Wednesday, Thursday, Friday

1. Hall & Oates sings the perfect soundtrack for a sleepy afternoon. Fleetwood Mac on vinyl blasts through dinner. “Rumors” is a perfect album.

2. The cancellation of the writing workshop goes unexplained. To make my uptown jaunt seem less inconveniencing I waif my way through the magazines, trying to find one that’s “me.” I can’t. Marie Claire is too fussy; Cosmo, too dumb; Oprah, too soccer mom. I feel at home with men’s magazines. They provide the blunt delivery that real friends should and don’t feature a vocabulary threaded with “BFF,” “perfect” or “accessorize.” I appreciate that.

3. I can’t imagine a world without Frosted Flakes.

4. The large pool of vomit on the train platform is not so much disgusting as it is impressive. The physics of that barf are surely something to behold.

5. I like my city full of troubadours. I like my trains full of library-appropriate volumes. New York musicians seemed to have misplaced my memo en masse.

Central Park at Eleven

It’s unsettling to watch the children of New York when you finally realize that not only are they more refined, better dressed, and already wield an allowance close to my own income – but that they’re more in tune and relaxed with this City than perhaps I’ll ever be simply because they are home. Meanwhile my corner of New York still feels like an unfinished Play Doh creation.

I’m sculpting. I’m mashing. It’s not right yet.