tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-227041462024-03-08T02:07:49.515-05:00eyes like flashlights.inspiration surrounds you, open your eyes...biNyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00271887023633859155noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22704146.post-18593686197530291762010-12-18T14:51:00.000-05:002010-12-18T14:53:02.547-05:00The Wonder(ful) YearsWe walked through the doorway of our Uncles new(old) home, and though I’d never been there before I was flooded with feelings of calm and familiarity. The first thing I noticed was the expansive(cozy) living room flanked in ivory paint. The warm(cool) cream colored functional furniture filled the room with life, and tucked behind the large sofa was a stairway creeping up all the way back towards my childhood. <br /><br />First things first, I did not dare conquer the second flight without first exploring its foundation, although I found my eyes wandering up with curiosity and excitement. I began the inaugural dance, glance by glance from room to room. The kitchen seemed to cling on to the vestiges of its youth and filled my eyes with visions of its former inhabitants. What was once a stylish kitchen for its time, is now only a misunderstood skeleton of a former life. The cabinet knobs with inlaid paintings of tulips in colors so faint, and above the windows were carved wood borders so quaint I just had to appreciate. I basked in the vintage feel of the room, wondering why homes are not built this way any longer. Though its corners and walls were clearly many years of age, the home showed no real evidence of grit and seemed to have only absorbed the lives which passed through it. <br /><br />And I felt it emanate through the walls, and breathed it in like a sponge.<br /><br />To the second floor! My eyes floated above scampering feet to greet the next level. With soft cushion-y(firm) carpet nestled between my toes, my heart was aflutter. Which way? In love with the feeling of new(old)ness and not knowing where anything was, who’s room is this? <br /><br />Discovery.<br /><br />In the smallest bedroom with angled misshapen ceilings, shelves and drawers built directly into its walls and more nooks and crannies than an... I saw my younger self curled up into one of its crevices. Inventing games, poems, and stories about the real purpose of each slant of the roof and every minute detail of the space. But the real treasure was hidden inside one of the closets. As if an ordinary closet did not encase enough curiosity for a child’s imagination, a brave soul once ventured forth beyond the hanging garments, toward the darkness and revealed another door! A place all to yourself, any child’s(adult’s) dream. <br /><br />With my eyes open wide like flashlights I examined the simple(complex) wooden door. Not too small and not very tall, just low enough that you’d have to crouch slightly to enter. No doubt the secret entrance to an ultra secret universe where I was a Princess with access to all the Barbie dolls and jaw breakers my heart could conjure. Or maybe it was the gateway to a magic fantasy land where rivers overflowed with chocolate milk and I floated along on a giant marshmallow flaunting a jellybean encrusted candy cane baton. I was all too enamored by the limitless possibility behind that small door and I was no longer looking at my young self in the corner, I became her. And it was a welcomed(welcomed) reunion.<br /><br />For in that moment, I was catapulted back to the times when things were exactly what they seemed to be, untainted by the cunning of the world that surrounded. A time when every tile in the bathroom, and every pattern in the carpet held infinite prospect for my fibrillating imagination. The lines between the tiles became a road map to a secret treasure, and the squares on the fiery red carpet were islands floating atop scorching lava, so you’d better be careful not to slip between. When the mirror was much more than a reflecting glass, but the evil abode of an elusive Bloody Mary. The years when everything around me held and radiated awe.<br /><br />I stood melting into the dreams of my youth while composing new ones of a childhood I might have had if I spent it within these walls. Thawed out by the warmth of this home I was brought back(returned) to the years of wonder. <br /><br />So, remember.biNyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00271887023633859155noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22704146.post-71563629229566119482010-12-01T19:18:00.006-05:002010-12-01T20:03:26.821-05:00From NothingIn the long quiet hours that I find myself imparting life from my life into my new little babe, I am given many moments to enjoy the silence of night. It is as if it is just her and I in the entire world. Quiet.