The Wombat File Is Yours to Keep

Well, this is super-cliché. I'm sitting in a freaking Brooklyn cafe with wireless internet access, don't you know. Typing away at the old laptop. Listening to the freaking iPod. Listening as of a second ago to Tom freaking Waits. Now its some mod power pop thing downloaded from Bill Pearis's blog.

So I feel a bit of the schmuck, I must say.

Switched to a bit of Brahms/Schumann. Much better. Less schmuckish instantly.

I had the day off and Helena's preschool is closed this week, so we spent a pleasant morning together, riding the subway (which she pretended was the cat bus) to a friends house for play. But because we have the babysitter today anyway, taking care of Imogen, once Helena was down for a nap I grabbed T's laptop and headed out for a rare excursion into the Brooklyn afternoon, with the hope of sneaking in a little writing time (and no, this doesn't really count).

Three years ago, when we moved to this neighborhood, the idea of a cafe serving decent coffee -- to say nothing of a spot featuring wireless Internet access -- was so alien to this corner of Brooklyn as to seem like nothing one could hope for. Now, we've got two. It seems, for better and for worse, a harbinger of change, like our increasingly frequent encounters with young parents here who have moved from Manhattan or pricier sections of Brooklyn. Windsor Terace is a peculiar little area; its charm is in its tucked-awayness -- we have a few pretty blocks but more that boast nothing distinguished, and a few that are ass-ugly from end to end.

I feel mostly grateful for the presence of a place like this one; admirably located directly across from the park and playground, big windows in the front giving on to the park in all of its arboreal glory.

At this season, the vista into the park has a particular charm related to the leaflessness of the trees; when the peripatetic traffic flow wanes, I can look across the street, through the wrought iron fence, into and through the playground where we've logged innumerable hours with Helena. With the wintery branches providing little screen one sees, beyond, what is hidden the rest of the year: the broad lake itself stretched out in tranquility. The sky is overcast with cloud, but dellicately, even luminously so, grey giving way upon close examination to pearlescent blues and muted indigo. Gulls are flap-wheeling over the water, poetically prosaic in doing their basic bird-stuff. It's nice to watch them against the purpling clouds.

Ah, crap. Shift change behind the counter and the new crew have decided to musically pump themselves up on a boring year-end afternoon. At least its some kind of a mix ("Tears of a Cown" is in there, and now something else motownish) but also some irritating contemporary bump-n-grind nonsense. It's a cold dishtowel rubbed across the face of my mood. Brahms can't compete; try to find something suitable atmospheric but high-volume enough to drown it out without making me think I should be jogging, not writing.

Oh, man, Radiohead. Is that the best you can do, iPod?

Yeah, I feel like a schmuck.

Still and all, this records the pleasure of simple variety. Nice not to be in a cubicle of a Friday afternoon. More than nice.