10 June 22:18

It's relatively calm for a friday night, post-peformance, post-shower, and I am adorned with the ingeniously woodsy perfume of bug-spray, happily ensconced at my upstairs writing deck. I've passed the week mark here. My bicycling skills are markedly improved, underscored by the fact that I've now failed to wear a helmet for two days. I managed to make it to the Grove Street station this morning with viola, violin and large sack in tow. My two indoor hatches have screens, rather hastily assembled, yet effective; this gave me cause to leave them open by day, until a downpour yesterday caught me by surprise. V.—a British expat and a truly adventurous woman who sells wine, horses and mortgages—came to the rescue and closed them as I was in midtown with friends, but my bed was soaked. I've learned that lesson, and shan't leave the hatches open again, no matter what the weather.

I find that I'm unable to resist telling others that I am spending the summer here. I'm almost concerned that they will become too interested. It might be wiser to let this magical little spot remain a secret world, as beautiful as it is, and hold this place close.

Denis invites me for a run, and we go off into what is largely uncharted territory for me—the area south of Grove Street. The mild summer evening doesn't stop me from overheating. The quiet of Jersey City is refreshing; the skyline, when it looms into view, silverlit, reminds me of the midnight hum of the East Side, 59th Street near the bridge and the hiss of traffic over the East River.

The City does roar into perception, as if one has come upon a giant wildebeest. It is that buzz, that crackling pink noise, that proves its sleeplessness. I've come to love the Upper East Side just before dawn, when 86th Street has dimmed to a fuzz of white static, sanitation trucks and the News. I can't live outside the City, but I need to find moments of calm within its endlessly enthusiastic embrace. The waterfront has become that balm in my life, whether it's cranky seabirds and February sandstorms out at Brighton Beach, lazy early-spring afternoons on Hallets Cove at Socrates Park, or an intense autumn sunset over Hell Gate. And now, here in this marina, just across from it all, the quietest space yet, with the hum of the City droning just out of view, a giant urban tanpura.

I watch videos of a famous swim-coach pontificating on freestyle breathing technique. Breathe inside the bow wave. That's exactly what we do in this calm place—we find that one small spot in the chaos, and nurse it.