<br /><br />Outside my window I look for inspiration, but I find that I’m holding it instead. Looking through the window all I am returned with is the shallow wind whispering to her slumbering neighbors, that yes... the world is still here awaiting you when you open your eyes. The leaves quiver in response. The lights turn on and off on the street as if unnoticed, muttering its own language as the lights turn on and off through the windows in return.<br /><br />Her eyes open and close and and pierce my heart with each movement and the anticipation of each movement. My entire world is curled up in a ball right before me, now my life is suddenly made more important through hers. As I sit and watch her fluttering eyelashes, like the folding back of petals in the sun, I cannot help but be completely and utterly lost in the idea that this life emerged from nothing. My human mind may perhaps never be equipped to understand the concept, and I pray it never does because maybe in that moment I might find that life has lost its meaning.<br /><br />Feeling her touch, I struggle to accept the fact that she is indeed real. A real living breathing little version of me that didn’t exist before. She is the embodiment of love, and my heart swells with the thought, ‘if love was a person...’ The petals of her face fold back revealing a beautiful perfect piece of me, the best part of me and the best part of her father. Her arms reach out to me, and with her eyes closed tight, I know they will find me. In the darkness of night, she will reach out to find that I am there with her. Always.<br /><br />And my own reflection deceives me. Who is this woman?<br /><br />As I catch the image of my face in the mirror as I walk passed, I had to take a pause. Who was she, holding a baby girl no less. How quickly can your world change, my eyes will take more time to adjust to this new reflection. You can walk through life and never really see yourself. It was as if I was looking at someone else holding their child so close and I realize that this person also came from nothing. From absolute nothingness into absolute and utter living breathing thinking loving trusting real-ness. I was seeing my new self for the very first time. In an instant. And it will take much more than an instant to ever attempt to understand the temporary permanence of it all.<br /><br />And into nothing, we shall all return.biNyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00271887023633859155noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22704146.post-72177065392809132972007-03-07T21:50:00.000-05:002007-03-07T21:51:31.819-05:00A Day Exactly Like AnotherThe emergency medical team transported her body out of the deafening cafeteria on a stretcher rolling her from Queens to infinity. She’s dead, could she be? And the shock was evidently reciprocating between two individuals. Two individuals out of the crowded arena of onlookers, yet it was only us that saw.<br /><br />I was not surprised. It was not surprising to me that a person could literally die, terminate, cease to be, stop living, and observers can go on to finish their hearty meals. Laughter, and boisterous jokes continued to sprinkle the air with lightness despite the obvious gravity of the moment. A paradoxical display of two extremes, and I could not decipher which feeling was real. Was she dead? Could it be so?<br /><br />I was questioning her viability; rather I should have questioned her callous audience. Could we really be so detached that a person dying in front of our eyes cannot shake our hypnotic infatuation with ourselves? Perhaps she was dead, and even in her death she could not distract for a moment the people around her. The same people that found much to engaging their slice of pizza to share that indulgent instant with another human experience. Imbibed by their bubbling caffeinated beverages, was it too much work to shift their gaze for a seconds time to something other than themselves? So alluring it must be to get lost in ones own vanity. <br /><br />It was a dark moment magnified by man’s seduction with oneself. <br /><br />It was a chilly February afternoon, cold for more reasons than the weather. I found their icy stares, and hollow smiles reflecting the chilling reality of our plight. I could not grasp the concept, and struggled to shake the feelings of despondence. After all, my eyes were open to the tragedy. The devastation became less about the life lost, and more about our dead hearts. It was apparent to me that the crowd had so relentlessly distanced themselves from the possibility of death, that they were rendered incapable of even acknowledging it when they saw it. Even death could not distinguish this day from any other for them; it was a day exactly like the others.