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