I left Boston in the autumn of 1976 for New York. I was in love with a girl from North Carolina. She departed from Brooklyn three hours before I arrived in a stolen car.
I should have returned back home, except Jim Spicer, Cecil Taylor’s manager, offered e a bedroom in Park Slope and I worked for a tour of Edward Abee, the playwright of WHO’S AFRAID OF VIRGINA WOOLF I never saw his work and he never knew my name. I was a good job.
Winter less so.
Snow buried New York and the blizzard of 1977 cut off New England fem the rest of the world.
Much like now.
Cold here at the Fort Greene Observatory and colder under the night shadow of Big Blue Hill.