<br /><br />Perhaps she was not dead, or maybe she wasn’t there at all. Perchance the girl just fainted, I hope so. Dead or alive, it is about time we reacquainted ourselves with the inevitability of death, the one certainty that humanity can agree on.biNyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00271887023633859155noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22704146.post-63509055342849085262007-02-24T20:43:00.000-05:002007-02-24T20:44:16.618-05:00In These Late Hours.There is an almost magical transition that occurs every single day here in New York. It is an event that persists as a reliable constant, and generously adorns her worthy denizens with comfort and tranquility. It is one of the few things that we can rely on, in this world of uncontrollable providence. This one unifying thread sews together the boxes of your calendar, and irrevocably ties us all close, if we are willing to be held. <br /><br />Too frequently it is carelessly overlooked despite its purposeful perfection. This thread is of course nothing other than the timely conversion of day into night. This meaningful exchange awaits appreciation, visible only to live hearts and eyes wide like flashlights. Every single day in dependable orthodoxy and calculated precision, the day succumbs to darkness and likewise the same acquiescent day ironically cleaves the night with day break. <br /><br />On this particular day, I spent many moments in noisy contemplation over this outwardly serendipitous barter. Listening to the conversations between this ink in my ballpoint pen and paper, deciphering the profound distance between my fingertips and these lettered keys. Indulge me for this moment, in my personification of the day, and her night. The many layered miracle of this alteration is as much about the brightness of the sun as it is about the dimness of night. It is so much about the thin filamentous dawn that exchanges her robe for the heavy armor of evening. It is with sublime elegance, yet mechanical veracity that the day agrees to alternate with night. The day was like a tangible quality that silently assumed an existence of her own that must not be adulterated with reality. A day is not a thing to be seen, but felt.<br /><br /><em>So feel</em>. <br /><br />She hovers over us, consuming all admiration, while we plan our schedules over her. No matter how radiant the day, full of action and possibility, she would subtly fade into the landscape if not for her night existing to distinguish her. Like the deep blanket blackness that drapes above us, allowing only the sharp pointillist stars to pierce through, the day is rendered outstanding by the night. <br /><br />This dynamic metamorphosis surrounds us, unobtrusively. It is a quiet understanding that leaves our eyes callously unaware of the transfer altogether. Surely there would be nothing to distinguish the day without her matching night to set her alight. The essence of her splendor is revealed in these late hours, when the night covers her celebrity. He covers her out of love and mercy for a short period so that she may emerge and collect appreciations. She indulges in the episode, knowing that it is because of her brief capture that they may be aware. A day is just another day without her night defining it as such. <br /><br />In these late hours she nestles into the night taking comfort in his overwhelming presence, because for certain it is in these late hours…<br /><br />…that she’s made bright.biNyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00271887023633859155noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22704146.post-78006381859150821252007-01-28T00:37:00.000-05:002007-01-28T00:39:36.051-05:00Carousel #7<div align="left"> “…Your bags may be retrieved from carousel #7”<br /><br />She heard the instructions saturate the air with urgency. The woman’s distant voice floated between each one of their disengaged expressions and they effectively knew just what to do in order to find what they were looking for. They knew they’d find it on ‘Carousel #7’<br /><br />Slowly revolving luggage bags proudly flaunt their wears with excruciating monotony. <br /><br />“That looks like mine, wait no…” <br /><br /><em>the bag slides directly in front of you as your eyes follow while it moves away.<br /></em><br />“…that’s not it.”<br /><br />And how, all your heart longs for, is to find it. To find your bag, because you are certain that it is there, circulating and waiting to be found. And to be found by you. So you keep watching, searching and hoping.<br /><br />Your bag is absolutely there, somewhere in that cluttered collage. Drifting, you have carried this bag before, and his purpose is to be found. Because every bag has only one true owner, with its contents stored only for her to enjoy. She waited, and watched as the unclaimed bags continued to pass her by, but she did not want them although they called for her. She’d wait. <br /><br />Her eyes covering each article like a blanket, she found old bags, new bags, <span style="font-size:130%;">BIG</span> bags and <span style="font-size:78%;">small</span> bags. The newer, unworn bags sparked like fiery diamonds around the dingy carousel. Sometimes, they’d find their bags two at the same time. As if the two bags were quietly intertwined, inextricable from one another. She waited on the borders, careful not become impatient and cross. She was watching, looking and hoping.