That Your Work Shall be a Struggle

I...am...so...tired.

But I'm owning my exhaustion, ya know? I mean, two jobs, RA'ing, graduate school; seems about right for a virile(?) twenty-something, eh? Yeah, but I got a ZipCar account, which is very cool. And a company e-mail address and soon a BlackBerry, so... I can deal with utter exhaustion if it gets daddy a new pair of shoes. Word.

I'm On My Way, I'm Making It

I mean, I'm not a celebrity-lover, but it is cool when you find yourself in close quarters. Like today, when Julian Casablancas, lead singer of The Strokes, cruised into work with his two dogs, Balki and Voldemort. Admittedly, I didn't know who he was at first. But he looked famous (o.k., semi-famous; they're huge in Britain). Tall, dark and handsome, sure. But more than that. It was a style, a manner, the way he walked and talked. Very affected, but very cool nonetheless.

Oh, and tomorrow I have a meeting with the Financial Times of London. Yeah, that's right, Big Timin'.

It was called Project X

I nearly ran into Adam Duritz, he of Counting Crows 'fame', while walking through the Village today. I knew immediately it was him - knew with the "immediacy of vision" - and this was corroborated by a friend who had seen him walking across Washington Square Park early last week. I wish I could have come up with something snappy to say to him as he brushed past; something like, 'Accidentally in Love? More like Accidentally sucked! Or some other shit that would at the same time reveal my vast knowledge of 90's pop, while self-importantly letting it be known that Counting Crows sucked. Eric exemplified the sentiment when, at a local diner, he found himself next to Matthew Broderick. Instead of sycophantically gushing over The Producers, or making a funny, but overused reference to Ferris Bueller, he, with total calm, said simply, "I loved you in that monkey movie." Fucking brilliant.

October is not for Lovers

October. I love October. The weather is changing; there's a crispness in the air. In the morning a fog hangs over the city, an ethereal blanket. The days are shorter, the nights are longer, and I don't feel bad if I just want to stay inside; October invites reflection. Besides, by October, school is in full swing, and I've got work to do. I want to wallow in my work, to feel overwhelmed, to feel like it's unfair that I should have to work so hard while everybody else in engaged in one or another meaningless diversion. I want to embrace it. October makes it alright to put on some early-80's emo punk - preferably The Smiths or The Cure - and drink alone. It is alright to take up smoking again in October; besides, the autumn winds have blown the polution out the city anyways, right? I love October because it doesn't care if you want to indulge yourself in solitude. Drop the extroversion - that's some summer shit. Put it away for a few months. Go underground. October is about being emo, writing in a notebook, drawing something stark in charcoal. Even the flavors and smells of October carry with them a rich sense of lonliness: smoke, rotting leaves, pumpkin. Besides, I look good in a sweater and scarf.

It Doesn't Get Old

"...and it's 68 degrees right now in Central Park. Looks like fall may be coming, folks." Tomorrow I'm going to get up early, while there's still a bite in the air, get some coffee and sit on the stoop reading the Saturday times. Then I'm going to go to the park and work my way through "The Birth of Tragedy". Then I'm going to lose myself in this city.

Lessons Learned

Sex, cars, cigarettes and petty crime. Yet apparently, Godard doesn't impress like I thought he would.

WTF??

Why do I even try??

Doesn't change the fact. That mother is cool.

There is a hole...

September 11th, 2007 and the city is mourning. It is gray and raining. There is a hole in the ground. There is a hole in the bottom of my shoe. There is a hole in the crotch of my pants. There is a hole in the back of my mouth, where a tooth used to be. It hurts, terribly. My phone has been turned off, once again. I didn't get much sleep last night, and it wasn't because I was having a torid lovemaking session. Grimace.

If You Love Someone, Let Them Go

Only now, that I've given up on my ambition to garner entry into the vaunted realm of academia, do I understand what philosophy is. Things become clearer when you stop trying to see them.

