, enjoy the images. More images here and here.

Photostudio portraits from other places can be found in the flickr photostudio group. BTW if anyone who loves photostudio portraits should watch the Burden of Dreams, a Werner Herzog documentary about his epic Fitzcarraldo and wait until the very end when you can see a the entire process by which a local Amazonian photographer makes his beautiful black and white prints. I would kill to have some of those... almost worth a trip to the middle of the jungle. The documentary is running on some of the independent film channels this month...

About half an hour ago I was standing in the middle of our kitchen in the semi-darkness eating an apple and thinking about stuff. These are all things I do often: apple eating, hanging out in the dark, thinking.

The scene: The family is asleep downstairs, the house silent save for the occasional blast of Arabic from the baby monitor picked up from the mosque down the street . Rain is falling pulling flowers from the tree outside the window. Across the road my neighbor is watching TV as she often does at this hour. Blue light flickers against the back wall of her room. In the brighter flashes she is revealed spread out across the bed in her bra, panties, and socks. She hugs a pillow and eats some sort of cracker. Woman relaxed.

There have been times when I have caught her in her window looking over at us... my family at dinner, Jenn and I on the couch reading in the living room, sitting on the stoop with the baby. She always runs off or pretends to be doing something if we look in her direction, but she's not very quick and her staring is pretty obvious.

It is rare to see strangers so completely unwound hanging around their houses late at night in their socks. Rare indeed, and the knowledge of seeing such moments is necessarily private. I mean it's not like I can say anything if I happen to run into the woman on the street. What would you say? Anything said would sound terribly inappropriate. Possibly creepy. And yet there is that desire to say something: "I have seen you in repose. I know you exist." But of course I never do. God no. We smile, say 'hello', and leave it at that.

--
Related: Neighbors on This American Life

Our son is (finally) starting to walk on his own, but he's fairly stealthy about it all. For example I'll catch him in the mirror and turn from brushing my teeth. Like a wild animal caught in the highbeams he will freeze and quickly drop to the floor. Jenn says seeing him walking is like spotting a unicorn.

One of my favorite films La Jette, is available (temporarily I'm sure) in it's entirety on Google Video. This is the original version in French without subtitles. Download it for your computer/ipod while you can. The subtitled version of the film is available as part of a compilation on CD but it's expensive. I am happy to report (as I own a copy) that a book made of the movie's stills has become a collector's item.

1. Call when I am in the tub.
2. When I tell you I'm in the tub and not to call back for a while, call back a minute and a half later.
3. Ask about my wife, who you have met, and then refer to a girl I last dated in 1992 and haven't spoken to since.
4. Call me Ricardo. Twice.
5. Refer to me as a "buddy" after you've called me Ricardo (twice).
6. Ask the question, "What'dya say chief?"
7. Hang up because you have to take a "really important call".

Related to yesterday's post in sort of perverse way, the photography of Sarah Pickering. An interview with the artist.

"The girl is very handsome, but what's so magnificent about this picture, apart from its immediate beauty, is that it takes me to a world where groups of friends re-enact scenes from Godard films. That's already a very bold, sexy and interesting world. It reminds me that an image is not just remarkable for itself, but also for the parallel world it invites us to imagine and enter, the world in which the anomaly it depicts is normal."

From an essay on photoblogging by Momus. (describing this page)

We all have images stuck in our heads that drive us towards something or away from something. Indelible images that come to us at odd hours of the night.

Bernstein in Citizen Kane: " A fellow will remember a lot of things you wouldn't think he'd remember. One day, back in 1896, I was crossing over to Jersey on the ferry, and as we pulled out, there was another ferry pulling in, and on it there was a girl waiting to get off. A white dress she had on. She was carrying a white parasol. I only saw her for one second. She didn't see me at all, but I'll bet a month hasn't gone by since that I haven't thought of that girl."

I am haunted by a dozen and a half such memories several of which I did not actually see with my own eyes, but images I picture clearly nonetheless. My own constitution is such that no one vision dominates and they are equal parts pain and pleasure. Having a child has certainly added to the inventory and perhaps colored the collection in memory.

