Huge, fat, rain drops on my head, face, ears and hands as I strolled home from Duane Reade and more as I walked to and from Our Name is Mud.
To serious thunder.
Waking the Dead, until the cable got funky with the storm.
At the sight of lightening bright as daylight. I wasn't the only one, I heard a half dozen others exclaim. Who says New Yorkers are jaded?
Your focus is on having fun, but your idea of playing involves activities and conversations that would go over most heads. If you're not with an intellectual or spiritual equal, lesser diversions will have to do.
Sporting terms aren't always the most useful metaphors for romance. You've been around enough to know that there's more to love than scoring. Look for an intelligent, compassionate partner who believes in respect and communication.
lingeringly perturbed by Barbera's comment a few months back that my journal had taken on a "poor me" tone. Bad shit was happening and I wrote about it.
I am not going to be one of those people who pretends everything, themselves included, is perfect at all times. There was a journaller a few years ago who did that, who had this air of utterly phoney superiority. Her journal was a vehicle to make her life sound more fabulous than an all-gay cabaret. The truth was quite different. Many people fell for it, but not me.
I will not do that. When things are going well, I'll write about that. When I'm frustrated or confused, I'll write to try to make sense of it. When things are going badly, I'll write about that, too.
I am a real person, I have triumphs, joys, problems, heartaches, hobbies, interests and everything else that makes anyone unique. Everyone has their ups and downs, but writers and other artists live them more publicly. Perhaps that's self-indulgence, perhaps altruism, perhaps reaching out for peers and communion. You might not always like what you read here, but you can rest assured that it's the truth, as best I can filter it.
No, I haven't been continuously fuming over this in the intervening weeks since she posted that comment. It occured to me on the bus coming home last night. I was thinking of how things have improved in the last few weeks and how much I looked forward to writing about it tonight. Now that the laptop is fixed, there will be photographs again and that makes me smile inside. . . .
The Met Life building rises over Grand Central
Grand Central Terminal
Chrysler Building from 42nd Street
Empire State from east midtown
It's not quite a cubicle (3 walls, no partitions), not quite an office (no door), but it's very, very calm and quiet. There are photo hooks up on the right hand wall, so I'll bring in some of my photographs when I have some money to get them framed.
Here's the view outside my window (you can see my reflection).
I saw this performance troop outside a gallery on 42nd Street
Thursday evening after paying my Sprint bill upstairs.
[Next entry: "Productive"]
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