Transmitter Park
On Friday afternoon I left my apartment and walked out into the sun. I sat on the rocks beside the East River and painted Transmitter Park. The soft breeze carried fragments of conversation.
“She’s an amazing accordion player.”
“I’m ethnically Latvian. So I’m playing to get in touch with my culture. I play my grandpa’s accordion.”
“Bushwick? My toxic ex fiancée lives there. I avoid it like the plague.”
“My great uncle was a mushroom expert and he died by eating a poisonous mushroom.”
A woman read her friends’ star charts.
“I made a personal choice not to charge for spiritual services. So much of my life is devoted to capitalism. I needed this to be different.”
As work ended and the weekend began, park slowly filled with people. They came to sunbathe on the rocks and do yoga on the patio and sit on picnic blankets with friends. They came to lay down in the tall grass and run the green blades between their fingers.