Glowing Remnant.

At the risk of over-dramatizing, I think I've officially had the strangest New York experience to date.

In April, I moved, yet again. Finally this time to an apartment I will have to be pried away from, sky-lights and all, on the Upper West Side just one block from Central Park. It's mostly bliss, and a very calculated move, having begun the transition to a more introverted life for a bit. The building is an old, somewhat decrepit brownstone, where a lack of maintenance is under the guise of 'character'. The owner of the building lives directly below me, and my 3-south facing windows look out over his lush, center courtyard garden. It is clearly his prize and joy and what gets him out of bed in the morning.

A couple of weeks ago, I heard he was in the hospital, but he returned to the building rather quickly to a non-stop flow of visitors to his apartment. I was happy to see his apartment and garden again occupied. The influx of guests heightened to what sounded like a fun and jovial evening garden party. The next morning, I was surprised to follow a small crowd of police and a coroner out of my building, apparently removing Victors body. He died. And both he and his friends were preparing, through celebration, over the last few days. The NYPD sealed his door with a large sticker that reads D.O.A. Do Not Enter. It is very eerie to pass by each day.

Aside from not being sure who to pay rent to, who to go to for building superintended issues or what to do with his daily NYTimes, more concerning is the continual glow into my apartment from the lights in Victor's garden below. They have been left on, and will be so until someone is authorized to enter his apartment. I wish I could appropriately catch it in photograph, but it's just not possible.

But I must say, there is something sublime to the sequence of events, and of course, it all ending in an expression of the landscape. What an interesting remnant to leave behind: a glowing garden in the middle of New York City.