Not Today

When I got to the gym I realized I’d left my headphones at home. I was disappointed, but not enough to turn around and ride the train for 15 minutes.

Moments into my workout I was miserable. Music was the only thing that got me through the repetitive act of picking up metal and putting it down, and picking it up and putting it down.

The overhead speakers blared some whiny song. "And from the ballroom floor we are in celebration, one good stretch before our hibernation. Our dreams assured, and we all will sleep well... sleep well."

I hated it. Gym music usually sounded like it had been picked out by an emotionally unstable thirteen-year-old girl, or a strong gay man who’d taken too much ecstasy.

I was waiting for a treadmill to open when I felt a tap on my shoulder. One look at the lady standing behind me was all it took for me to realize that I was entering into a conversation that I wanted no part of. Her hair was short, and only grew in patches on her scalp, and her clothes would have been refused if donated to a thrift store.

“My husband won’t get a vasectomy.”

She looked at me, awaiting a response.

“He doesn’t want one, but I think he should get one.”

She once again awaited a response, looking at me like I’d just heard the most exciting news of the year.

By this time I’d had it. Without saying a word to her I walked out. I couldn’t handle it. Not today. 

 http://thelakehouseoffloverslane.blogspot.com/

Never Saw It Coming

The girl in front of me hasn’t looked up from her phone for 10 blocks. Literally not looked up once. Not while crossing the street. Not while weaving in between crowds in the crosswalk. Normally I hate people who go through life with their faces fused to a screen, but this is kind of impressive.  

She looks like she works in fashion. You can always tell those types. There’s something noticeably superficial about them, but not in a bad way. They craft their appearance. Everyday. Even on Sundays. It’s part of their job, and I respect that. I find it hard enough to find a pair pants that don’t smell like fish.

She’s still going. Keeping her streak alive, god bless her.

Now we’re at 5^th ave. This is going to be a tough one. There she goes.

Fuck me, this girls a pro.

She deserves a medal. She deserves to be put atop a wooden pedestal while her ringtone blares throughout the speakers in the stadium. The crowd on their feet, hats removed, fighting back tears. This is a truly special moment. I’m witnessing a god given talent being put to use. She’s…

Fuck. Fuck, oh, shit. Fucking ouch. Oh. God damn.

She never saw that bike messenger coming, and neither did I. I was too transfixed on the miracle unfolding before me. She got up. She’s all right.  That had to have hurt, but it was beautiful to watch.

An explosion of iced coffee, blond hair, and bicycle chains. A modern day cheetah and impala. 

                                                      http://voguein1.blogspot.com/

The Vagabond Who's Rapping At Your Door

It’s hot. It’s Sunday. Neither of these things make me happy. Some people like Sundays, but I’ve always hated them. Sunday means Monday is almost here. And fuck, I hate Mondays.

I’m looking for somewhere to eat lunch. There are lunch places on every block, which makes my decision even harder. It’s not easy to make a choice when all your choices look almost identical. I prefer fewer options. When there are fewer options you can examine each one with refined attention.

“Sir, can you help me?”

Another person trying to sell me something or ask me for something or ask me to help him sell something to someone so the children in Africa can have mosquito nets. Fuck off.

“Sir, Please. Please, where can I find this? This!”

He’s waving around a piece of paper. No, a photograph. I grab it. Curiosity beats hunger.

“This place is magic. I’ve made it past the wall! The guards didn’t even see me! I slipped right past it. Right past it! And now I need to go here. To this place. Tell me where it is. It’s magic, I just know it.”

It’s some cheesy, artsy photograph. It looks like it was made by some graphic design undergrad. It’s a landscape, somewhere in New York City. Looks like the Bronx.  It’s black and white, except for a yellow cab, which still retains its color. I say I’m sorry and hand it back to the man.

A book falls out of his coat as he takes it from me. Nadja. I read that in college, in one of those classes where you talk about art and life. He scampers away, mumbling to himself, and scaring a family of tourists as he crosses the street. 

 http://whatablue.blogspot.com/

Beginning

It was the 4^th in the city. I spent the day trying to decide if that was a good thing. At around 8 the drunken rush began. People pushed their way down streets and snuck around police barricades in attempts to grab the best vantage point. When we couldn’t go any further we found ourselves confined between two tenement buildings. Bordered on all sides by doughy flesh and American flags that were made in Spain.

The city stifled the stars and I wished that I could snap my fingers and be taken to some sort of distant foothill in a distant countryside pushed in between two mountains, purple and majestic.

A loud boom forced me to focus and as I looked up I could make out the corner of a bright explosion. It was red and white and it lingered for a moment before dissolving into the hazy black air.

Then came more explosions. Loud booms. Bright reds and blues. Smoke. War sounds. And I forgot what we were celebrating. And all I could think about was that this is what destruction sounds like.

And on that morning in September these were the sounds that replaced the honks of taxis and caused men in suits to look up and stare with open mouths.

But no one around me was scared.

 Their faces lit up. They smiled. But I couldn’t. All I could think about was that if they came back none of us would be able to outrun the fire. We were corralled hogs. There would be nothing but screeches, whistles and screams as the still and blank night sky was painted with bright red explosions.

 http://coxfongo.blogspot.com/ 

Man Made

The green patch stands out amongst the ocean of steel. The two sharply contrast, like past and future. At this point it’s hard to tell which came first, or which is the rightful tenant.  Both seem unnatural and forced. Both appear to be a sort of cancer, encroaching on the other's territory, gaining inches with each year.

Japanese tourists crowd along the edges, getting as close to the tall glass walls as their acrophobia will allow.  They snap pictures from all sides and all angles. They pose in front of buildings they don’t know the names of and pass cameras to strangers without speaking a word of English. Everyone is quiet, even though there are no signs that advise them to be.  People try their best to be conscious and present. Trying so hard to take in the experience that they forget to take in the experience.

It’s windy and cold. It feels like it’s raining but it’s not. The air is different this high up. It’s wet and violent, and in a city so big and overwhelming I feel, for a moment, that I dominate it. Standing at the top and looking down gives me a sense of unearned accomplishment.

There is a slight crack, maybe an inch and a half, where the glass walls meet at the corners of the building. After a young European couple moves I take their spot. I plant myself directly in the corner and stick my face in the crack. Only my nose can fit through, but it feels nice, calm.