Thursday's Three Word Wednesday

The words over at Three Word Wednesday are conniption, janky and scooch.

Ethereal, Lightness & Being

As far back as she could remember, Gloria Brackens had never spent a day of her life happy, and rightly so, she thought.

There was the story of her birth, which grew to legend status among family at gatherings, told over and over more as a defense mechanism against Gloria’s abrasiveness, rather than the fondness of the moment.

Gloria Brackens had left the warm wetness of her mother’s womb screaming.

The wailing continued through the weigh-in, the foot-printing, the attempts by her mother to quiet Gloria at her breast. Finally, when she could not take it any longer, Gloria’s mother gave her to a nurse, who held the pink, wailing child at arm’s length. Gloria’s mother then burst into a fit of weary wailing all her own.

The nurse, a short and stout woman who broke down her white orthopedic nursing shoes with some frequency, fearing for the sanctity of the nursery and all the quiet, happy little souls laid there, found a bassinet, deposited Gloria into it, wrapped her gently in soft cotton blankets and parked her in a utility closet near the boiler room.

Gloria simply cried herself out into slumber, like a flame that succumbs to ember, then ash.

As she entered her 40s, unhappily alone and childless, Gloria began to think that maybe a life of lemon-sucking sourness probably wasn’t going to get her past the Pearly Gates without some deep, deep discussion and explanations, something she abhorred in the most strongest of terms.

And while riding the 7 train back to Queens after juggling another day of accounts receivables for her corporation (Gloria’s bosses avoided her office like a flaming turd, but agreed that there was no one better suited to squeeze accounts than the dour Ms. Gloria Brackens), she read an advertisement behind an ancient, liver-spotted-etched and wrinkled Chinese mamasan – actually asking the old woman to dip her head so she could read the fine print of the poster – that promised the key that could unlock a chest full of happiness in a single weekend.

Gloria rifled through her purse for a pen and found the back of an envelope to jot down the Web address of the school. She finished the ride by making two small Hispanic children cry with a cold, disapproving stare.

Days went by and the envelope with Gloria’s tight, precise handwriting sat near her open laptop, which now not only carried vital information about possible happiness, but served quite well as a coaster for her tea cup. Gloria, while ordering foodstuffs online for delivery that would come from a Negro driver she thought was shiftless and lazy, picked up her mother’s bone China cup and saw what she had written, clicked open a new browser tab and searched out the school in question.

It took he another two hours to actually sign up for the two-day introductory course in practical philosophy, which would be held in a week’s time in a well-appointed town home in the upper 70s in Manhattan.

It was a crisp winter Saturday, the kind of day that still attracted runners to the sidewalks in their tight, brightly-colored Spandex that Gloria disapproved of openly. She waddled to the station and took the 7 to Grand Central, waddled over to the 6 up to 77th and waddled the two blocks to the school.

Gloria gripped the wrought-iron railing and for a moment felt something other than unhappiness flowing through her – she thought she felt a twinge of fear. The sensation was not unlike a paper cut, searing at first, then a sharpness that stayed in the background. Gloria surrounded it with melancholic thoughts, gripes and despair, lifted her ample frame up the speckled granite steps to an oaken door with an impressive black iron crow’s head knocker.

She rapped once, twice and nearing the third knock the door swung wide and Gloria was swept into the foyer by a tiny, bespecked man in a tweed suit, a kind of professor getup, complete with leather patches at the elbows. He grabbed for Gloria’s hand, pumping it furiously with both of his, making proper introductions and the warmest of greetings.

“I am Randolph Hirsh, a student here at the school – there are no ‘professors,’ just volunteers who have been here a few days longer than anyone else (he laughed at his own joke), and I’ll be leading your class this weekend,” he said jovially, so much so that his jowls shook as he spoke. “You’re a little early, so I invite you to the library for refreshments.”

Gloria, feeling a bit janky from the onslaught of Hirsh’s oblivious happiness, stumbled into the walnut-paneled library, where other, equally-exultant volunteers asked for her coat, brought her tea with milk and sugar and a small plate of assorted cookies, including Pepperidge Farm Milano sandwich cookies, a personal favorite.

Gloria avoided much of the small-talk going on in the room, preferring to stick to the high panel of books at the room’s outer-edges, ticking off the names across spines in her mind, flaring her nostrils at the titles she despised, raising a slight eyebrow at the ones she didn’t quite mind.

