I scribbled some queue words of my trip into a journal with the intention of using them to write an essay about my experience later on. But as I read down the list I found that my random phrases and tid-bits had a sort of rhythmic melody to them, so instead of writing an essay I’ve decided to be a little more artistic…a little more poetic… This, ladies and gentlemen, is what New York means to me.
(*The poetic format I wrote this in will not transfer properly...I apologize. It's much easier to read the way I intended it to be written. I hope the weird spacing isn't confusing....)
Sesame Street steps, up to the apartments, past the lampposts
Of a hundred years.
Umbrellas, black to clear, classic to gaudy, striped to tiger stripes bobbing
In the rain drops.
Cross the crosswalks, a shifting wall of folks
While the taxis wait their turn.
A red, red star high up on the empire
Of a Captain who once had the same tattoo.
Purses, shoes, stilettos, suits, gold buttons and belts
Walking, walking, walking.
Bright yellow ponchos to sit on, bus ride through
the open, windy chill.
Smell the sauces, and the dough, and the steam
Of good, good eats a plenty,
Of pastry, of pies, of oils from the olives, and the cheeses, and the
Basil on top.
Bookstore books, pages old and musty, used with history
Full of stories, ghosts, and wants and needs and smells of something like home.
Steam Pipes, sewers, garbage piles, unpleasant cinematic stereotypes
That make you feel good for a reason you can’t explain.
Jackie saved the future by saving the history,
Stone walls, cobble stone streets, 19th century windows and doors
A plenty.
Tree roots defy urbanization,
Up, up, up through the stone they rise.
Trees on the roof tops. Naked iron men in the parks, on the Iron. A fence with memories of the dead.
Rockefeller daffodils flooding beneath fountains, a golden pool of
Beauty.
I belong. I belong. I belong.
Bickering couples. Umbrellas standing by the subway. Pigeons, parrots of an urban paradise.
Camera in my pocket.
Foggy Ellis.
The Brooklyn Bridge just beyond my touch.
The Bronx is wakening my father, and the memory of old things good come back to life.
Home, roots, sentiment and identity.
The lights of Time’s Square blink in the fog on Broadway,
Life, Time, a clock that never breaks down.
I want to be a part of it through and through,
Down every alley,
High tower,
And village.
New York, New Me
Match making, soul mate: Bliss.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Why Short People Are Angry
Not many people are aware of this, but short people have a reputation for being a little more angry than other people.
We're a little scary when we're angry. Sort of like when spiders get angry....
It's an unfortunate repuation, but there is a little bit of truth to it.
Allow me to explain why:
People treat us like children, which baffles me sometimes especially when Mr. Short Guy is sporting grown-up facial hair and a receeding hair line, or Ms. Short Girl has a C-cup size. Height has nothing to do with age. It's not rocket science, Folks.
We get called "cute" WAY too often, and when there's cheek-pinching involved it's twice as worse. We just might pinch back, so watch out.
Finding something on the top hooks of Old Navy is a nightmare. If you're going to put shirts up that high, have a step ladder available, People. Climbing and knocking down other merchandise is always a drag.
Short people have small feet. The small sized shoes are always on the top shelf. I've seriously thought of writing a letter to Target...
Having to stand on shelves in the grocery store to reach top shelf items is annoying, sweat laboring, and embarassing work, and endangers glass jars to boot.
Having to drag out the step ladder just to put away a stupid mug is time consuming and agitating.
High shelves PERIOD, just suck. Let's just say that, ok?
Tall people like to sit in front of us in movie theaters.
We here jokes like "I'd take you to the carnival, but I don't know if you're tall enough to ride the roller coaster", or "Aren't you like an inch away from being a midget?" or "How's the weather down there?" over and over and over AND OVER again throughout our ENTIRE LIVES. It's never funny. And it's never original or clever or witty. You're an idiot for it, can I just say that?
We get our heads used as an armrest, and people think it's supposed to amuse us. It doesn't.
We hear, "You're so SHOOORT!" far too often. As if we don't know we're short... Seriously? We know, ok. WE KNOW.
No. I am NOT a dwarf... nor am I one of Santa's little helpers...
However? "Hobbit" is sometimes acceptable only because Hobbits have stout hearts and good nature, and they like to smoke pipes and eat a lot....and they save the world from darkness and evil...
