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.