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  • An impressionist painter would get whiplash trying to capture the frenzy of boating and strolling in Central Park over the weekend.
    An abstract expressionist would capture the energy of people enjoying mass recreation.
    In a photograph the movement is still for that split second and then resumes.
    The sky was impossibly blue yesterday.
    A few fishbone clouds moved in late in the day.
    Alto cirrus.
    The air had cleared and we tied up loose ends on the worksite.
    I am not sure if James Joyce worked for 9 or 10 years on his large book Ulysses.
    But the entire book takes place in one a day.
    In one day many different people cross paths and form a large book.

    I felt like a large book yesterday, full of ideas and experiences as I walked the streets and ran my errands.

    I saw thousands of different shoes meet the pavements.
    Each pair of shoes was attached to a person.
    Every pair of shoes was a book, a story, or at least a pamphlet.

    A narrative runs through everything.

    “You keep the place really clean,” said the contractor, who we do not work for.
    The designer hired us and this can cause tension on her jobs.
    We have worked for the client privately for years but the contractor does not know this, or us.
    People often assume first and ask questions later.

    We are a first world operation and many crews in the trades are not.
    We have preppy canvas bags with our materials and a very good vacuum cleaner with a Hepa filter.
    Many of the crews have giant shop vacuums that are fine for demolition but in the finishing stages they spew and scatter dust.

    On this job we had to ask repeatedly for a toilet seat.
    We never had running water in a room with a mirror so that when particles got lodged in an eye, for instance, it could be dealt with.

    Every job, each new location brings up a negotiation of terms.
    Our little operation is it’s own union.
    We are both management and worker.
    This little narrative is part of a larger one that embodies years.

    Out of college, that first summer my husband-to-be came out to Gotts Island.
    Back in those days, when C and K still spoke and were friends.
    We had rowed across the inner pool of the harbor to a dinner party.
    Tom, who still came out then, was rowing back with us, pretty liquored up.

    He fell, rather than stepped into the punt on the beach.
    We were 20 years old and telling him that we were moving to New York City, to Manhattan the next week.
    From the bottom of the boat under the canopy of stars he said:
    “They’re gonna dance all over you.”

    His prophecy missed the intended mark and attached itself to a mosquito that had landed on my arm.
    I swatted the mosquito and dropped it into the dark waters.

    We rowed across the pool, a flat black mirror of the night sky.
    Our future was waiting on the shore.
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