Sitting in a booth in a restaurant has the uncanny ability to make one look like a child...And it's a little embarrassing. And asking if I need a phone book is NOT funny...
It was a revolutionary saftey feature when they invented the adjustable steering wheel...
People think that when you're little you don't need the armrest on the airplane, so they help themselves...
People automatically assume that when you're little, you're easy to push around. Surprise!!! Short people have a lot of pent up anger.
Take my armrest, I just might take your ARM.
THE END... of my stupid little rant.
We're a little scary when we're angry. Sort of like when spiders get angry....
It's an unfortunate repuation, but there is a little bit of truth to it.
Allow me to explain why:
People treat us like children, which baffles me sometimes especially when Mr. Short Guy is sporting grown-up facial hair and a receeding hair line, or Ms. Short Girl has a C-cup size. Height has nothing to do with age. It's not rocket science, Folks.
We get called "cute" WAY too often, and when there's cheek-pinching involved it's twice as worse. We just might pinch back, so watch out.
Finding something on the top hooks of Old Navy is a nightmare. If you're going to put shirts up that high, have a step ladder available, People. Climbing and knocking down other merchandise is always a drag.
Short people have small feet. The small sized shoes are always on the top shelf. I've seriously thought of writing a letter to Target...
Having to stand on shelves in the grocery store to reach top shelf items is annoying, sweat laboring, and embarassing work, and endangers glass jars to boot.
Having to drag out the step ladder just to put away a stupid mug is time consuming and agitating.
High shelves PERIOD, just suck. Let's just say that, ok?
Tall people like to sit in front of us in movie theaters.
We here jokes like "I'd take you to the carnival, but I don't know if you're tall enough to ride the roller coaster", or "Aren't you like an inch away from being a midget?" or "How's the weather down there?" over and over and over AND OVER again throughout our ENTIRE LIVES. It's never funny. And it's never original or clever or witty. You're an idiot for it, can I just say that?
We get our heads used as an armrest, and people think it's supposed to amuse us. It doesn't.
We hear, "You're so SHOOORT!" far too often. As if we don't know we're short... Seriously? We know, ok. WE KNOW.
No. I am NOT a dwarf... nor am I one of Santa's little helpers...
However? "Hobbit" is sometimes acceptable only because Hobbits have stout hearts and good nature, and they like to smoke pipes and eat a lot....and they save the world from darkness and evil...
Sitting in a booth in a restaurant has the uncanny ability to make one look like a child...And it's a little embarrassing. And asking if I need a phone book is NOT funny...
It was a revolutionary saftey feature when they invented the adjustable steering wheel...
People think that when you're little you don't need the armrest on the airplane, so they help themselves...
People automatically assume that when you're little, you're easy to push around. Surprise!!! Short people have a lot of pent up anger.
Take my armrest, I just might take your ARM.
THE END... of my stupid little rant.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
DR. FRANKENSTEIN! of sorts...
(Inspired by a conversation I had with my brother, Kyle...)
It gets worse. When you start to put it down on paper, it grows into something far more frightening. More. It grows into something much like a heart beat, or like a living, breathing lung. “Choosing the Names” would sound appropriate if it wasn’t the other way around. Christening characters isn’t so much a simple matter of choosing a name out of a name book, but rather something of the opposite. I could have a list of ten names, all of which I love, but my character wants nothing to do with them. I have sometimes “chosen” a name that I would never in a million years name my own child, but for some reason fits perfectly with the character I’ve created. I seem to have an extremely limited amount of control on the matter. It’s almost… supernatural. “The wand chooses the wizard,” and that sort of thing. And once they’re christened? There’s no turning back. They’ve been born, and you’re stuck with them. Sometimes it’s a good thing, but sometimes they end up failing you and you wish you never gave birth to them at all. Cliché metaphor, but there’s no better way to explain it. Or? Maybe there is.
