This is the farm 20 blocks from my house...well, the one that was there about a century ago, at Church Avenue and 38th Street. If I could lay hands on $102.50 within the next 7 hours, I could buy it on Ebay. I can't, but somebody out there clearly shares my love of Daniel Berry Austin, the most hauntingly wonderful photographer you never heard of. 

This "amateur," according to a geneology site, was born in 1864, and by 1910 was an accountant living with his in-laws; perhaps his huge oeuvre of spare, elegiac images of a rapidly disappearing Brooklyn (along with many spots in Queens) offered him a soulful escape from everyday life. He went on to work for Standard Oil and to have six children by his wife, Florence; there is no explanation of whether he continued with his photography as his career and family life expanded. The library's Austin collection includes some thrillingly bleak images (my favorite, for the title alone, is "Fire at Dreamland"). But my passion is for his captured glimpses, through a glass darkly, of my beloved Flatbush. (Above is the T. Bergen house, Ocean Avenue and Avenue J.) Most of these pictures of crumbling or abandoned farmsteads seem to have been taken in winter, and the leafless trees stand like mourners around the neglected remnants of a once-thriving Dutch village. If they were indeed taken around the turn of the century, it was precisely at the brink of Flatbush's transformation into a suburb with commuter rail access via the Brighton line. Elegant apartment buildings and posh subdivisions like Prospect Park South would soon sprout over the leveled remains of these bucolic homes and barns.

This is the Samuel J. Lott house, which stood at Flatbush Ave. and Cortelyou Road (now a mix of apartment buildings, commercial strip, and freestanding homes). If you can look at this picture without having the hair raise up on the back of your neck, stop taking those meds you're on.

Now, I have no idea whether or not I'm allowed to post these Brooklyn Public Library photos; I am too slow-witted to figure out most "terms of use" statements. But it seems to me that Austin's work cries out for a coffee table book of its own, with some delicious research to fill in the backstories of these ghostly scenes. Perhaps the invaluable chronicler of Brooklyn, Brian Merlis, could be prevailed upon. Or if he's busy, I'm available!

We spent a week in healthy, happy Fort Collins, Colorado, in Beloved Cousin's peaceful and smooth-running ranch house. (I take back everything bad I've ever said about ranch houses; no stairs to climb equals bliss.) We marveled at Beloved Cousin's lush and productive garden, and at Fort Collins' dazzling sunshine, ample bike paths, and stunning views of the nearby Rocky Mountains. Back in Brooklyn, our friends poured out chow and sifted litter. Good, good friends.

The cats were reported to have behaved excellently, no doubt due to the tender care they received, producing only one hairball and several pounds of hot-weather fluff tumbleweeds on the staircase. (Our friends even shouldered the absurd duty of replacing the pens and markers on my upstairs desk so that Lexi could "steal" them and place them around the house all over again, because I feared the loss of her "hobby" would be stressful for her in our absence. As I said, huge hearts.)

The house...well, it could have been worse, but...Sweet Judas on a stick, the front doorknob fell off. Right in my dutiful friend's hand. She called me in Colorado, guilt-ridden that somehow she had "killed" it. How to explain that our doorknobs fall off? ("Look around!" I exhorted her. "Find one functional doorknob in the entire house! See?") By cell phone, I guided her through the labyrinthine process of entering through the back door, with its maze of cheesy plywood "doors" with rickety latches for various levels of Cat Containment. I also counseled her to simply stick the knob back on by any means necessary, including duct tape, all the while realizing that dear friend, who lives in an immaculate and manageable apartment, did not sign on for duct-taping doorknobs.

When we got home, still stunned by re-entry into the Greater Metropolitan Smog Field, we did the Basil Fawlty dance of doom with the doorknob (metal fatigue had caused a screw to simply fall off), and fixed it, sort of. (It no longer screws back onto the spindle if you use the escutcheon plate, which probably never went with that doorknob, anyway.) I have long yearned after a restored antique entry set in keeping with the age and dignity (splutter, snort) of the CrazyStable, but that dream will have to get on line with the others. We spent the money from our Law & Order shoot on our trip out West, where men ride broncos and doorknobs turn with a smooth, firm click, and it was worth every penny.

Image: The Addams Family

 
There are still a ton of plants in pots, and now it's time to panic because a week's vacation is upon us.  

Somewhere in there, waiting for a "forever home," are a blueberry bush, some bamboo, and a Fragrant Cloud rose, among others. Oh, and a lacecap hydrangea. All exemplars of my Garden Consumer Philosophy: Buy only the freshest, healthiest plant stock. Then take it home and kill it.
With excellent help from Child, I was able to get my parsley and dill seedlings into window boxes. I have never managed to fulfill my fantasy of an herbal container garden just waiting for that Martha Stewarty dinner-time snippage.

We managed to clear a weedy patch near the back door and get in two different tomato plants (the "Patio" one bred for containers was still thriving, the "heirloom French" one was presque mort), plus a Japanese eggplant and a bunch of Thai peppers.

