I was amazed that no other human tracks appeared in the snow on the old wagon road. It was a perfect opportunity to compare the tracks I made on Sunday with the tracks I was making today.
Coyotes dug in the snow in certain spots. I could see urine marks in snow and I could see mouse, squirrel and deer tracks.
After several hours, I could narrow the time when I thought individual animals had walked, trotted or bound along the trail in their quest for shelter or food. It was sunny today and without the wind, it was perfect for enjoying nature.
I lived on Manhattan Island from 1976-1996. Twenty-five years ago today I was working as a model in several art schools. December 8, 1980 was a Monday, I think. I’d finished a 12-hour work day, came home, washed the charcoal dust off my body, climbed into my loft bed and fell asleep.
I dreamt that I was being stabbed. I was in so much pain, that I began to come out of my deep sleep, vaguely aware of being doubled up with cramps and unable to move. I looked out the bedroom doorway into the living room and my roommate was sitting on the edge of her chair and biting her nails, staring at the TV. Her face was ashen.
I must have moaned. I wasn’t entirely awake. I heard my roommate say “John Lennon has been shot.” I couldn’t make sense of those words. I eventually untangled my cramped body and got out of bed, shock and nausea overtaking the pain.
More than a man’s life was lost that day, we lost quality of life.