FDR drive

I never thought it would come to this... I go to bed at night and I wake in the morning and realise....
I miss New York.


To the world New York City equals Manhattan, to me Manhattan equals a borough of revolving doors and public transport. And a home on the East side that comes with the Chrysler building and police cars blinking their police lights on the FDR drive. Always.
The noise has got me hooked on earplugs to a degree that I can't do without. To this day. Every night.

Through the front door and down the steps at the park to the cross-town bus, and to scaffolding that would stretch whole city blocks and more if you knew which way to turn and where to cross to get to walk to work without an umbrella. I still think that New York should be the Windy City.

Time Square is my friend that has, in its plastic authenticity, saved me from myself... at least twice. And I don't care if they say that it's the worst the city's got to offer, because it's not and because it's the reality of that town in the realness of time that is real to that place and that place only.
Ummm. If you know what I mean.

There's a certain beauty in loneliness and pain. And there's something dismissive about happiness. You can either be this or you can be that in this city.
New York does black, and it does white.
But it doesn't do in the middle...

life. insurance.

I think something's not entirely right with the situation where I can claim that my car has two insurance policies and I've got none...

random pieces of tape

There's a baby on board screaming it's head off and all I can think to myself is -SHUT it the f*** up!!!
A man and a woman next to me mutually agree that the screaming fills their heart with love and also, with slight worry.

Now what kind of a horrible mother am I to my unborn children if my maternal instincs do not kick in with the first two minutes of the screaming. Not five, not ten, not even fifteen...?

I'm only young I tell myself, and sip on my tomato juice. You see I always drink tomato juice when flying. Always.

asylum aspects

In a windowless conference room a woman is going on and on about asylum aspects of Somalia and all I can think about is fucking you with a strap on.
Good Lord - my ability to just zoom out of any meaningful conversation at any given conference or a meeting is to me, beyond comprehension!

havre de grace

Just something I realised studying the map of the US...
I'm sorry but despite it's fancy name, Havre de Grace must be the most boring place I've ever visited. Decoy museum or not.

There's only that much duck feeding one can do...

four things mentioned

- I think by now i can officially say that moving accross the Atlantic (twice), combined with the other life altering decisions taken throughout the year, has not taken me any closer to spiritual and/or professional (or anyother sort of) fulfilment.

- I saw an eagle the other night. Or at least I like to think it was an eagle that I saw. It was huge and made the whole tree sway under its' weight. I stared. It stared.

- Why is it that every time I take the time to scrub and polish my car (for hours on end) it starts raining the next day???

- I love sticking my hand out the car window grabing the wind. Feeling it. And I don't even care if - in your eyes it should make me look like an idiot...:)

broken

A broken elbow has out-ruled normal existance and all plans for a rollerblading competition over the weekend.

theory?

I have a theory whereas I claim that one hasn't really made acquaintances with a city without seeing it at sunrise and the air of intimacy of an occasional dog walker or a cleaning truck. Of an oncoming hangover and a speeding taxi-car...

time

The concept of time and my comprehension of it is just killing me. There's so much remorse. Do you know that... if I'm feeling so sorry and guilty for my 29 years gone, what is it going to be when I turn 60 - should it so happen?

Anyway, did you ever wonder about those (suggested) speed signs at highway exit ramps? They never lie. I thought they would, but they don't. They provide you with the exact most comfortable speed that you would want to be travelling at that particular moment in time and - keep you safe.

Amazing.

Or what...?

Like time, there's always time
On my mind
So pass me by, I'll be fine
Just give me time
Damien Rice

i won't be your yoko ono

I never gave it another thought I realised... That day that - I must have been green in the face with hangover - I met an aging and sick, but suprisingly vital and extremely savvy, private school bred mama's boy - an artist, a cameraman, a perv - an ex-something-something-something or other...

Mark Kalev Kostabi for a friend, a TV show on Manhattan Neighbourhood Network, an art show opening in Soho. Soon. .
A dick, a rebel, just an old fart. I got to like him a lot.

He said he heard the shots from 72st West to 89st East where he was standing. It had echoed across Central Park. He said they all stopped for a moment - looked up to carry on. Not realising they had just heard John Lennon being shot to death. A history in the making.

He's seen Yoko often. On the street, she lives two blocks down. He says she looks tiny.

chicken shit

Identity crisis. And guilt. Guilt. GUILT.
For every single little thing I do or do not do.

S t o p!!

For leaving.
Remorse pouring out of every single pore of my body.
My MFA, my dear life,
I have a career that I so carefully planned and worked for.
Whatever happened to I always know.
My choices. Probably never right.
Or almost never right. Or mostly right. Or whatever...

I don't know. Sometimes I do things and expect no consequences.
There's always something, they always come.
Consequences.
I've been offered fruits I don't really desire.

The truth is.
That.
I'm.
A chicken.
Shit.

sally

'Can I have sex with you', she said seductively sucking my fingers.
'Girl. You're crazy!', I said laughing it off.