<br /><br />Until finally, the brilliant ray she had been waiting for twinkled around the corner towards her. It was moving steadily in her direction, in a determined path. Too slowly. She could not wait to lift it up, and bring it away with her no matter how heavy the load. She had found him and could not wait to pick him up…<br /><br />And carry him home.<br /> </div>biNyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00271887023633859155noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22704146.post-70535283906185024922006-12-13T15:35:00.000-05:002006-12-13T15:42:17.879-05:001,281,600 seconds from the Sun14 hours to Kuwait, 2 hours in the airport and then 7 hours to Bangladesh. And I can only count the seconds till my return. The clouds have already placed themselves between my eyes. And I'm not so good at math. And one second is one second too long. And one inch is one inch too far. And ...<br /><br />Oh so many 'and's' !! And, I'll be back before you know :)biNyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00271887023633859155noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22704146.post-1164252689899205732006-11-22T22:25:00.000-05:002006-12-07T15:19:25.509-05:00The Spaces Between Darkness, and Light.Darkness crept in. It swallowed all things like an angry spider, and it was hard to wake up. It was hard to find a reason through the dark tunnels that carved me away. I looked around, only to find no return from the shallow eyes that stared back. So I looked away with a melancholy muffled by the hollow railway sparks. The air was heavy with inhospitality.<br /><br />And like two subway cars that merge to ride side by side for a time then inevitably part, so too was my heart with this sadness. But I feared the convergence was too intimate an encounter, because sadness is a stranger. I found myself somewhere in between the two cars, two thoughts, two emotions. Teetering on the narrow tracks that connect the dark places to the light, the spaces between expand until the darkness was just a memory, and the light a familiar Shepherd.<br /><br />I may have been balancing on both sides the two burdensome extremes, with the space between widening beneath my feet and marginalizing both darkness and light. And I was lost in the expanse. The incandescent reason sauntered out before me as my steps became the very first, and the very last. It was because for the first time in weeks I saw the ground before my feet and where it was that I was going. I was furthermore acknowledging these steps for the very last times. Until of course, there was to be something of more importance to espy and replace all the substandard distractions that vie for my attention. I felt an allegiance to that clutter which would soon be removed from the focus of my adoration while they served well to remind me that they too, were worth seeing.<br /><br />I watched as the leaves twinkled as if sparked by the wind. They summoned my contemplation like an old sweater that longed to be worn. And I put it on. Perchance for the very last time. Out of loyalty. Out of love. Out of reverence of the idea. And though I cosset the infinitesimally insignificant significance of such things, I continued to traverse across the widening gap towards the light which drew me. And now to maintain all loyalties in my periphery, the frames around the new and more becoming landscapes.<br /><br />Here we are, in this all encompassing gray, in the spaces between the darkness and light. The light a familiar Shepherd and the darkness was a sad stranger. The Shepherd flashes in the distance, but my heels sink through the gray that is reluctant to release. It became undeniably apparent to me just how expansive this space is, and yet we aggrandize our paltry ration of it. The majority of our petite lives are spent floundering within the confines of our own indecipherable clotted gray spaces. Manufactured limitations prevent us from materializing the gray uncertainties into a concrete surface upon which to establish a moderation of themes. Keeping the periphery on the borders of the greater picture, the frames upon which to hang our ultimate goal.<br /><br />My heels sink as I tread across to a familiar friend.biNyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00271887023633859155noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22704146.post-1161748945083888332006-10-25T00:01:00.000-04:002006-10-26T19:15:37.220-04:00It Must Be Morning.Intro:<br />Were not the days overwhelmingly sunny enough for her to possibly bear? So another day came to challenge her assumption of what a day could subsume. The magnitude of the possibilities of a day rose to a climax in one night, with a simple sight that was worth remembering.<br /><br />I.