The raspberries and ferns have gone beserk again, marching forward in dense clumps. But the overall effect is still soothing; the Child described it as "wild but cozy."

And the catmint has survived its yearly steamrolling by the neighborhood cats; a cabbage white seemed pleased. I wonder how much everything will grow while I'm away? 

What is Beer Island? A big vacant lot filled with sand and tables. A shack sells a pricey and nicely curated range of beers (the bartender extolls the virtues of a Belgian cherry beer priced at $4 a bottle wholesale—"Let me educate you!" he says, whipping out the bottle. I order a Sam Adams.) Tonight, the clouds continue to spit a little rain even as the sun breaks through, and crowds are light. Ray Charles on a sound system improves the ambiance.

This irresistible sign leads us to the Red Truck of Rumor. Inside, a chef named Chris McGee, veteran of posh spots like Blue Smoke, tends a promisingly fragrant smoker; outside, his sweet-faced spouse, Kate Larson, waits tables. 

I am no BBQ guru, but it's good food. My brisket sandwich is soft and smoky, depending on the feisty sauce for its kick; Spouse's ribs are fantastic. The surprise was the baked beans, the best in my life, succulent with smoker drippings. 

From Chris and Kate, we learn that the red truck is a sort of culinary CrazyStable on Wheels. In answer to the obvious question—why did you give up a fast-track chef job to toil in a sandy lot in Coney Island with Port-o-Sans?—the answer seems to be that this fellow loves BBQ like a Kansas City native (which he is) and loves Brooklyn like a New Yorker (which they are now—Bed-Stuy, actually, where he ponders parking the cue-mobile for business in winter). Beer Island, for all its improvised roughness, is actually less stressful than the restaurant world, he says, and indeed both of them looked busy but happy in their shared adventure, feeding the world in Coney Island and encouraging the timid to bypass a hot dog or burger for the deeper mysteries of pulled pork. Good luck, kids; the rest of you, go soon before there are lines like those for Shake Shack.

I headed down to their dock. This guy looked menacing from a distance, but up close was a sweetheart.

The garden center didn't have seed starter, so I settled for potting soil.  This old girl (named Brooklyn) guards the check-out desk; she was found in a darkened cellar, malnourished and wary, but now rules the counter confidently and even demands that people share croissants with her.

 
Liberty also no longer had their stock clustered along the pier, but their adjacent field is still brushed by salty breezes and within earshot of chiming buoys in the harbor.

There are zany mini-gardens with found artifacts; one features a boat, another a row of some sort of pumps.

The area has a cluster of odd, artsy businesses--a glassworks, a framer, and a place selling very overpriced key lime pies. It is also home to a huge satellite dish and tower.

Even on the surrounding hardscrabble streets, more gardens flourished. I've never seen such wonderful hollyhocks growing at curbside.  

It's no wonder that hipsters and preservationists fall in love with this strange neighborhood. The remnants of its dock-walloping past, mostly in ruins, make you feel wild and knowing just for walking around down there.

But ruins are tricky things to freeze in time, and they tend to be less beloved by natives than by visitors and newcomers. Speaking of which, I passed the hysteria-inducing Swedish meatball emporium on my way home; it seemed downright deserted, with many workers in reflective vests stationed around the perimeter to direct traffic that wasn't there yet.  

He wasn't always this funny or this wise. (I am thinking of his "why is having an abortion any worse than making an omelette?" argument.) But when it came to two of my obsessions, Houses and Stuff, George got it right like a Zen master. Here's a houseblogger's tribute: Carlin, free-versified. (Or catch him here.)

That’s the whole meaning of life, isn’t it:

            trying to find a place

                    for your stuff?

That’s all your house is;

your house is just a place

for your stuff.

If you didn’t have

            so much

                        goddamn

                                    stuff,

you wouldn’t need a house.

You could just walk around all the time.

That’s all your house is,

           just a pile of stuff

                        with a cover on it.

You see that when you take off in an airplane

and you look down

and you see everybody’s got

a little pile of stuff.

Everybody’s got their own pile of stuff.

And when you leave your stuff,

you’ve gotta lock it up.

Wouldn’t want somebody to come by

and take some of your stuff.

            (They always take the good stuff…)

That’s all your house is:

            a place to keep your stuff

                        while you go out and get

                                    more stuff.

—George Carlin,  1937-2008

Photo: New York Times 

No, the CrazyStable is not on the tour; the studio where I engage in desultory flings with the book arts is tucked away on our top floor, and the logistical and housekeeping hurdles were just too daunting. (The whole scruffy-but-hip thing works a lot better in a loft.) But I will be showing some stuff in the lusciously appointed home of dear friend and studio tour founder/rabble-rouser Karen Friedland, who conjured this event out of the same fertile imagination that produces her vibrant paintings.

We had an opening reception for a group show tonight spread across two  local coffee shops, Connecticut Muffin and Vox Pop (above), on Cortelyou Road (both good places to start the tour this weekend, they'll have maps). I converted an accordion book from my Transformation Psalter to a sort of vertical triptych for the show;  it was the first time I've seen my work hung in a public place since high school, and it was ridiculously gratifying.