She huffed a breath when Hirsh put a hand upon her shoulder, pointed a tiny, black-hair-covered bone-white hand jutting out of its tweed hole in the direction of a classroom and asked her with great enthusiasm to join the others and grab a comfortable seat.

“This will change your life,” a cheery woman at the door said. “What’s your name, dear?”

“Gloria. Brackens.”

The woman ticked Gloria’s name form a pre-printed list she kept in a leather-bound folder, then gave Gloria a nametag with a metal clip that could be pinned to a lapel or a dress, Gloria’s first and last name neatly etched in two lines in fancy calligraphy.

Gloria chose a seat near the back, right on the aisle and percolated away with a practiced despondentcy, lest someone would occupy the seat next to her seeking conversation and camaraderie. The room filled up quickly and Gloria scanned eager faces with a flat, disapproving detachment.

Hirsh began by clapping for everyone who made the trek, then went over the ground-rules for the course, taking tiny sips of water from a wineglass, which Gloria found distasteful and fake.

“Leave everything you thought you knew at the door, better yet, leave it at home,” he said, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses. “We’re here today and tomorrow to give you practical guidance to open your heart and mind to wisdom. For that’s what philosophy is all about right? ‘Philos’ the Latin for love and ‘Sophia,’ wisdom. So what we’re going to do here is give you the tools to love wisdom. And in that, you should find happiness.”

Gloria huffed loudly through her nose, enough to draw sideways glances from two gay men dressed equally elegant in wool slacks and sweaters in various shades of gray.

For 20 minutes, Hirsh went over ground rules, listened intently to questions Gloria found rote, and then announced the first exercise intended to unlock the well of happiness inside them all.

“This is all about staying in the moment,” he said. “Feeling your senses, yet not being aware of them as to take away from the moment.”

Hirsh invited the class to sit spine-straight in their chairs, arms resting comfortably on laps or thighs, feet secure to the floor. He asked that the close their eyes, breath deep, relax.

Gloria was the last to shutter her lids, running her top teeth across her lower lip as she did so.

“Good. Now feel the weight of yourself on the chair, the weight of your feet on the floor,” Hirsh said in a calm, flat voice. “Feel the fabric on the skin. Good. Now taste. Smell. Finally, listen. Listen to the conversation in the hallway, but let it go. Go further out, hear the noise of the street, listen further out.”

Gloria’s mind cleared. She felt like she was standing at the edge of a deep, dark pool. There was a calmness, a stillness. Her mind was blank, not empty, but void of the everyday buzzings of work and home and TV and subway beggars.

Slowly, nearly unnoticeable, the corners of Gloria’s lips began to turn into a smile.

Just as the grin was fighting to blossom, Gloria felt a presence standing next to her. She cracked an eye and was greeted by a late-comer, a strikingly thin woman with dark, Slavic features who, as she gained Gloria’s attention, opened her palms, thrust them forward and said, “Please, be so kind and scooch over?”

She then smiled, her red-painted lips drawn dangerously thin across perfect, white teeth.

“Piss off,” Gloria hissed, low and threatening.

“Beg pardon?”

Gloria motioned with several head pumps toward the three empty seats next to her.

“I am not understanding you.”

“Drop your skinny ass into any open chair that’s not occupied by me,” Gloria said.

The conniption broke the silence, all eyes falling first on the woman in the black knit dress, thick black leggings and black leather boots that came up to her knees, who covered those red-painted lips with the back of her hand, her cheeks going as red as the lipstick.

Gloria tried keeping her eyes clamped shut, tried going backward toward the deep pool, but the tension was too much. She cracked one eye open, then the other.

Everyone in the room had screwed themselves into a position where they could watch the commotion. Arms rested on chair backs, eyes blinked.

“Ah, yes, perhaps we should continue without any further outbursts,” Hirsh said. “Welcome, newcomer, please take a seat and let’s continue, shall we?”

The woman passed ass-first, claiming the chair furthest from Gloria. The woman’s eyes, indeed every eye in the room save for Hirsh’s, which were currently focused on his scuffed brown wingtips, bore holes into Gloria.

“Fuck this,” she said. “And fuck you all.”

 She stood slowly, ironing out the clothing wrinkles with her palms and waddled into the library, calling sternly for a volunteer to get her coat, immediately.