We'd been introduced five minutes ago...

miaow mix

I smile and think of you every time I put on my black coat, that is still a bit stiff from laying in the sweet sticky splash of coctail spilt on the bar floor beneath the podium. The stripper's navel and bared skin that I became faced with climbing out from beneath the stripping stand. I do not remember her face. I remember I told her she was beautiful. I felt she needed the compliment. I gave her three bucks and staggered on - tunnel vision.

Too drunk for work for the first time in my life.
I think of you when I think of hangovers.

I fondly reminisce the taxi rides and money spent crusing around town in damp cottony summer breeze and distinct stench of Manhattan, as we rolled the windows down and explored all the gay bars listed in your latest Time Out magazine.

bye

I cried. As we flew over Manhattan. West side, and then across. Chrysler building, my house. Boxes of buildings. Lit avenues. Million lights blinking for a million people. Mine? I switched it off when I left.
I cried for all the pain and tough times you put me through. Of how you sucked me dry and spat me out. Of how I kept my sanity.

You stranger, you have...
You have silently moved in and made it crowded.

New York, I fucking love you!

an army of one

Morning. Get in. 20th floor, the elevator. Sit down, raise your flag, take a floor. Fight. Four hours. Get out. Elevator. Mad dash. 1 Ave UN building. Escalator down. Take a seat. Push a button. Vote. Resolutions. Follow the instructions. Get it right. Endless statements. Four hours. Come up for air. Battle sleep. Battle restlessness.

Call boss. Worry. Inhale. Exhale. Get instructions.
Get out. Escalator up. 1 Ave, 2 Ave, 3 Ave. Office building, 26th floor. Sit down. Procrastinate. Write a report. Write another. Yet another. 10 pm. Stumble out. In the dark. Home. Elevator, 13th floor. A mess. Sit down, eat shit, watch TV. Try and read. Fail.

Battle insomnia, battle heartache, battle loneliness. Battle the demons. Cross off days.

Rinse and repeat.

I am an army of one.

sc

This is to destify that cockroaches roam the holiest of holy places. I saw one wondering about the Security Council Chambers today. It almost stepped on me. Ugh!

mens shoes

...crossing 3rd Ave with my hips swinging - I was thinking that I sooo love being a woman after all...
and then about
two minutes later I was drooling over mens shoes at Nino's Shoes window display...

go figure

tag sale

Four people sitting around the table. Talking shit. Eating quiche.
I'm positive I'm green in the face with three hours of sleep and a hangover.
It' raining. It's cold and I want to go home. And sleep.

There's a jar of kosher dill pickles on the kitchen counter and I'm thinking to myself, when was it that
I learned that the ends of the pickle are not really eadible.

"No, of course I don't mind coming back here next week, and no, there's no need to pass the...."

Oh, and then... I remember being a child and that blessed feeling of being allowed to make waffles. Always eating half of the mix and getting yelled at. Squeezing the machine shut so tight most of the waffle ended up pressed out of the sides. I don't honestly think I'll ever be so excited about anything in my life...

jeanne

Am I the only one who loves this weateher? Tropical storm Jeanne, formerly known as hurricane Jeanne is pouring cats and dogs on Gotham. It's nothing you've seen before.

The water is up to one's ankles and my pants are wet to my knees. Outside my window there's nothing but a big fluffy cloud.

I love it.

I love the tropic nature of this wetness that steams the windows and if I were wearing glasses, my glasses too.

I love it to the degree of wanting to turn my pants up, throwing my shoes into the bin and running to my meetings barefeet.

Half an hour spent mending my 3 dollar umbrella. The deal is that I refuse to buy another umbrella in this town of crappy umbrellas. They all break the first time around anyway.

I love it. I love all of it.

New York, there are times that I totally love you!

all the president's men

It's been a crazybusy week of crisp weather and now - June weather. Blue skies that seem to go on and on and on. I had the window open and I was cold. Good kind of cold. The kind of cold that kept me sharp and let me ponder.

Everything seems to be wrapped in Sade's music - that for the most part brings a lump to my throat. I clean my house and I play host. I am being well entertained.

With all the president's men I spent three hours at a deserted hangar at JFK. Bomb squad, panic squad. Secret Service. Every morning I watch the snipers take their positions on top of the UN building.

I see tents being erected for fashion week in Bryant Park, and I see them torn down the next day. Stepping on a sharp object that goes through the sole of my shoe I cut myself. That fascinates me. I had the tetanus done a year ago - we're good.

The town feels sad at times. I feel busy. And why is it that for months on end whenever I look at the watch it shows identical digits?
1:11, 4:44; 17:17. That scares me.

A lot of things need to change. There's a fork in the road. For the most part I walk blindfolded.
The books I read tell me that there's an end of the world in each and every one of us. And Mary Magdalene wasn't really a whore.
Perceptions - of your mind and mine.