As was the proclamation issued to our fledgling project by Borough Prez Marty Markowitz (and presented by his stand-in, a lovely and self-possessed young lady named Jamilah Joseph, on the right next to impresario Karen). Everyone acts bemused by these proclamations, but they are big and beautifully lettered and secretly, we love them when they're all about us.

 Some day, maybe the tour will include my book-art atelier right here in the Stable. Until then, hope I see you in elegant borrowed digs this weekend.

Ms. Gould and her post-adolescent agonies are of secondary interest to me; what would be a shame would be if her angst were mistaken for "typical blogging." As someone pointed out at the recent Brooklyn Blogfest, the term "blog" has expanded so wildly that it is now no more informative than the word "book." The political screed-howlers and the Who-I-Boinked gossip girls apparently pull in the big numbers (filling, therefore, some demand, even if it's only for cubicle time-sucking, I guess).  But the world of online journaling is as vast as...the world itself. Many of the Times commenters sternly advised Ms. Gould to do something worthwhile with her copious free time, to "get a life" (building latrines in Guatamala was recommended). In doing so, they betrayed an earnest innocence of the staggering amount of work, prayer, art, activism, exploration, learning, and fellowship that already takes place in the blogosphere, once one gets out of the tawdry front window of sex and politics.  One could argue that Ms. Gould could save the world more efficiently by staying in her symbolic pajamas and blogging about Guatamalan latrine-building, thus knitting together through the mystery of Google every latrine-construction wonk and Guatamalan do-gooder on the planet into a force for good.

Of course, the real question raised for those of us who blog is: Why am I doing this, and am I a solipsistic oversharing ninny, too? I've given it plenty of thought, actually. Both my blogs began as ways to write for pleasure, to get back the joy of writing about what I love instead of what I'm paid to promote. (Even if that happens to be New and Effective Pharmacological Options for a Serious Medical Condition; Ask Your Doctor for More Information!) I've set myself some basic limits on how far family and friends are involved or identified, on what kind of language I'll use, on how personal I'll get; occasionally I bend those rules. In choosing topics, I usually opt for personal delight over readership stats, although I recognized Ms. Gould's crackhead-like response to a spike in readers just as Frodo recognized a bit of himself in Gollum, slavering for the Precious.

I've come to the conclusion that "blogging" is at heart about two things: our passions, and our longing to share them (which is to say, our dire craving for human connectedness). If my governing passion is my ego, then a blog about myself will be an extension of that self: vulnerable, narcissistic, and ultimately empty and sad. But so many people are sharing so many other passions--and not just the infinite sexual permutations that define the Internet's mucky bottomlands.  It would be a shame if Ms. Gould were seen, especially by the Times' cautious old-media types, as the Ur-Blogger, wallowing in pointless self-exposure.

In the few years I've been noodling around  the blogosphere, I've been gobsmacked at how many ways passion and connectedness can combine to make a better world. There are bloggers out there (funny, wildly readable, deeply moving) who are creating virtual communities for every rare disease and devastating disability known to man. There are photographers documenting secret gardens and public places in ways no one's ever seen before. Skills that once were esoteric and daunting--from cycling to knitting, from manuscript illumination to coding HTML--are now vast open workshops filled with eager neophytes and seasoned mentors in fluid, endless communication. Weasels are being exposed, flim-flammers outed. There is also endless silliness--I lost count at 50 when I tried to enumerate the Web's pug-dog blogs--but sometimes, silliness is what's needed.

And there are house blogs, where people who struggle with creaky old homes can trade stories, find sympathy, and get tips on grouting. I understand there is even a blog where some gal in Brooklyn brings you along every day to Prospect Park and shows you something marvelous. If in the course of reading my stuff, you find me, myself, and I appalling or fascinating, my Gollum-ego will, I admit, throb with some pixellated satisfaction. At some level, we're all "attention whores." But I can't imagine a blog that was All About Me any more than I would fancy a life that was All About Me.  There are so many more intriguing things to blog about, and to live for.

I will give the last word to George Bernard Shaw, who would have made one mad mother of all bloggers, baby:

This is the true joy in life, the being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one; the being a force of nature instead of a feverish, selfish little clod of ailments and grievances complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy.

I am of the opinion that my life belongs to the whole community, and as long as I live it is my privilege to do for it whatever I can.

I want to be thoroughly used up when I die, for the harder I work the more I live. I rejoice in life for its own sake. Life is no "brief candle" for me. It is a sort of splendid torch which I have got hold of for the moment, and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible before handing it on to future generations.

--Preface, Man and Superman    

Illustration: Edward Gorey 

 I am glad Spouse was not taken instead by these designey lamps from Site-Specific Design. They reminded me of Bestfriend's  warning: "There's a thin line between an outfit and a get-up." This is the lamp version of that maxim. Besides, it reminds me too much of some things that have emerged in the basement during heat waves and sewer clean-outs. Curiously, these lamps are part of a collection dubbed "Childhood Memories" by designer Rui Docouto.  Good luck with the therapy, fella!