Strays

A couple of days ago I had a free morning for the first time in weeks. I got up early and took the train up to Trader Joe's to grab some provisions. Cereal, coffee, cheese, beans; a couple of bottles of wine; some fresh fruit. Two shopping bags full of groceries, well earned and sure to satisfy. Heading back downtown, I board the train and set my goods on the floor beside me. Immediately, a man enters from the adjacent car, shaking, writhing, unable to speak or stay still. I assume he has cereal palsy or some other similar affection. Or is it a show? He begins his speech, the same speech you hear a million times a day. "Just some change, if you have some, or a bit of food. I would be thankful." Shamed by my bounty, I know I must give him something. A can of beans? A piece of cheese? An apple? I feel that everybody has their eyes on me. They see my groceries, and he is right in front of me. Finally, I reach deep into my pocket, and hedging my bets, drop fifty cents into his outreached hand. Judge me if you will, but I was the only person on that car that gave him anything. Fifty cents for the effort.

Shadows

It's striking to me how much I hold back from people. I am cagey about my past, the things I have done, the experiences I've had. In those rare moments when I do let my guard down, let something slip, I receive incredulous looks from strangers who see me as just another white boy. Maybe that's just it: maybe I'm tired of appearing as just another standard, middle-class, anonymous, seemingly priviledged white male. And as long as I keep my past in the closet I appear as just that. I want to grab people, to scream at them, to make them take notice. Look at me!! Look deeper!! I am not what I seem to be. I am less; I am more. I have felt pain. I have thought about death. I have hurt myself just to feel. And now, as you see me, right now, I am on the edge. Certainly, I have proven myself to be the artful dodger. Sometimes I feel that all I have accomplished thus far has been the fruit of careful manipulation. Me, the charismatic con, not wanting to take anything from you, just wanting access into your world. Yeah, sometimes I feel like a fake. But what the fuck? I want to find somebody that will sit next to me and stroke my hair while I vomit my past into the toilet. I want to fucking flush it. To start anew. But until I find somebody to serve as my midwife, I am stuck bearing this burden - and stuck hiding it from those around me. And who the fuck would want to play that role?

Hmmm. The Rain.

There is something about a mid-August hot rain in the city. The way the thunder announces the inevitable downpour. Back in California, a summer rain would bring with it an absolutely unique smell. Some combination of wet manure and steam. And everybody would notice it, would comment on it. The smell of rain in the summer; such a rare occurance in the valley. But here, nobody but myself seems to notice the August rains. I seem to be the only one who as they walk the streets looks to the skys to greet the rain. I seem to be the only one who responds to the thunder with a wry smile. Likewise, I seem to be the only one without an umbrella, perpetually surprised by the summer rain. Well, to be perpetually surprised...

The Kid's Got Eyes Up His Nose

Breaking news - local 'graffiti' artist Judith Supine unfurled a 50' piece of 'street art' from the Manhattan Bridge. You see these pieces all over lower Manhattan and Brooklyn. I, personally, find them pretty cool. Nevertheless, I do find that they lack a certain street cache. I mean, 1) they're not actually graffiti, and 2) they reek of art-school hipster subversiveness, which is to say, they aren't subversive at all. Indeed, the unfurling of a banner-type piece is far from the 'hit' made on the Brooklyn Bridge by local guerilla artist David Smith, aka Sane Smith, nearly 20 yrs. ago. This cat hit everything - all the subways, wharehouses, street signs, everywhere visible. But nothing had, and nothing has yet, measured up to the work done on the Manhattan tower of Brooklyn Bridge. Apparently, Smith had to stand on a 1 1/2 foot ledge on the outside of the bridge for something like two hours to complete the tag. Despite the fact that Sane Smith was everywhere, and David Smith spoke openly, if in the third person, about Sane's goings-on, city cops and transportation officials were unable to catch him. According to one, "The kid's got eyes up his nose." Unfortunately, legend has it that Sane committed suicide by jumping off the George Washington Bridge when his father, a Harvard prof, was threatened with a lawsuit for 1.5 million dollars to cover his son's intrepid creativity.