Hirsh bit at a knuckle, but made no attempt to stop Gloria from exiting the seminar. Neither did the volunteers, who stared at the floor, or the wall as Gloria swayed on heavy hips toward the door, opened it, exited and slammed the heavy wood for all its worth.

Once on the street, Gloria looked one way toward Central Park, then cast a glance toward Madison Avenue. She turned toward Madison, deciding to take the train back to Queens, back to her tiny, tidy flat to ever stew in her unhappiness.

Approaching the corner, she watched a maple leaf move across the sidewalk, its colored crispiness dancing to the whim of the wind. She watched, then closed her eyes.

Gloria felt her weight on the sidewalk, felt the pressure in her cankles as they pressed toward the cement. Gloria tasted. She smelled.

She listened. Past the loud-talkers on their mobiles, past car engines and horns, past the breeze, even. And in the moment, Gloria’s mind cleared. She was back at the edge of the pool, unaware.

And she smiled, a big, toothy grin that drew stares from the passers-by who ebbed and flowed around her quiet, stationary self.

Photo Essay, Guggenheim Museum

Went to the Guggenheim recently to see the Kandinsky exhibit (standing so close to what may be my favorite piece of art, Composition No. 8 is just so cool), and brought along the Canon G11 to see what I could see.
And these are the result:

Wednesday's Three Word Wednesday

The words over at Three Word Wednesday are descent, kill, surreal.


She tried to change, really revolutionize herself, but the resolutions all came and went in fits and starts. Nothing quite stuck.

Self-help books were selected with gusto, then left on flat surfaces in her flat to collect dust, their pages still bookstore fresh.

Journals were begun with surreal confessions and professions of faith, in her tiny scrawl, only to be abandoned after maybe a scribbled page or two.

And that’s why people ignored her increasingly dark banter, the Facebook updates that contained words like stalking and stabbing. They chalked it up to her dry humor, thinking it was another in-between phase and tomorrow would bring another decree, maybe promises to try self-hypnotism or a water-and-grapefruit diet.

Who kills themselves with over-the-counter pain medication, anyway?

They all asked themselves this at the wake, which they all agreed was well-attended for all of its suddenness and despite the lateness of the season and poor weather conditions.

And as the coffee grew cold and the last of the ham had been wrapped, the bread secured in plastic baggies and everyone agreed it all should go to the food pantry, did it occur to them what had really taken place. They’d been witness to the descent, yet never stepped in to stop it.

Most just shrugged their shoulders, refreshing in their own minds their struggles, their stress.

It was another phase, they all agreed, like the time she decided to give her life over to animal rescue efforts, or that other time where she bought hundreds of dollars of paints and canvas, thinking she’d excise her demons through art.

Nobody dies from over-the-counter pain meds, do they?

Walk NYC, A Review

"So, how do you get around in New York without your truck?"
It's the question I get most often. It's an easy answer.
I walk.
And take mass transit - the subway mostly, but I will ride a bus on the odd occasion.
But walking makes up most of my movement through the city.

That's why I was excited when a colleague from my advertising days, and a Facebook friend to boot, heard that I had moved to NYC and wanted to tell me about a book her mom wrote (how cool is that?)

Walk NYC is published by The Suzy Guides and is co-written by Annie Coburn, a "travel chronicler who writes, takes photos and meets the people who live in the greatest cities on earth."
The book covers eight distinct districts on the island of Manhattan, including Little Italy, Chinatown, the East Village, the Lower East Side and Central Park.

The book is filled with maps, photos and charts called "Agendas" that lets the reader what they'll be seeing and its claim to fame.
Take, for example, the "Liberty Walk," which takes in Battery Park and the Financial District. It's also where a group of Dutch emigrants settled to start building "New Amsterdam," which of course would become the nation's largest (and most vibrant) city.

"The walk begins with a lively pageant of Battery Park and moves onto the somber contemplation of Ground Zero. Expect to see the most popular modern icons of the area, as well as historical sites that many tourists never discover. This is your insider reward, as this area of Manhattan mixes some of North America's oldest historic landmarks with some of its newest. All this history, old and new, conspires to unfold a fascinating and emotional walk."

And that passage really hit me as I took a train down to the Bowling Green station - the walk's suggested starting point - and followed along for 11 wonderful stops. I'd moved to a city that I was bound and determined to experience, but here was a book that was making it happen. Things I didn't know, like where to find Stone Street, the oldest paved street in the city, or the Fraunces Tavern and Museum, one of the few pre-Revolutionary buildings left in the city.

