Wish You Were Here

New York City Postcard Papa's Day Special

Dear friend

I forgot how good it feels. And I am remembering again when you have been all day taking in all the city the screaming sound of pressure washing the subway stairs with some toxic chemical finding the far corner away so as not to disturb the man sleeping with his shirt off on the orange plastic seats the friendly and angry and sad and in love and drunk and confused and impatient needs of people everywhere you look going up into the buildings even layers of signage and once famous and hungry but even so though all that you make it back and then just to walk up the stairs and unlock the door and lock the door behind you and take off your shoes you flop on the chair and your feet hurt and have to get up again because you forgot to wash the subway and all the fine grid stuck to you of the city off your hands and arms and face and beside you on the soft couch bed maybe drink a watery pint glass of watery tea and outside the window the sounds are muffled the little apartment is like a capsule inside but tucked away from the city. Then you are almost like a dog pleasingly but absolutely exhausted one long dog body barely moving and on your little patch of home.

The dove family that lives in the back of the air conditioning unit have quieted down now and DJ of the center of the East Village is playing Mexican music.

You can buy a hard square of pure alum used for shaving cuts at the basement level spice store. It’s on 6th street near where all the Indian restaurants used to be right beside eachother rumoured to all share the same kitchen and everywhere with the coloured christmas lights strung across the sky you bring your own tiger beer in a paper bag from the bodega and then order spicy curries and pay almost nothing and the lights joining the taxi lights are like a thousand hard candies melting in the sky and the night cooling finally like dipping into some deep blue lake and its only just beginning.

Thompkins square park has a pile of free mulch a half moon in the sky 

If you have been living in New York for long enough you can tell if a subway car has air conditioning by the look on people’s faces. 

Inside a dog named butter searches the floor for popcorn without butter the sky turned peoples faces coppery for a moment the skeleton of a big sign with just the letter R left on it. 

I can almost still taste the salty thin fries late at night at Florent at the bar maybe slightly cold glass of wine too or maybe its time to go home.

John Lennon has a new song. It is fathers day.

I made you these postcards. Imagining you here.

A Papa’s Day New York Souvenir Special

If you subscribe to The Colour as a paying member or gift a subscription and send a screen capture or write in the comments of your joining I will send you one of these limited editions postcards made on father’s day eve in New York in the mail to wherever you call home. Because I believe that the mail is like a separate economy that living colour is a community and that a note can be a capsule for feelings.

—Yours,

Jason NYC 06.16.2024