Dig this link for the original NYTimes article on the Brooklyn Bridge hit. http://graffitiresearchlab.com/sanesmith.jpg

Damn the Rain

Was supposed to see TV on the Radio in Brooklyn today. Was pretty fucking stoked. Late July thunderstorms decided to put the damper on that idea. It's really fucking dark outside and its only 3:00 in the afternoon. Constant thunder reverberating bomblike off the buildings. So I'm going to go to the market, buy a bottle of wine, some bread and cheese, some fruit, and call it a day.

Sentimentality

I've never been accused of being an overly sentimental man. Indeed, cute is not a word I throw around, and I am wont to be heard offering ahhhhs or other pregnent sighs. Nevertheless, there are times when some instance of suffering or pain penetrates my Stoic armor and strikes my inner sentimentalist. Such was the case when, about a two months ago, I emerged from a local cafe, coffee in hand, change jingling in my pocket, and was confronted by a distressed woman. She was crying. She was pushing a stroller. She asked for a penny. Now, generally when I find myself in such a situation I politely nod, offer a grimace/smile, and continue on my way. But this woman was bawling. She was fucking despondent. So I reached into my pockets, I reached deep, and with much ceremony offered her all I had. Something like 22 cents. Regardless, I cared, and I felt like maybe my caring would be the event that would turn her life around. Maybe her baby wouldn't die. Maybe she would recover from cancer. Maybe now she could bail her baby's daddy out of jail, where he is doing time for stealing formula. My inner sentimentalist smiled.
But then last weekend I'm walking out of work and I run smack dab into a crying woman, so upset she couldn't hardly get her words out, tears soaking the top of the stroller she was pushing, and asking only for a penny. WHAT THE FUCK!? Of course, it's the same woman. And I look closer and there's not even a goddamn baby in the stroller. I brusquely walk past. I'm upset. I mean, I understand having to have a schtick, but to play on the sympathies some people have for women and babies? Is this going to far? And to call into question my own self-righteousness. Now this is an offense beyond pardon. I declare here and now - No more change from my pockets into the hands of women or babies. My sentimentality is broke.

Poverty is Good for the Soul

See, these last 10 days I have survived on no more than $50.00. Five dollars a day. Five dollars to cover subway/bus fare (unless I decide to walk to work and back - not a bad option if it wasn't so fucking hot and I didn't always have to be somewhere). Five dollars to cover all my dietary needs (water and fresh fruit and vegetables bought from sidewalk vendors have proven to be the best for my buck). Five dollars to cover any grooming/health/style needs (style is superfluous for the poor; i haven't washed my hair in nearly 7 days because I figure if its dirty it will be more manageable and I don't have any gel right now; prescription medications must be overcome). Thing is, I've survived. Really, I've thrived. Since I can't afford alcohol, cigarettes, whores, etc. I really feel better, certainly leaner, than I have in quite a while. Thing is, I will soon be getting some cash. And I'm afraid that the lifestyle changes necessitated by poverty, which are positive changes (better diet, no drugs, drinking or cigarettes, etc.), will be endangered by my newfound (relative) wealth.

Crisis

He looked at me questioningly and asked, "Well, what happened to your passion?" I can't answer. Maybe one day I woke up and it was gone. Maybe it had been slowly leaving me for a long time. But when you realize it's gone, or when you allow yourself to admit that it's gone, it's gone. So I find myself sitting at a table, surrounded by my colleagues, my friends, and listening to them talk - words - about various interpretations of Marx while sipping on Pinot Grigio. "It just strikes me as so goddamn lame." That's all I got. Crisis - When your dreams, your ideals, the goals you have set, the very things you have strove for appear to you empty and meaningless.

Yet without obscurity
or needless explanation
the true prophet signifies.

