89th & Riverside

I was mostly speechless sitting on John’s rooftop at 89th & Riverside tonight. Sporadic raindrops punctuated the cool, dry air. Low-slung clouds rolled in from the Atlantic. Jet’s passed just overhead. And I sat quietly, not much to say.

Sure, we discussed President Bush’s inability to pronounce Abu Ghraib, and Phish breaking up. As we mused on growing older, and growing up, as we so often do. But mostly, was done with my voice. I was over language. I’d said enough for today. (Until now, apparently.)

It doesn’t hurt that John’s rooftop is a garden paradise complete with a cherry tree, broccoli and tomato plants, impatience, ivy, goldfish, and Christmas lights. Met with a cool spring breeze, it’s a pretty excellent place to sit a spell.

I stopped through John’s to return his Taylor guitar which he so graciously loaned me when my Martin was too sick to perform last week. Then I hopped a cab — an eight dollar luxury in these days of inflated taxi fares — back home to 56th Street. I visited my local D’Agastino’s for a six of Kiran and some pretzels, and couldn’t resist the two-for-five dollar Lean Cuisines. Back home, I tried to watch ‘Before Sunrise,’ but all that talking was too much (not surprisingly).

And so here I am, windows thrown wide, listening to my newest iTune additions, Keane and Matt Pond PA, trying to find just a few more words for today.

Last one(s): sweet dreams.