Central Park

I tend to over think and over analyze. I thought it was a good thing, and then I thought it was a bad thing, and now I don't even know if there is such a thing as something...

...I really need to take my own advice.

I went to Manhattan this weekend. Haven't been since I left school. Don't get me wrong, I love it. But I needed a break. Too much baggage I guess. I went to the park, 75th and 2nd, went to the bar and sat down around the airboat pond. I should really determine the name of the pond and general area considering I'm there so often.

I sat down with some friends from school. All of which I haven't seen since May or sometime before then. Part of me feels like this summer has been a millenia, where as the other part can go back to the Orientation like it was just yesterday.

Anyway, there was a woman sitting with her dog. The stature of the dog reminded me of a great dane. However, its fur, size, pointed snout, and erect ears said otherwise. the woman with the dog was older, perhaps in her sixties or seventies. she had a full head of dark, auburn hair, she was dressed well, and had an aire of confidence around her.

I decided to approach her and ask her about her dog, which is by no means far-fetched for myself. I tend to be attracted to and even obsessed with anything that has a heart, lungs (or gills), and is living. I asked her how old the dog was, I assumed 8 or 9, she told me 11. Quite old for a dog that size, yet she had a feverishly child-like personality. She told me the dog was part lab and german shepherd, which explained the pointed ears, double-coat, and ticked-tan color of the fur. I was half-dissapointed when she didn't mention Great Dane... until, after being smothered in the face by the dogs slobbery tongue, she mentioned that the lab was a great dane and lab mix. She was a beautiful dog. Well, taken care-of, friendly, loyal, and obedient. I sat and pet the dog vigorously for a few minutes and worked my way down his back to feel for any tightness. The dog's spine was quite relaxed and seemed to have very little pressure. Surprising for a dog of that age.

The woman's face was masked behind an array of natural colored beauty products. Her wrinkles deep, and her lines directly reflected her internal condition. She began to talk about her life here in New York, from the day she was married to her husband, to the day she arrived to America in 1961 as an immigrant from Switzerland, and to the day of her husband's death 22 years ago. Her husband's death saddened me. However, she spoke of her relationship with him confidently and continued to describe her life here in New York with her daughter and her daughter's husband. She was an intelligent woman, she spoke with me about politics (a topic I am poorly educated in) and about her life in manhattan. We spoke about Central Park and the architecture on the West Side for at least 25 minutes. All the while, the dog sat patiently besides me, ever so often getting up and walking around to evaluate his surroundings or to respond to his biological necessity to alleviate his bladder.

We talked about school for a little. I shyed from the subject, afraid I was going to have to talk about myself. She began to tell me more about her life. She suggested I eat at Perleit (spelling?), a wonderful restaurant at the corner of 71st and 2nd near the school, and also told me the exact address and building that she lived in. Her accent captivated me, drawing me deeper and deeper into conversation with her. Her confidence and her appreciation for our conversation glowed through her skin. She complimented our conversation and greatly appreciated my maturity, especially for a "young lad," like myself. At times I felt like our conversation was almost silly. An old, widdowed, battered immigrant woman, now well-situated to life in manhattan after years of trial and error and a 19 year old student trying to make ends meet in Manhattan and make sense of modern medicine and nutrition, could only have so much to talk about. Yet our conversation seemed to flow endlessly. Besides our attraction towards men and our mutual feelings for her pet dog, I feel like we had almost nothing in common. Our lives were painting us both very different pictures and our decisions and choices were leading us in two very different directions. After closing our conversation, the woman told me not to hesitate to pull her aside and talk to her if I was ever to run into her again, she even suggested we get food at Grace's or go to the park. She farewelled by telling me to have fun with my friends, and I wished her a good evening.

My friends teased me and laughed about my infatuation with the old woman and her dog. Of course they did so in a friendly and caring manner.

I thought about my picture, the picture my life was painting. A picture full of sweet childhood memories, of family vacations on the Jersey shore too adventurous trips to Disney World, to middle-school memories of church and school, and high school memories of school spirit, sports, and drama. The picture was changing, with every year and every new experience my life's drawing has been dressed with muted hues of oppression and self-denial, scarlet reds filled with passion and love and jealousy, muddy-colors of confusion and depression, and angelic greens and blues reflecting regeneration, new growth, and maturity. I began looking at this picture, the once muddy and confused painting began to take shape. My thoughts, my picture, my life, slowly began to become clearer.

the widdowed woman and her dog were forever part of my picture,