I've used Walk NYC to find great, tourist-free places to eat in Chinatown (the soup buns at New Green Bo are better than Joe's Shanghai, in my personal opinion Food Network), places to take wonderful treats home, like Little Italy's DiPalo Dairy for to-die-for Parmegiano Reggiano or Piedmonte Handmade Ravioli Company and places to get a history lesson, like at the Tenement Museum (see how immigrants really lived), the 9/11 Memorial and the Anthology Film Archives in the East Village.

The guidebook is a mix of history, education, architecture and places to get a meal, get a snack or dive into some serious dessert. 

It even has great tips and tricks, like how to hail a cab (not as easy as it looks), how to ride the subway and how to score free and discounted tickets to Broadway shows.
As the weather warms and winter blossoms into spring, Walk NYC will be in my messenger bag so I can continue to take full advantage of my adopted hometown.

The Suzy Guides are Annie Coburn, Suzy Vincens, Bernard Poisson, Zhu Xiaojian (Julia), Loren Bruckner, Kathy Biehl and Pat Bracken. The gang is currently working on Walk London and will be released in February in advance of the 2012 Summer Olympics. Like what you see and want to order? Contact Suzy Guides right here.

Scenes from New York

I recently went to the American Museum of Natural History and took my Canon G11 with me.
After a trek through the museum, I got off the B train early and walked home, which took me past the Cathedral Church of Saint John the Divine, the largest (and still unfinished) cathedral in the world.
The day was overcast and cold, so I edited much of the shoot into black and white. Here are the results. 

Great Hall, African Mammals
Stegosaurus, Hall of Ornithischian Dinosaurs

Backside dinosaur

T Rex, Hall of Saurischian Dinosaurs

Hyena diorama, African Mammals

Stone head, South American Peoples Hall

Giant jellyfish, Hall of Biodiversity

Saint John the Divine

Another angle

And another. Construction began in 1892.

Apartment building, Harlem

Wednesday's Three Word Wednesday

The words over at Three Word Wednesday are harmless, moist, yelp. This bit of silliness is a re-write of a much smaller piece done a few years ago.

I awake with my face pressed up against wire mesh, completely wrecked, a splitting headache and dirty black hairs stuck to my moist, full lips.

I’m in a dog run, concrete floor, hurricane fence front. A water dish, upturned, and a food dish half-full of kibble in one corner. A ratty rug is bunched up in the opposite corner.

My stirring draws the attention of a rheumy-eyed Bassett hound next door.

“I say, could you please tell these good fellows that I am certainly not a stray,” he says. “I have a fine home. I just walked a wee bit too far a field. Here, good sir, take a look at these tags.”

His yelps get the young tawny-colored mutt in next run going.

“Dude, dude, hey dude,” he says. “It was a harmless little nibble, serious. I didn’t mean to bite her, really. But man, they taste good huh? I mean goooood. You’re hearin’ me huh? Goooood.”

I let out a hideous growl, low and throaty and both dogs, tails tucked, retreat to opposite corners. I walk back to the rug, un-bunch it, walk three times in a circle, curl up.

The sound of a single leather pump tapping on the concrete raises me from a fitful slumber. It’s my mother, standing with arms crossed, her mouth a stern line of red lipstick. She’s got a pair of jeans, a T-shirt and a pair of flip-flops in a plastic bag at her feet.

I stretch, try to hide my nakedness.

“Boy, am I glad to see you,” I say, shaking my wild mane of tangled hair.

“Oh don’t give me that,” she says, waging a finger at me. “Fifty-six years and your father’s never once been picked up by the dogcatcher. I’m so ashamed.”

OneWord: Blotches

After spending way too much time thinking up snarky Facebook status updates (I will say, I did come up with some good ones), I settled in for a little writing exercise. A OneWord. Sixty seconds, one word.
That word? Blotches.

She felt heavy in this new skin, but it was a good weight, a good feeling. Solid. Balanced, even. That she had snatched it on the train, late on a weeknight was even better. She’d simply dumped the gloopy innards down a tunnel and waited for the rats, their red eyes glimmering in the doom, to do the rest. Such a great skin, too, she thought. If only they’d last longer. This one was already showing signs of decay. “Oh, well,” she thought. “There’s more where that came from.”
She reached for some foundation, to cover up the blotches. She first needed to feed, then she needed the luxury of new flesh.

