Seagulls Adrift - Staten Island Ferry

Sea gulls drafting behind the Staten Island Out of St. George Manhattan bound The Samuel L Newhouse An old ferry from 1982 Big enough for over 5000 passengers Paint flaking from overhead Top speed 16 knots Churning up the harbor Sea gulls Diving into the wake To feast on the propellers' chum Not the Atlantic Ah, the harbor The inner harbor of the great city of New York___

Nothing like the Staten Island Ferry connecting St. George to Battery Park. Free still despite the billionaires__

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Much more to come.

Staten Island Fog - May 9, 1978 Journal

From May 9, 1978 Journal

On the Staten Island Ferry
The first time
I've left Manhattan
Since going to Boston
On Christmas___
11 AM
I can't see anything of Manhattan
The fog furls over the ferry's wake
Across the Inner Harbor
The rank smell of the sea
Beyond the Verrazano Bridge.
The gray water darker than the gray air
The world a maze of opaque sameness
Gray gray gray___
The ferry approaches St. George
Passengers disembark
Return to Manhattan on the same ferry
A fog horn sounds the departure
11:30
The wooden dock enveloped by gray
Fifteen seconds later we are lost in the gray___

May 10, 1978 - Journal Entry

Antonio and I look out the windows of the Ebasco executive dining room. A thick fog obscures Lower Manhattan, as the last gasps of the winter was strangled by a spring breeze from the south. We have finished with serving lunch and wipe the silverware clean. The Spanish waiter surprises me with a small ball of black tar.

"Opium?"

"You ever try it?"

"Never."

Lots of punks used heroin. I hadn't tried that too.

"It's not a killer like smack."

"I don't know."

I had first smoked weed with Tommy Jordan and John Gilmor, driving back from Nantasket Beach. I sat at the Hingham lights for five minutes. Two weeks later with Thomas Welby some Acapulco Gold blew my mind. Basically it was the last time I got high, since every time after that I was chasing an unattainable high.

"Thanks for the opium."

I wrapped the small ball in paper.

If I was doing it, I was doing it with one person.

Alice.

LATER

On the Staten Island ferry. There are only a few passengers. I chased the dragon on tin foil in the men's room. I feel it immediately

The fog follows its wake.

This is the first time I've left Manhattan since returning from Boston.

I can't see anything of that island.

Only fog swallowing our wake.

The harbor air is fresh, smelling of the sea beyond the Verranzano Bridge.

The grey water is darker than the grey air.

The world a maze of opaque sameness.

The ferry approaches St. George.

THe passengers disembark and return to Manhattan on the same ferry.

A horn sounds our departure.

The wooden dock is enveloped by grey.

Fifteen seconds later we are lost in it.

After reaching Battery Park I called Alice, "Are we going to dinner?"

"Are you alright?" She didn't want to make a scene in front of her father.

"Yes. Are you mad at me?"

"I was last night. Not now."

I attempted to explain last night, but it was futile over the phone and we agreed to meet at 7:30.

At dinner before her father arrives, she says that she isn't really interested in my writing, "Everything is in that journal. Secrets. Not for anyone to read. None of it is finished."

The way she said that sounds like she has read it, but she is right.

My journals have no purpose.

"I'm sorry if I'm jealous." We both were, but most of all me at myself.

Wounded Warrior Wives

http://www.woundedwarriorproject.org/

Last Sunday I went out to Staten Island to visit with my oldtime friend Nick and watch the Jets versus the Patriots. We spoke about old times and ate a lovely pasta dinner, while my team didn't lose and his team didn't win. After a raspberry ice on Hylan Boulevard the doctor drove me down to the St. George terminal. I caught the 9PM ferry and sat at the stem to admire the clear evening sky. Several women were taking photos of the Statue of Liberty and I offered to shoot them as a group. They passed me their cameras and I posed against the railing. Each thanked me in a different accent and one lady explained that their group had traveled to New York thanks to the Wounded Warrior Project. "It's nice to get away from the care-giving." Another woman admitted holding onto her new friend's hand. "No one knows what we go through day to day." The first lady sounded like she was from Kansas. "MY husband came home and I'm glad he's back, but it will be a long road until he can take care of himself." These were tough women. They hid their tears, but they were also quick to criticize the government and the American people. The lady from Kansas was in her 30s. She had two kids. No one was helping her with her husband, who had lost a leg in Afghnistan. "Because they are volunteers, no one thinks about them, but I don't have that luxury." "I know." I see the apathy every day. "People care more about BooBoo Honeybear or whatever her name is than the troops." "It's Boo Boo Honey." Her friend corrected me and said, "We dont' expect them to care. They turned off this war long ago." "Not all of us." I remain firmly against the war and the neglect of our troops. Over 2,000 US troops have been killed in Operation Enduring Freedom and more than 17,000 have been seriously wounded in America's longest armed conflict. "Bringing the troops home is long overdue and taking care of the troops here is never mentioned by the TV, but people know of your sacrifice and that of your loved ones." We spoke a little more. They came from everywhere in America. None of them were walking about on their husbands and boyfriends or girlfriends or wives. They were a loyal group. I wished them well on their stay in New York and they waved with a smile. For more information about the WOUND WARRIOR PROJECT please go to the following URL http://www.woundedwarriorproject.org/