In the Courtyard

Spectral Street. Episode One.
Since the heat of last summer and the summer before, the population of the street has grown smaller and dimmer. The courtyard that used to be populated by ghosts of all kinds, all colors and shapes and fabrics and sizes has become emptier day by day. Some say there is a prison beneath the stones where ghosts of old dancers live among tunes old fashioned and out of date. In the high heat of summer, the flowers fade, like the marigold the king held fast in his hand. Why, on this urban street, would there be a king? Why marigolds except to keep the bad bugs away, the bugs that eat the flowers and kill the peonies?



But the king still had to rule this strange and diminishing kingdom and so he called upon his advisors one day in winter. "What shall we do this year? It has been too cold to walk out in the park and too warm for snow. The birds stopped singing in the fall, though the stone swallows with the green eyes are still there on the terrace. My kingdom is shrinking, and I don't know what to do."

In the kingdom of ghosts, there are no ghosts. They talk and walk and fly and yet cannot sit on the park benches and tie their shoelaces. They cannot pick up a newspaper left on a subway seat and read the baseball scores on this strangely warm day. Everything is changing here; everything is old. How would the king rule in a kingdom that shrank day by day. And yet he had to remain the king, for without even this little stability, the world would fly apart at the center and all would soon be lost, bathed in a scarlet light that was too, too hot to last for very long. Only the wind that ran through the courtyard every now and then kept the earth on its axis here on spectral street.

Spectral Street

Today I walked into a courtyard full of ghosts,

smelled their flowers,

sat at their table,

flew with them into their inner rooms.

Summer is their favorite time to travel. Look outside tonight.

Pale Night - Summer - & Coincidences

I am getting ready for my tour about Edwin Booth this Saturday. I just realized that the protagonist of my story "Tobacco" (which you can read here) and Booth lived within a few blocks of each other. The ghost frequented the Old Town Bar. Booth must have strolled past it many times. Funny I never realized that when writing the story. Funny that the man in the story might be Booth. Just never thought of it before, which leads me to believe that most good stories write themselves.

Outside my window are waves of night, pale and golden, riding on updrafts. They carry insects, dreams, ghosts, debris, soot, and ashes. This building is 100 years old. When I moved into my apartment, there were red light bulbs in the ceiling fixture -- remnants of the 1960s? a hooker's calling card? Changed them right away, changed the lock, cleaned the place, never saw a ghost here. I have to hang around the Old Town Bar for that.

Ghosts of the Bridewell

Memorial Day will soon be here. In preparation for a tour, I strolled through Lower Manhattan and wondered about the ghosts that are waiting for their turn to enjoy a summer night. Perhaps they will rise up from the Bridewell, which was used by the British from 1776-1783 to house their American prisoners of war. Perhaps those men fared a little better than the thousands who died on the prison ships. Perhaps not. But certainly their ghosts must be yearning for a nod, a good word, a crust of bread or sip of water on a hot day.

Here is part of the footprint of the Bridewell traced in City Hall Park:

Photo by Maria A. Dering

And here is part of the footprint of the northern wall:

Photo by Maria A. Dering

I have walked by this spot hundreds of times but rarely stopped to think about the prison. It all seems to far away as I look at the green, growing park. I wonder what I'd see if I went back at sunset?

The Door Plate

One morning, the door number had been polished and replaced, though I heard no one working in the hall. Perhaps someone else passed this way on the stairs,

leaving a crooked calling card.

What Remains

I took some photographs this afternoon of the night watchman's route. He would have walked down the cast iron staircase

(underneath it looks like this)

brushing the top of the banister in the half-darkness.

Perhaps he would have turned up the gas jet that sat in this fixture

and clocked in at the box on the landing.

When I took a picture of where the box had been, I caught this instead:

I checked the flash. I focused and re-focused, zoomed in and out.

Is someone still looking after us in the dark?

What Has Vanished

Our building is 100 years old this year. Much has remained the same but the night watchman is gone.

When I moved here in 1978, his ghost was still on duty. On our landing was the call box where he checked in. The heavy brass key turned and clunked as he logged his time. Next he turned off the gas jet on the second floor landing. He straightened the air raid shelter sign when he remembered. He walked down to the first floor, then the basement, making sure everything was secure.

Sometime in the mid 1980s, the ghost was gone. The gas jet was clipped off and capped. The call box was removed, and the banister shaved clean. The chain that held the key was gone. Some job security!