Heraclitus, Fragment 11

Cheap Thrills, Big City

Let me begin by stating that I am broke beyond that funny, "I am broke, can you by me a drink" stage. I have officially, according to my own declaration, entered the "I am broke, do you have a tortilla I can eat" stage. That being said, I along with some friends, both old and new, set upon the city last night seeking some cheap thrills. So to the Seaport, where we introduced my new roommate Seth (20 yrs. old, J.C. student, from mid-Illinois, pretty chill guy) to the expansive world of free progressive indie rock. Such music only being listenable in small doses, we struck out for Battery Park and a quiet, dark place to enjoy some of the Northern California bounty. Carrie, a man, a man who had been on the road for six weeks, touring this great land, and having just entered NYC, suggested we take a ferry ride. Brilliant! We all concur. Beautiful night. Wind. The lights receding. The smell of the sea. Staten Island. But there's a ballgame. And look, it's the ninth inning and they're letting people in for free. And when the game ends, disappointingly for the home team, there is going to be a fireworks display. But what fireworks!! It was almost as if they lost control, as if the whole fireworks arsenal, the whole cache, was exploding before our bewildered eyes. And so close to the ground. And so close to our seats. And when will it end?! A raw, unexpected show of light and sound. Thrilling, frightening. Hilarious. We cannot stop laughing. We feel like children, laughing, grinning wildly at the explosions, no longer above our heads but right before us, embers landing in center field. And then it's over; finally over. And so we take the boat home, and walk through the deserted streets of lower Manhattan. And we walk down Wall Street. I am envisioning stupidly finding some money, some real Wall Street money. But alas. Home. Peanut Butter. Sleep.

The Wisdom of Neil Young

"It's hard to make that change, when life and love turns strange. And old." How many times have I heard Neil's plaintive cry, "A man needs a maid?" How many times before now have I heard this desperate refrain without 'getting it,' without being a 'part of?' But now I am part of, and now the longing in my body matches the longing in Neil's voice, and now I have experienced the wisdom of Neil Young. A man needs a maid. A man, indeed.

I've Stopped Smoking

Well, I haven't had a cigarette in nearly half a week. A small step, certainly, but I feel good about it. I've also made the decision to "watch" my drinking and diet. Why, you ask? Could it be the fact that I've just had a birthday (28)? Could it be that I've just returned from a wedding, where I mingled with all my healthier, wealthier and if not happier, at least more sexually satisfied friends? Well, yeah. You bet. That's right. I've decided that little Chris needs to grow up. I've decided that someday I might like to have a job, a wife, maybe even a kid. Furthermore, I've decided that I might like to be able to take care of them and, dare say, be a fucking role model. So I've decided to stop smoking, to drink less - maybe only red wine, and to eat a little bit better. I've spent many years indirectly trying to kill myself, only to fail. Now it's time for plan B.

Going Back to Cali

That's right. I'll be getting on a plane destined for the West Coast first thing tomorrow morning. I must admit: I'm a bit nervous. Not because of the newest security scare. That shit doesn't bother me. My anxiety is not existential, but ontological. I'm afraid that upon returning home, I'll find that I no longer have a home. Indeed, I resist even saying that I'm going home. But if my beloved Nor-Cal is no longer my home, as I always thought it was, then does this mean that NYC is home? And if NYC is my home, then why do I feel like such a stranger? It was Thomas Wolfe who said, "You can't go home again." But must homelessness be the fate of all those who leave?

Not all Brazilian Models are Dumb...

Just the one that happened to sit down next to me on the bench in Union Square this afternoon. Long story short - I know this beauty was Brazilian because of the not-quite-stable gentleman who approached her for a cigarette. Taking the fact that she obliged in giving him one of her smokes while refusing the offered payment of a dollar as an invitation to conversation, this man inquired into her ethnicity. "I'm from Brazil," she replied; to which he enthusiastically responded, "I'm Indian, racially, but I'm from Guyana!" The seemingly practiced blank look that washed over this lovely South American's face indicated that either A) she wasn't interested in conversating with this strange man, or B) she had no idea where or what Guyana was. "Guyana!" the man repeated. Blank. Nothing. "Guyana. It's near Brazil." Traces of doubt creeping into his voice. "I have no idea what you're talking about," replies this comely young thing. "Oh, well I guess I'm stupid. I'm crazy," mutters the man as he turns, shaking his head, and walks away. I hear him mutter under his breath as he departs: "I'm stupid? Bitch."