24 July 22:18

The evening shimmers and it occurs to me that I have been here for almost two months.

This beautiful, magical place—it is—attracts everyone. A strange-souled, stronghumble friend and her brilliant individuality breezed through on Friday evening; a quirky violinist-friend arrived the next afternoon and made a living room out of my roof deck, a sunny and mellow party of two-and-change that closed gracefully with the sunset.

As for me, I finally found the time to be properly crabby today. One must never underestimate the power of a nice long day to sulk. I miss Krys, off sailing somewhere, who I also feel guilty for ignoring recently, when he was not gone for me to miss him and his bad humour. I should probably devote some of my remaining days to cultivating these friendships. On the other hand, the question of whether or not to remain hangs heavily on me, and becomes ever more a topic of my alone time and thought. the space is heartbreakingly beautiful.

This Tuesday's sewage treatment plant disaster—a fire at the Harlem facility left a pump disabled, and raw sewage was diverted into the Hudson and Harlem rivers for nearly four days, opening up a world of bacterial possibility in the area and ruining what had been, thus far, a summer of beautiful water quality. The events left me fiercely contemplating quantities of shit: I couldn't stop trying to envision four hundred million one-gallon milk-jugs. My swim today was salty and primordial, festooned with jellyfish Rice-A-Roni. I was unruffled, happy to be accompanied by a nice newbie who surprised both of us by doing a full five kilometres on his first trip. He paced well with me and kept my mood together. Company makes a big difference in the ocean—that's an understatement—though I've also been irritated lately by folks who bring unbridled enthusiasm and resulting drama to their swim-world. I have little patience for that these days.

[Ik hum hain ke huve aise pashemaan ke bas ik vo hai jinhe chaahat ke armaan honge

Here we are, having had enough of all this ridiculousness; but here, another is stomping and champing at the bit, fresh, says the poet Momin.]

I would hate to be a member of the clergy; or maybe that would be the best thing for me—maintaining decorum and sobriety in ritual while others took part, wholeheartedly and idiotically. It would either amuse me endlessly, or annoy me to no end.