Wednesday's Three Word Wednesday

The words over at Three Word Wednesday are plausible, taint, willingly.

Damaged Hearts
That he responded to her flirtations – well, actually initiated the small talk entirely – great pleased Sylvia Plaach.

Even more so, when she considered that she was simply quite rude when he opened his mouth in the first place and commented on her trying to read a battered paperback in the rather subdued light of Hillstone, a cavernous bar and restaurant on Park Avenue South.

She turned to face him, two empty barstools of space between them, frowned and said the light was just fine, thankyouverymuch and just as she got out the much, the lights dimmed even further for the arriving drinking crowd and he smiled and laughed.

It was neither a mocking snicker, nor a schoolboy’s annoying giggle, but a sweet chuckle that swept her in and made her smile.

“Well, now, all bets are off,” she said, constraining the book in her left hand as she wolfed a few strands of potato from a large order of shoestring fries, having had to remind the bartender not once, but twice to bring her a side of mayonnaise for dipping. She chased the fries with a sip from a cold, dry Chardonnay chosen off the wine list, and certainly not the house selection, either.

Sylvia had come to the Hillstone as an impulse, on her way to the train and home, where maybe she’d entertain a warm bath and a microwaved Lean Cuisine and her book. Her $350-an-hour therapist had his offices on Park Avenue and she’d let him berate her for the entire hour (at nearly $6 a minute, she reminded herself) on her ability to be both frigid and annoyingly smug in her interactions with men, even though her heart – and the incessant timer in her ovaries – screamed out for love and a child.

“Nobody likes a bitch,” the psychologist said flatly. “And Sylvia, you are one cold-hearted bitch.”

Taking her seat at the bar of the Hillstone was a knee-jerk reaction to prove she could be warm and open to her possibilities. At the very least, she would be trying.

“Your hair seems to be all mussed up,” she said, turning three-quarters on her rump to face him better.

A smile froze on Gene Strothers’ face, and immediately his lips begin to pale as the blood streamed from his face. He took a quick sip from his gin martini (with its pastel yellow lemon twist and its froth of ice on its surface) and breathed deeply.

“I’ve just come from the gym,” he said with a certain plausible deniability, conscious to bring the slender stem of his glass in for a graceful landing onto the walnut bar without spillage.

It was a white lie certainly, as Gene had not come from a workout - well, not in a general sense of the term. More of a therapy session of his own.

The guys at the office, worried that Gene was painfully shy and thus wound way too tight for their liking (or his), had paid for a massage (generous tip included) at a spa know for its accommodating and attractive Asian staff whose fingers could guarantee the kind of relaxation that was more-or-less legal in the city between consenting adults. The hour had begun with a table shower, where a petite Asian woman introduced herself as “Toni” poured warm water over him and scrubbed him stem to stern with lightly-scented soap. It continued with a relaxing warm-oil massage that turned delightfully and shockingly sexual (he had greatly feared that a bout of performance shyness would strike, but it was not to be in “Toni’s” very gentle and capable hands).

The hour ended (much too soon, he decided) with a glass of cool water and a hug from “Toni,” who wished him well and hoped that he would come again (and sent him off with a wicked little wink and a swat on his backside).

That he even kept the appointment had emboldened him to venture further afoot. Gene looked into the large and inviting bar on his way to the train, walked past the windows briskly, stopped, turned and willingly stepped through the brass revolving door of the Hillstone and slid onto a barstool to continue his most exceptional day in the city.

He swallowed the gin, smiled sheepishly and brought his chin into his right palm, his elbow resting on the bar, and drummed his fingers across his lips.

“Something of a reward, I guess,” he said. “What’s a good workout worth if you don’t cheat a little in the end?”

Sylvia laughed and turned back to her book, feeding herself mayo-laden fries between her lips, then chasing each bite with a sip of wine.

Slightly deflated, Gene turned back to his drink, waved over the bartender and ordered another round. The bartender, a loquacious young black woman, threw a nod in Sylvia’s direction and scrunched her lips into an urgent O at Gene, the prompt dawning across his brain synapse.

“Can I get you another glass of wine?”

“I’d like that very much,” she said, a bit surprised at herself. “I’m Sylvia, by the way.”

“Gene. It’s really great to meet you. What book has all your interest there?”

“Jane Austen. Silly, huh?”

“Not to me. It’s nice to see someone who respects the classics.”