When I was a boy I was fascinated, as most boys are, with fireworks. In Mexico there was a grandmother in the neighborhood who sold bundles of gunpowder extracted from bullets. They would be delivered neatly wrapped in small brown bags through her bedroom window. She also sold handmade watermelon popsicles. I visited often. For a few pesos we would amass quantities of the dark powder, hiding it in cigar boxes in the back of a dresser. With a bit newspaper, a wick from a candle, and some wax you could make a pretty good firecracker. We would sneak out to abandoned lots and experiment. A stolen can of gasoline, rubbing alcohol, and motor oil were used to turn our small firecrackers into larger bangs and eventually we were blowing up rocks and cans.

One sweltering August afternoon after a particularly satisfying round of explosions things went wrong. A little girl, someone's young sister who had been watching from a distance, was upset by a fire burning in some trash. She picked up what she thought was was a cup of water but was actually a cup of rubbing alcohol and threw it on the fire. In a flash the flame raced back up the liquid and she ignited. She fell to the ground, rolling and making screeching like an animal. The fire was out in a few seconds but the damage was done. The skin on her legs and arms was melted and she screamed. The other kids ran away leaving me standing there alone.

For many years I saw the image of myself standing there immobilized with fear, guilt and horror. I remember her eyes and I remember closing my eyes before I could summon the will to do something. But now my memory has shifted. While I see the little girl, my primary image is now of the mother. Weeks after the accident I went to the girl's house to apologize. The mother opened the door but would not let me in. I understand now what she must of have felt in that moment and I know why she could not meet my eyes when I told her I was sorry.

1. Explored the High Line with Jake.
2. Took the Chinatown bus to Philadelphia. (tickets $5-$12)
3. At long last went to visit the Barnes Collection.
4. Reported to my wife that I might have lost my wedding ring.

Me: I think I lost my wedding ring. The last time I remember wearing it was in the Dominican Republic.
Jenn: This is a good one. Novel. Emotional and hard hitting. Very good. A few years ago you would have had me, but I know you now and I'm not going to get involved in one of your psychodramas.
Me: I've turned the house upside-down. It's gone.
Jenn: Stop. How many times have we done this? I know how it goes. The fear, the self loathing, the ever more implausible theories... and then the inevitable, "oh, here it is."
Me: But...
Jenn: I'm not listening.
Me: It's...
Jenn: Nope.
Me: I'm..
Jenn: Next.

5.

Passed many accidents

on the NJ turnpike. Stopped at the

Grover Cleveland Travel Plaza

.

6. Was in the subway (in the corridor that connects the F to the 2 at 14th Street) and heard a great rendition of

Cool Water

as a spiritual in the manner of

The Mighty Clouds of Joy

by a blind musician named Sleepy Joe.

7. Missed a picture through a subway window of a couple making out behind an umbrella.

8. Went to a party where I ran into a guy who was one my best friend's prep school roommate. The two haven't spoken in 20 years and both have sons named Harry.

I discovered the photography of Andrew Moore a few days ago and keep going back to his site for more. His Russia portfolio is magnificent, a visual feast.

Spring in New York
photo by trawin.

Note that these images were taken a few hours apart.

Jenn and the baby have been down in Philadelphia for a few days and the house is unusually quiet. Too quiet. I can hear myself think, hear my footsteps... the hum of the refrigerators and the city sounds which I never normally notice. For the many years I lived alone, a quiet house and solo meals were never acknowledged. Never noticed. But with the family away our empty bed is cold and the incessant stillness keeps me awake.

I wonder how my father managed in the long years after my mother died in that big Texas house all alone. In that era he hated weekends and would often go in to work or fly somewhere, anywhere, just to be on the move. He had to get extra pages in his passport for all those long aimless weekend trips. I know now why sometimes back in those days a conversation over the phone would end (I would have something to do or read) and he would ask if I could just stay on a little longer. Sometimes we didn't talk, I doing whatever I was doing, my dad listening to the static. Sometimes I could hear him pacing. Those years were so hard, but eventually he fell in love again and we've all moved on. Life right now is almost unbearably sweet, but that sweetness makes me understand what my father lost and those long stretches of static haunt me because I could have done more.