Archives for posts with tag: NYC

Looking out the high-rise window into a fog so dense that it blurs an afternoon sky deep into the thawing river, that wash of gray as far as everything, a world of gray, except for the squares of snow, which from above in high-rise relief appear as boxes of city park and tree guard and trash bin, you think about leaving.

Tomorrow isn’t different, except the sun shines, and the banks of the river suddenly appear, and you see the place on the cliffs where you went on that day trip—back when every rattling bus ride was an adventure.

–Sharon Rousseau is a writer, photographer and poet living in NYC and the Hudson Valley. Visit her website.

Imagine the stark symmetry that created these apples—you said—rows and rows of trees, craggy with wind and months of frozen Upstate winter, which can somehow coax blooms again. You pulled a cap that I’d knitted for you closer to your eyes. I remembered finding the yarn, thinking immediately of your skin, the way our first summer had changed you into someone I’d never seen before. You were like that. With every season, I saw a different person. Now, walking through autumn in Union Square, we’d been a couple for over a year, and you were talking about orchards.

–Sharon Rousseau writes and takes pictures in New York City and the Hudson Valley.

I look at the stream behind the house and see water rushing violently. It has no memory or shame. It cares nothing for the damage done to the structure or foundation that time has created alongside the tormented boundaries of its existence.

The stream just flows, always ahead without looking back. It has forgotten and forgiven but I have not forgotten or forgiven myself for having done nothing other than make your life miserable.

However, I am not the stream nor have I learned its lessons, yet in my mind I am floating on the water without regrets or blame.

Visit Pat’s website here.

Pat Horner is a painter/collage artist and writer exhibited and published in the US and abroad. Horner is a member of the Board of Directors of the Woodstock Artists’ Association Museum and a journalist, photographer, coach, teacher, publisher and editor at publications including the “The Woodstock Guide.” She’s currently writing fiction and memoir from Woodstock, NY.

From the back of the gallery, Calista surveyed the room. A couple lingered beside Josh Patrick’s “Samantha.” Over the past ten years, she’d become more astute, knowing when to hang back, letting browsers explore, and when to approach potential collectors. The subtle task of selling. She took very little personally—except artists’ loyalty. Suddenly, she was about to lose one who mattered too much. And this, she was taking personally. Calista stood, thinking about how Josh did it, how he pulled people in with swirls of paint. She would close this deal. He’d stay. She approached the couple. “Wonderful, yes?”

-Sharon Rousseau