Nearing the end of their second drink, and a conversation that stayed well within the parameters of small-talk, Sylvia turned and looked into the restaurant, then turned back to Gene.

“Let’s continue this over dinner,” she said. “Unless, of course, there’s somewhere you have to be and I’ll understand, completely.”

“No, dinner sounds great,” he said, slightly panicked.

Gene waved for the bartender, who sent for a waiter, whispered in his ear and the pair was escorted to a intimate, candle-lit booth toward the back of the space. Drinks were ordered and the couple chatted over the day’s printed menu.

Sylvia wavered between the seared tuna salad and the split-roast chicken, and decided that the apricot glaze sounded sinfully delicious on the chicken, but flatly opted out of the spicy New Orleans-style dirty rice and substituted another order of shoestring potatoes.

Gene ordered the New York strip, medium-rare, which came with fries and a watercress salad. His palms began to sweat immediately as the waiter left, wondering what she’d think when the plates arrived.

As a slightly obsessive-compulsive individual, Gene was forced by nature to chew his food 27 times on the left side of his mouth, then masticate 27 times on the right. Before he could swallow, he had to tap his chin and lips with his left index finger (he was right-handed) in a sequence of chin-lips-chin-lips.

Was it enough to taint this most excellent day? There was no choice. He couldn’t very well drink his way through dinner.

The plates came and Sylvia tore into the chicken and fries, greedily dipping forkfuls of potato into a cup of mayonnaise and sliding them past her painted lips and munching with gusto.

Gene tentatively sliced off a chunk of meat, gathered up a few strands of crispy potato and began to chew.

After several bites, Sylvia watched with a flat curiosity painted across her face, holding her fork midway between her entrée and her mouth, and wrinkled her brow.

Chin-lip-chin-lip touched, Gene swallowed hard, raised his palms to her and shrugged.

“It’s habit,” he said. “And I’d be really grateful if you wouldn’t stare at me.”

Sylvia reached for her napkin, stood, and walked briskly to the bathroom.

She entered the last stall in the line, listened for anyone else’s breathing, then stuck three fingers deep down her throat, and was nearly silent in bringing up the entree and both orders of fries. Satisfied, she breathed deep, flushed the toilet and made a slow, somewhat dejected stroll to the sinks.

She watched herself sternly in the mirror as she washed her hands, then took several paper towels, ran them under cool water and blotted the mass to her lips. She bit into the knuckle of her right index finger, fretted some more, then brushed her teeth and re-applied her lipstick.
And watched the reflection as she put her hand on her heart and smiled.

Sylvia returned to the table, where Gene sulked over an empty plate, his chin resting on balled-up fists. She put a hand on his shoulder, making him jump slightly, sat and gathered his hands into hers.

“What do you say, can we share a dessert? The warm five-nut brownie with the champagne custard sounds absolutely delightful.”

New York City, Day 96

The 6 train, the Bronx to the Brooklyn Bridge.

The sway of the train is lulling me to sleep. The cab is warm, nearly full. Instead of closing my eyes and turning up the volume on the headphones, I scan the crowd. I watch faces.
It’s NYC, Day 96.
The holidays are over, the Christmas trees are being drug to the curb, small, dry pine trees that better fit in small apartments. Life is getting back to normal for most – schools are open, businesses are back to first-quarter schedules. There’s still a lot of tourist activity, foreign visitors on holiday, but even that will begin to wane.
The city will take on a new feel, a new vibe.
Hopefully, so will this experiment.
I’ve been far too quiet on this blog of mine, far too busy. And that’s not what I came to New York to do. Through my employment, I have been elevated to as many hours as the company can give and still consider me part-time. The days vary. The hours vary.
I’m actually doing less writing, less exploring, than I want.
I’ve just asked for less hours.
A three-day work week.
Combined with my freelance contracts, plenty of cash to live on, within a budget.
It’s time to get back to seeing things from the ground up. Take notes,  experience.Again.
Write more. Photograph more.
Do things.
Knowledge is everything. We are not getting the Sunday New York Times and Time Out New York magazine (where I found a great event, a discussion on the demise of punk, which I plan to attend), and on Wednesday’s there’s the Village Voice. At work, I met an artist who told me about The Moth, a live storytelling event in the city.
It’s time to spread these wings.
There’s 269 days left in this NYC experiment. Doesn’t feel like near enough.