This Sunday night was good:
4 of us on bikes through the city. We follow Mona who rides like Spiderman in her red poker-dot dress which flies up above big pink knickers, through the skyscrapers - a daredevil! We wait for each other at junctions. Solidarity! Yellow cabs parp! We make it to Central Park after dark in search of the Woody Guthrie family concert. It has finished but we don't care. The park is beautiful and empty in the moonlight, we cycle fast down the hills and Mark says his long bike is his pirate ship. He has a pirate's beard and loopy mustache. He says my name for no reason. We sing a pirate shanty. We head towards the drumming. We lean our bikes altogether in a locked huddle. It has begun raining. There is a big group of French-speaking North Africans drumming and piping on huge homemade colored trumpets in a very foreign manic rythm. We dance in the rain on and off madly. Mark hides in the shadows. We dance with children. It feels a bit hippy, a bit wild, slightly dangerous but mostly just warm and wet and matter-of-fact. I feel the abandon is anti-doting the hours in front of the screens. Mark says he senses psychoticness in the vibes. Barbara says lets go. We saddle up and then her sister joins us. Then it REALLY rains, torrents and waterfalls. It makes us laugh. We head for the huge stone bandstand where another group of black guys are listening to my favorite other music on a big speaker: Shalamar (early 80s black soul). Mona dances in the rain while we watch from the bandstand catching the water dripping off our noses with our tongues. Mark says it is like the jungle: the lions, cheetahs and gazelles shelter near each other even though normally they are not friends. The rain is literally a rain-check. I liken it to not shooting at tea-time in Burma. I enjoy being near the black guys in the rain. Then we go for late night burritos and cocktails(virgin for me) before bed. There will be more screens in the morning.
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