Day Thirteen - Spring's On Its Way!

Today finally felt like spring is on its way to NYC! Granted it was still on the chilly side (especially once the sun set) but, during the day, the sun was shining brightly and the birds were chirping away. Of course that meant I had to stop by the park on my way home from work to celebrate/people watch...

A middle-aged man is sitting on a park bench in Prospect Park. Somehow, one gets the impression that he has been a die-hard Pink Floyd fan for the past twenty years or so. The man is vigilantly observing every single passerby as he listens to the music blaring through his ostentatious headphones. Instead of an iPod, the man’s headphones are connected to an actual Discman. After a period, he decides to listen to another artist from days gone by so he reaches into the backpack sitting next to him on the bench and pulls out a stack of actual Compact Discs in their cases. After rifling through his stack of CDs, he selects an album, removes it from its case, and inserts it into his Discman. Once he’s placed the previous CD back in its case, he returns to attentively watching the people milling about Prospect Park, entirely unaware of the stares he receives in return for his relic of yore. 

Day Twelve - The Morning Commute

Here is a little sketch based on this morning's subway ride.

The group of kids rushing into the subway car at the Union Street station was like a herd of thirsty antelope stampeding to the first watering hole they had spotted in ages. Most of the adults on the previously silent subway car that morning groaned or rolled their eyes at the children’s antics. A simple field trip was certainly no reason to behave in such an uncouth manner, particularly so early in the morning! But the woman with the warm brown eyes smiled and was filled with joy because she imagined that she was still one of them; that now she was truly among her own kind. Seeing these children - with entire lives of limitless possibilities lying ahead of them – gave her hope that her now mundane life could still retain some of its original spontaneity and excitement. 

Day Eleven - Another Itty Bitty Story: Part 2

Here it is: my short (short) story in its entirety!

In the early morning hours, when his insomnia would catch up to him and refuse to let him go, Dusk would roam his apartment like a tortured spirit unable to find peace in the hereafter. It was during this time that he did his best thinking and his best self-loathing. The longer Dusk stayed awake, aimlessly drifting through the shadows of his darkened apartment, mired in his loneliness, the stronger his self-loathing became. What was wrong with him? Why was he always alone?

Try as he may, Dusk couldn’t shake his stubborn feelings of melancholy and self-doubt. Dusk went about his routine that day as usual but his despair hovered over him like a cloud of ravenous gnats that refused to be dispersed no matter how violently he swatted them away. Dusk tried reading one of the books from the giant stack on his nightstand in an effort to focus on someone else’s problems. He tried listening to some of his favorite records, the ones that always cheered him up when he was feeling blue. When he was hungry, he made himself a bowl of macaroni and cheese. Yet, as the hours passed, the cloud of gnats grew thicker and more persistent. Dusk decided to visit his friend, Night, to discuss the problem. Whereas Dusk allowed his myriad neuroses to cloud his judgment, Night was always rational and clear thinking. Night never let feelings cloud his vision when it mattered. Maybe Night would be able to understand what he was going through, why he felt so sad. Maybe Night would know why he was always alone.

As Dusk meandered along the tree lined street that lead to his friend’s house, the cloud of gnats anxiously swarmed about his head. Shuffling on leaden feet, Dusk considered his life thus far. The longer he turned his life over and over in his mind as if it were an apple he was rinsing under a faucet, the more Dusk felt his life was full of mistakes. All, essentially, the same mistake endlessly repeated. One after another, after another. So, here he was again, turning to Night for help because he was utterly lost. Again. And he hoped Night could save him. Again.

Night greeted him at the door when he arrived. Dusk lurched inside and plopped down on the couch with a heavy sigh. The walk hadn’t helped to clear his head at all. A look of concern flashed across Night’s face. Dusk bent forward and cradled his head in his hands. Night’s eyebrows shot toward his hairline. He stood in front of Dusk, his eyes wide, holding a bottle of furniture polish in one hand and a dust rag in the other. Agitatedly, Night bounced on his toes as he waited for Dusk to speak. After a few minutes, Dusk lifted his head and intently stared at Night.

