#263

#263, Brooklyn

#262

#262, New Haven, CT

#261

#261, Broadway, NYC

#260

#260, Cobble Hill, Brooklyn

It's slanted; I'm enchanted.

#259

#259, Chelsea, NYC

Like any writer on an assignment, I fluctuate between moments of artistic inspiration and moments of stultifying inertia as I strive to keep the momentum going. I take pride in my daily parade of 365 numbers. I tend to them as carefully as I can, adding water and sunlight when needed and withholding when appropriate. As writerly quests go, it's hardly Bill Bryson trekking the Appalachian Trial or a trip round Ireland with a fridge, but as it is, it's my own little cross to bear, teeny splinters and all. I don't like to draw attention to the splinters, but at times, when the pitying accompaniment of the world's smallest violin grows too loud in my own head, it becomes too much too bear alone.

After 258 nearly drove me to the neurologist, I've had all the signs of hitting a slump. Oh, what the hell, I think. I'll Google "259" and see what comes up. I scan with hopeful interest Wikipedia's two pages on 259 (yes, there are two), and while I briefly consider the entertainment value of riffing on the fact that 259 is equal to negative 379 in the Burmese calendar, I realize even the zany Mr. Wiki is not providing me with enough historical, architectural, or comic fodder to fuel an entire entry.

Undeterred, I Google "259 numerology" to see what bubbles to the surface. My reward is not instant. I click and I scroll, I weigh and deliberate. But then, my sharp eye roaming the dark inner depths of the internet's famed series of tubes, I hit the jackpot. I happen upon a numerology site that is so far gone into the realm of the illogical that I am captivated. It is a site that associates, dictionary-style, certain words or phrases with each number, ranging from 1 all the way up to 2538 (with gaps and curious omissions therein). 1=creation. 2=mirror. And so on. Only it's not so simple. Most numbers have entire lists. And the lists, gentle readers, are glorious.

Crackpot theories, in and of themselves, are not particularly fascinating to me. It's very easy to dismiss and laugh at another's belief system, and frankly, I'm not into that sort of thing. What I am into, however, is a good round of absurdity chased down with a shot of flabbergasting lexical gymnastics. A few examples from the curious numerology site, taken at random:

85: Diversity, Writer, New Tools, Sacred Oil, Divine, Reckless Path, Red/black Specks, Nuhwhrlaha, Virgo, Confidence, Happiness, Cool Man Cool, Molybdenum, Atomic Japan, Know it All

170: Creativity, Synchronicity, Attribute, Belly button, John Wilkes Booth, Necronomicon, The order & value

190: Responsibility, Two head are better than one, Inventive New Myths, Nothing, Babe of the Abyss, Circuit Board, Great Britain, Tryptamines

194: Of course I will love, Stephen Hawkings

True, one person's treasure is another's overflowing spam box, but I found these interpretations hard to resist. But sadly, after all of my strenuous research, I found that the space for 259 was left blank. Blank! And so I'm entrusting it to you, my dear readers and fellow lovers of absurd word games, to come up with your own list of word associations to match the mysterious number 259. Ready? Set? Go. The Babe of the Abyss awaits your reply.

#258

#258, Cobble Hill, Brooklyn

Because some days, this is what living in the city feels like.

Not to cast aspersions on A. Mesh, MD, but there is so much wrong with this image. The sign is poorly designed. Spaces between letters and commas are chaotic. Letters and words are squished rudely together. I feel a headache and urgent need to attend the pain clinic simply from looking at this. It's recycling day, or maybe it isn't. The "this side up" arrow is pointing sideways. The garbage cans are all clustered together, crowding like harassed commuters on the rush hour subway.

I searched in vain for weeks for a 258 that would please the eye, only to find a vortex on every block that showed promise: a garden here, a church there, a school that takes up half a city block in every space where a 258 should be. Infinite possibilities turned to dead ends, false leads, frustrations, which in turn led me circling back to this every time. Broken-down boxes and dregs of city living. Neurology, headache, pain clinic. I think there is a message in this.

Because some days, this is what living in the city feels like.

#257

#257, Venice, Italy

Because good things come in threes, here's one more red stencil to add to the past weekend's collection. We're back, once again, with the Venetian style of red-painted-on-white, this time with a bit of a wonky angle to keep things interesting. The asymmetry of this one appeals to me, as do the layered states of decay. But enough about the elegant decay of Venice. Let's go to where the action is. Follow me, won't you, a few hundred miles away from the lagoons of northern Italy and the lulling waters of the Adriatic Sea to a lively volcano town near the coastline known as Naples.

San Gennaro, the patron saint of Naples, is much beloved among Italians and Italian-Americans. Not only is a vial of his 1,700 year old blood said to reliquify several times a year, but he's got a feast day that's become one of New York City's biggest blow-outs. Officially, San Gennaro's feast day falls on September 19th, but like all good holidays, it's been commercialized beyond logical comprehension and stretched out over eleven luxurious days.

The San Gennaro festival is still bringing its tradition of cannoli, carnival, and the not-to-be-missed (and oh-so-Catholic) fried Oreos to Little Italy through September 20th. So if you're in New York and haven't gotten your fill this year of religious figurines and frozen daquiris served up in plastic cups the shape and size of a femur, now's your chance. If you do go on Saturday, the feast day itself, you can partake of the parade and watch the statue of the saint be paraded up and down Mulberry Street from his home in the Church of the Most Precious Blood. You can probably also dunk a clown for a mere few dollars, if past years are any indicator.

And skeptics, trust me on the fried Oreos. Unsatisfied after one? Sickened at the prospect of a half dozen? You'll still walk home with a brown paper bag chock full of grease and powdered sugar, which you can wash down with a king-sized sugar-laden vaguely liquor-laced beverage of choice while singing along to the latest bad Italian pop song being blared from a sausage vendor's half-busted PA. Who says Catholics don't know how to have fun?

#256

#256, Venice, Italy

#255

#255, Smith Street, Brooklyn

The late, great Patois restaurant once resided here; now it's another vacant Smith Street storefront awaiting further instructions. I miss the fluffy slices of French toast, the lazy weekend brunches, and the way my hair and clothes would always smell like smoke after sitting at a table near the fireplaces in the winter.

#254

#254, East Village, NYC

The search for beauty in senselessness. The need for something brave, stupid, astonishing, and full of love when it matters most. August 7, 1974: why not turn our minds, if only for a moment, to what happened on that day in lower Manhattan, to when Philippe Petit committed an act of impossible grace: he put a rope between two towers that he loved and went for a walk.

"There is no why," he said. 'When I see three oranges, I juggle. When I see two towers, I walk."

You can read Michael Bierut's beautiful piece on the documentary Man on Wire here. You can rent the film most anywhere. But you don't need a DVD to do something senselessly beautiful today. There is no why. Just how.