Mary Shelley knew a thing or two about it. Dr. Frankenstein didn’t exactly give birth to his creation, but he definitely rose it into being and left it to the world to decide if it was worthy of existing or not. Sometimes, writing a story feels not too far different than that. ‘Not too far different than trying to play God. Or? Learning to accept the fact that we may, just might, be made in His image after all. We’re creators too, right? As a writer I create characters in my own image all the time. Every vigilante, hero, villain, protagonist, antagonist, sibling, goddess, neighbor, talking fox and healing goblin, have all been created with different pieces of my soul. The second I put quotation marks around my first piece of dialog I come to terms with the fact that I’ve now created a separate being, and there’s now a set of rules to follow in how to go about making them act, speak, and perform correctly. I can’t make this character act anyway I want it too, say whatever I want it to, or behave any way I want it to. No. They have a back-story now, a family that has made them a certain way, a best friend that fills in a void, a neighborhood or environment that has led them down a specific way of responding to life. If I don’t follow the rules, I ruin my creation.
It’s a strange experience that, truth be told, only other story tellers, artists, and writers of the sort will probably understand. Others might just suggest a good psychiatrist… And there are times, I’ll admit, that I feel the urge to comply with the suggestion. I often feel the need to shrink my picture shows down closer to reality, and I often wonder what would happen if I was put on a pill to make them all go away. My daydreaming sometimes rules and gets in the way of my life. All these living, breathing characters walking around in my skull: it’s a little distracting.
Sometimes, when people talk to me they often say a word or a phrase that triggers something in my brain to take that word or phrase and run with it. My brain turns that word into something more and before you know it, as my friend is talking to me, my physical eyesight has disappeared, my consciousness is on autopilot, and I’m now in my head working out a storyline, or recapping a childhood memory, or standing on stage in a comedy club totally bringing down the house.
This happens a lot.
During movies, during television, during school (when I used to suffer through it), during conversations, during projects, during writing, during going to the bathroom, during showering, during doing laundry, during reading, during cleaning…
The word “during” is now sounding quite strange and funny to me (especially the “during doing laundry” part), and I’m tempted to switch gears and talk about the sound and rhythm of words and why and how they make us feel certain emotions. At the same time I want to talk about how funny it is to say the same word over and over and over again, and then actually say that word over and over again in hopes of getting a reaction from the audience (“doody, doody, doody, doody, doody, doody, doody, doody, doody, doody…”), and then tap on the microphone and say, “Hey? Is this thing on?”
But that would clarify my need to be on a pill.
Focus.
Back to Frankenstein.
What was I talking about before I diagnosed myself with ADD?
Creation. Stories. Rules. Living, breathing lungs and heart beats. “We think you need to see a psychiatrist.”
Right.
I’m too bored now to finish what I was saying. I began this with a point, I did. Uuh… Writers playing God. Or, writers accepting that human beings are indeed created in His image. Names. Christening. Bringing it all to life. Rules popping into existence. Rules that must be followed lest there be consequences. Intuitively knowing what those rules are and following them, no matter how bad of a speller you are or how often your word usage is mixed up and backwards (possible dyslexia diagnoses coming up here; I’m talkin about myself in third person in case you didn’t realize…), or how long your freaking run-on sentences run on. I truly believe that storytelling has more to do with instinct, a sixth sense and over-awareness of your existence, and the ability to organize the chaotic picture shows that run amuck through your skull all day long than it does with anything else. Imagination is both a blessing and a curse. A tool, and a disease. Both a distraction from reality, and? Let’s face it: a way to get filthy rich. Good grief, what would happen if they put me on a pill? I’m hanging onto the chaos in hopes it someday makes me rich. How’s that for coming full circle? (Note sarcasm). Writing. Sometimes the chaos reigns. This entry was terrible, but I’m posting it anyway because I’m bored, and? There’s a little part of me that wonders (and is hoping with a pathetic need for self approval) if I’ll like it when I read it again later… Fat chance, though. If I hate it now, I will hate it later. Hmm. Maybe next entry will be about a writer’s natural talent for self loathing….
*I wrote this in December...am now deciding to post it....
It gets worse. When you start to put it down on paper, it grows into something far more frightening. More. It grows into something much like a heart beat, or like a living, breathing lung. “Choosing the Names” would sound appropriate if it wasn’t the other way around. Christening characters isn’t so much a simple matter of choosing a name out of a name book, but rather something of the opposite. I could have a list of ten names, all of which I love, but my character wants nothing to do with them. I have sometimes “chosen” a name that I would never in a million years name my own child, but for some reason fits perfectly with the character I’ve created. I seem to have an extremely limited amount of control on the matter. It’s almost… supernatural. “The wand chooses the wizard,” and that sort of thing. And once they’re christened? There’s no turning back. They’ve been born, and you’re stuck with them. Sometimes it’s a good thing, but sometimes they end up failing you and you wish you never gave birth to them at all. Cliché metaphor, but there’s no better way to explain it. Or? Maybe there is.