“Why doesn’t anyone love me for me?” Dusk asked Night. “People either find me depressing because I remind them that Day is leaving or they find me exciting only because I remind them that you’re on your way,” Dusk said. Night stood in contemplative silence for a moment, seemingly mulling over this delicate dilemma with great care. He had stopped bouncing on his toes. The furniture polish and dust rag hung limply by his sides. “Well,” Night said, “maybe you should try being more distinctive.”

Day Ten - Another Itty Bitty Story

Here is Part One of a short (short) story that I've been working on. I will post the second half of the story tomorrow as the ending needs a few more edits and I'm already cutting it down to the wire as it is. The editing process can be so tedious sometimes...so much hinges on just a single word when you're writing in a condensed form...but it's worth it!!

In the early morning hours, when his insomnia would catch up to him and refuse to let him go, Dusk would roam his apartment like a tortured spirit unable to find peace in the hereafter. It was during this time that he did his best thinking and his best self-loathing. The longer Dusk stayed awake, aimlessly drifting through the shadows of his darkened apartment, mired in his loneliness, the stronger his self-loathing became. What was wrong with him? Why was he always alone?

Try as he may, Dusk couldn’t shake his stubborn feelings of melancholy and self-doubt. Dusk went about his routine that day as usual but his despair hovered over him like a cloud of ravenous gnats that refused to be dispersed no matter how violently he swatted them away. Dusk tried reading one of the books from the giant stack on his nightstand in an effort to focus on someone else’s problems. He tried listening to some of his favorite records, the ones that always cheered him up when he was feeling blue. When he was hungry, he made himself a bowl of macaroni and cheese. Yet, as the hours passed, the cloud of gnats grew thicker and more persistent. Dusk decided to visit his friend, Night, to discuss the problem. Whereas Dusk allowed his myriad neuroses to cloud his judgment, Night was always rational and clear thinking. Night never let feelings cloud his vision when it mattered. Maybe Night would be able to understand what he was going through, why he felt so sad. Maybe Night would know why he was always alone.

As Dusk meandered along the tree lined street that lead to his friend’s house, the cloud of gnats anxiously swarmed about his head. Shuffling on leaden feet, Dusk considered his life thus far. The longer he turned his life over and over in his mind as if it were an apple he was rinsing under a faucet, the more Dusk felt his life was full of mistakes. All, essentially, the same mistake endlessly repeated. One after another, after another. So, here he was again, turning to Night for help because he was utterly lost. Again. And he hoped Night could save him. Again.

Day Nine - Dispatch from Midtown

One of my favorite things about this city is that it's always full of surprises. Around every corner, on each new block, you never what - or who - you'll see. It's moments like the one below that remind me to always keep my eyes open for the unexpected. 

A typical weekday morning; the usual crush of rush hour traffic speeding down Ninth Avenue. Endless ants scurrying along to their cubicles for another day of monotony and meaningless paper shuffling. Next to the taxis barreling toward midtown and beyond, a man riding a bicycle. At first glance he looks like any other business drone: pin-striped suit; light blue button-down shirt; and a dark, nondescriptly patterned tie. He is riding a rusted and heavily scuffed black mountain bike alongside the Ninth Avenue traffic. So confident is he in his bike riding skills that both his hands are casually stuffed in his pant pockets as he pedals along, whistling some cheerful tune. 

Day Eight - Untitled

Today was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day so this dribble is all I can muster. The end.


               Going to work is much easier now that I’ve resigned myself to my destiny: slowly rotting away in a cubicle, hunched over a keyboard like some digital age Quasimodo. But, while my life has been made less agonizing by submitting to fate as a cog in the machine of capitalism, my inner being, my very center, has shriveled down to some vile, revolting creature. My essence has turned into a slimy, writhing maggot. Don’t worry, little maggot, lie still. Soon it will all be over – before it barely began – and everything will be simple and effortless. Then you will never have to feel guilt for just accepting life as it is, for never questioning, for never truly engaging. Hush now, little maggot. Just close your eyes. It will all end soon.