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.