My old pink shirt

My old pink shirt
Originally uploaded by _Ingrid_.

It’s my summer shirt. All through the year, it hangs in my closet, and so accustomed are my eyes to seeing its pale pink collar and shoulders among the rest of my clothes that I don’t really notice it, yet come summer, I trust it will be there.

I only wear it to the beach, and every year when I pull it out for the first time, I’m happy. I bought it at a thrift store about 7 years ago, and who knows how old it was before the original owners let it go. The heavy cotton is so soft from all the years of wear, yet the shirt is tough and practical, like me. Its long sleeves protect me from the sun, and the faded pink fabric darkens to a deep rose when it’s wet.

Back in my acting days, I once threw it on to have my hair and makeup done in preparation for a photo shoot. The photographer thought my old pink shirt said “me” so strongly that he wanted to shoot me in it. He was right, of course, and my headshots turned out amazing.

The collar is badly fraying now, and I guess it won’t be long before the outside of the collar separates completely from the inside. I’m not sure what I’ll do when that happens; maybe I’ll try to repair it, suturing the two halves together where they’ve split apart, tender as flesh. I could just cut the collar off, I suppose, and continue to wear it for the protection of the long sleeves and the feel of the soft cotton, but then what happens when the cuffs unravel and the placket tears? I envision my summer shirt then, like Santiago’s great fish, stripped of all but its bones, an old pink skeleton of a shirt. I could try to replace it, but who sells shirts with sand permanently lining the seams on the inside of the pocket? Where can I find one that is the perfect shade of faded pink?

I wore my old pink shirt, my summer shirt, yesterday for the first time this year. At the end of the day, as I was undressing, I wondered how many more wash cycles, how many more summers I’d pull it out of the closet. Hesitating for a moment before consigning it to the laundry bin; I held it to my face, I inhaled the traces of the day I’d just spent: the ocean, the fresh breezes along the shore, clear, strong, sunlight, me. For another moment, I considered not washing it; I imagined what my summer shirt might be like when September rolled around, a palimpsest of my summer: steeped in sea water, stiff with salt, stained with sweat. But my old pink shirt is tough, and I am practical; I finally toss it on top of the laundry and know that when September does roll around, I’ll hang the shirt back in the closet, and trust that come summer, it will be there.

Bewitched

Originally uploaded by _Ingrid_.

Oh, My Stars!

When, oh when, will the ticket buying public stop rewarding Hollywood with millions of dollars for making this crap?

Save the $10 or whatever outrageous price they're charging to sit in a theatre and watch this drivel and watch it on TVLand.

Bride seen through a porthole

Bride seen through a porthole
Originally uploaded by _Ingrid_.

So the other night when we went to Pier 63 for dinner someone was getting married. They had the place partially roped off, including the area that contains the restrooms so we had to use the bathrooms on the old restored Lightship Frying Pan docked just next door. This is a creaky old ship that was brought up from the bottom of the Chesapeake and restored to the point that they were able to bring her up here under her own power.

If I believed in such things, I would say that in a previous life I was drowned at sea in a ship just like this one. I was getting heart palpitations from walking around below deck, it is very claustrophobic and creepy.

Then, as I was hovering above the seat in the ladies, the ferry went by and set everything to rocking in its wake, which made for a very interesting pee.

PS. The bride is more visible in the large size.

Short Story

abandoned guitar
Originally uploaded by Leo L30.

I posted this short story recently in Story Starters on flickr. Yes, the story is a bit dark, but those of you who know me know that's my style. Thanks to Leo L30 for the shot that gave me the inspiration.
I hope to be writing more of these, writing short little pieces like this really primes the pump and helps with the novel I'm working on.


She waded into the river slowly, the water was still icy for early summer. She caught her breath in her chest, like a tiny sob just starting, each time a small wave surged feebly up her bare thighs. How silly she must look, she thought, the guitar slung high across her chest as though she were about to serenade the sun fish that lay, lazy and glinting, just below the banks. That thought, like all the others, pumped through her head, incessant now, like her pulse, yet stronger, somehow.

A boat plowed through the current way out on the river, life rushing by her, the uneven and distant buzz of the motor bouncing across the valley. The wake made its way toward her; she watched it come, dreaded its arrival, the water grey and angry, menacing, slapping up against her stomach now, the guitar bobbing in front of her like a colicky baby in her arms. It was all too much now; the cold, the boat, the bulky guitar, the sound of the motor, on top of everything else, too much. She tore and clawed at the guitar strap; it gave way, the flimsy wood splintering and jagged, satisfying. She thrashed the water with the strap in her right hand while with the left she tried to fling the broken instrument away from her. She was up to her chest in the cold water now, and her arms were weak, the guitar landed just next to her, nodding and dipping like a happy dog. Tears came, anger and relief, her face and chest warmed with it. Her legs and torso smarted and throbbed from the cold water, the pain a statement, something real and tangible, like a pulse, yet stronger, somehow.

She flipped the guitar over, and with both hands, she shoved at it like a toy boat, sending it out into the current where it slowly sank to just below the surface.

She relaxed and let her knees bend, let the river close over her. She forced her eyes open, saw the grey cold water thick and soft above her, felt the thoughts muffle, then die away till all that was left was her own pulse, the rhythm hers, yet stronger, somehow.

Jockeys

Two Jockeys
Originally uploaded by _Ingrid_.

I had big fun at Belmont on Friday, but the day wasn't without its low moments (not following my hunch and betting on Shiggy in the fourth race comes to mind ... )

Seeing these two jockeys proudly making their way out to the paddock before a race reminded me that I saw Jockey on HBO a few weeks ago. The film is very well done, and showcases the passion that these men (still, mostly men, alas)have for this sport, which is one of, if not the only sport where someone can become a professional athlete without playing in college first. The film reveals that the passion borders on desperation, as the jockeys purge (yes, vomit up their food) in toilets specially made for "heaving," and sit in saunas, or "hot boxes" for hours in an attempt to sweat out sometimes as much as six pounds of water weight. Those images from the film went through my mind as I saw these two jaunty gents stride by on their to their mounts.