Mary Shelley knew a thing or two about it. Dr. Frankenstein didn’t exactly give birth to his creation, but he definitely rose it into being and left it to the world to decide if it was worthy of existing or not. Sometimes, writing a story feels not too far different than that. ‘Not too far different than trying to play God. Or? Learning to accept the fact that we may, just might, be made in His image after all. We’re creators too, right? As a writer I create characters in my own image all the time. Every vigilante, hero, villain, protagonist, antagonist, sibling, goddess, neighbor, talking fox and healing goblin, have all been created with different pieces of my soul. The second I put quotation marks around my first piece of dialog I come to terms with the fact that I’ve now created a separate being, and there’s now a set of rules to follow in how to go about making them act, speak, and perform correctly. I can’t make this character act anyway I want it too, say whatever I want it to, or behave any way I want it to. No. They have a back-story now, a family that has made them a certain way, a best friend that fills in a void, a neighborhood or environment that has led them down a specific way of responding to life. If I don’t follow the rules, I ruin my creation.
It’s a strange experience that, truth be told, only other story tellers, artists, and writers of the sort will probably understand. Others might just suggest a good psychiatrist… And there are times, I’ll admit, that I feel the urge to comply with the suggestion. I often feel the need to shrink my picture shows down closer to reality, and I often wonder what would happen if I was put on a pill to make them all go away. My daydreaming sometimes rules and gets in the way of my life. All these living, breathing characters walking around in my skull: it’s a little distracting.
Sometimes, when people talk to me they often say a word or a phrase that triggers something in my brain to take that word or phrase and run with it. My brain turns that word into something more and before you know it, as my friend is talking to me, my physical eyesight has disappeared, my consciousness is on autopilot, and I’m now in my head working out a storyline, or recapping a childhood memory, or standing on stage in a comedy club totally bringing down the house.
This happens a lot.
During movies, during television, during school (when I used to suffer through it), during conversations, during projects, during writing, during going to the bathroom, during showering, during doing laundry, during reading, during cleaning…
The word “during” is now sounding quite strange and funny to me (especially the “during doing laundry” part), and I’m tempted to switch gears and talk about the sound and rhythm of words and why and how they make us feel certain emotions. At the same time I want to talk about how funny it is to say the same word over and over and over again, and then actually say that word over and over again in hopes of getting a reaction from the audience (“doody, doody, doody, doody, doody, doody, doody, doody, doody, doody…”), and then tap on the microphone and say, “Hey? Is this thing on?”
But that would clarify my need to be on a pill.
Focus.
Back to Frankenstein.
What was I talking about before I diagnosed myself with ADD?
Creation. Stories. Rules. Living, breathing lungs and heart beats. “We think you need to see a psychiatrist.”
Right.
I’m too bored now to finish what I was saying. I began this with a point, I did. Uuh… Writers playing God. Or, writers accepting that human beings are indeed created in His image. Names. Christening. Bringing it all to life. Rules popping into existence. Rules that must be followed lest there be consequences. Intuitively knowing what those rules are and following them, no matter how bad of a speller you are or how often your word usage is mixed up and backwards (possible dyslexia diagnoses coming up here; I’m talkin about myself in third person in case you didn’t realize…), or how long your freaking run-on sentences run on. I truly believe that storytelling has more to do with instinct, a sixth sense and over-awareness of your existence, and the ability to organize the chaotic picture shows that run amuck through your skull all day long than it does with anything else. Imagination is both a blessing and a curse. A tool, and a disease. Both a distraction from reality, and? Let’s face it: a way to get filthy rich. Good grief, what would happen if they put me on a pill? I’m hanging onto the chaos in hopes it someday makes me rich. How’s that for coming full circle? (Note sarcasm). Writing. Sometimes the chaos reigns. This entry was terrible, but I’m posting it anyway because I’m bored, and? There’s a little part of me that wonders (and is hoping with a pathetic need for self approval) if I’ll like it when I read it again later… Fat chance, though. If I hate it now, I will hate it later. Hmm. Maybe next entry will be about a writer’s natural talent for self loathing….
*I wrote this in December...am now deciding to post it....
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