Gates

It just happens. I was overcome with melancholy today, knowing that no matter how much you give, how much you care, there are times it doesn't help. When I found myself snapping at dear friends, I knew it was time to remove myself from the scene. I ran into Thomas Barker, who also wasn't up to snuff. We commiserated over his dozens of drink tickets at Twist and at one point looked at each other and said, "I'm not having fun" at the same time.

I rounded the corner from where he lives onto the block I live on and thought about one of my favorite movies, "The Garden of The Finzi-Continis", the story of a family in Fascist Italy who followed the rules and thought their guarded lives would never be affected as long as they lived behind their walls.

Of the ten homes on my block, most exist behind gates of some sort. We never see or speak to each other unless we are walking the dog; that ended for me some time ago, so I just walk quickly to the gate and close it behind me.

Maybe it was the cold that snapped us out of the cocktail-induced LaLaLand today. Perhaps the thousands of visitors shopping for million dollar toys at the Boat Show irritated us. I walled myself up early in the afternoon, hoping to escape everything, but couldn't.

If I had one more person say, "You are not yourself" I might have screamed. There is never any noise, voices, or music coming from behind these gates; The City will never raid any of us.

I listened to opera when I got home, the ultimate mistake. Our neighbor's gate is made to withstand tank assault (but fell over during Wilma).

This is the gate that couldn't help me today.