<br />As these chambers of her heart mold around a new occupant, its walls stretch and bend over this ambitious endeavor. For the dweller dares not replace or displace, but make space. And these scars are to be had, the wounds necessary to endure to swell a small house into a home. And it was welcomed.<br /><br />II.<br />What kind of person aspires to house the ethereal resplendence of the sun?, an unworthy landlord, no less. This unmerited landlord takes rent, and is meed in the effulgent gossamer undulations of his radiance. She makes it morning wherever she is, because the sun has made its nest in her heart. It can be seen from her smile, her eyes. She tries to hide, to no avail.<br /><br />III.<br />It must be morning wherever you are. Does not the sun cleave the night? A casualty that should be had. While you burden the day with your absolute luminescence, she shields her undeserved eyes from this sight. You seemed to resist the night that insisted itself upon you, that enveloped. But, you shone rebelliously through with no remorse. And what a fortunate target I was.<br /><br />And these being ‘not so’ many days after the very first day of my entire life, it was a life’s worth. Sufficient, every additional day continues to overwhelm the previous, a superfluous delight upon light. And at night, it’s like thoughts that connect from shoulder to chin.<br /><br />IV.<br />Yes, that’s the mood I’m in.biNyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00271887023633859155noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22704146.post-1159120818596160142006-09-24T13:59:00.000-04:002006-09-24T14:01:09.046-04:00"the First day of my Life"As told in third person omniscient, past tense, in light of the Bright Eyes song, “the first day of my life”.<br />---<br /><br />She woke up that morning with new eyes. She watched the day unravel before her, as if independent of her. In this great spinning mass hurtling through emptiness, she became full. She was still while the ground spun beneath her feet, but she, in that world, could no longer resist the tumultuous insurrection that threatened her idea of everything she thought she ever knew, about anything. And it took over.<br /><br />“This is the first day of my life”<br />On this day, all the things around her tenderly diminished into the background until there was only one thing in focus. There was only one thing worth seeing, in this cluttered world that solicited her attention. She had finally found the ONE thing that deserved to be seen amidst this expansive sea of unworthiness. She felt as if the ground had been swiftly pulled from under her feet, and when she spoke she could not hear her own words. She spoke not to speak, but to maintain the illusion that she was not completely and unconditionally plummeting through this sky from elation.<br /><br />“…yours was the first face that I saw”<br />As if she’d never seen a face before, surprised, she reconsidered her faculty of sight altogether. Had she ever seen anything before? because surely there was nothing to be seen before this.<br /><br />“…think I was blind before I met you”<br /><br />She discovered the extent to which a person could be happy, and was convinced that she was the only person in the entire world that had achieved this level of joy. The extent of goodness resonating within a person, that one person can do so much for the other, to show her things she never thought she’d see. And it made her life sunny, in a new and strange way. She undeservedly indulged in the proposition. But it was extreme happiness juxtaposed against a quiescent sadness that permeated all things surrounding her, a sadness that emerged with every single ‘goodbye’.<br /><br />And these feelings overwhelmed the previously shallow space within her chest, so all other things became secondary. The less important, daily emotions competed for supremacy, to interrupt for just a moment, the supreme bliss she was experiencing. And in those moments when the peripheral emotions invaded the overwhelming feeling of happiness, it was inundating and impossible for them to coexist. There was only room for one, and there was no vacancy any longer.<br /><br />She was finally complete.biNyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00271887023633859155noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22704146.post-1155327009141434882006-08-11T16:06:00.000-04:002006-08-11T16:10:09.156-04:00A Shot Through This Ever Increasing DarknessAs the lights were swiftly shutting off around me in all directions, so too was any hope for reciprocity. A black fog had descended capturing my clarity and left me with no inclination of release, with me slowly fading behind its shadow. The chokingly quiet mist crept, and enveloped me in its resolve, absorbing within it any light that attempted escape. I was frantically searching, with limbs flailing erratically, illuminated only by distant sparks of your reflection, in pursuit of some-thing, in this never ending nothing. <br /><br />And I found no-thing.<br /><br />Until, with the last remaining residue of energy I could scrape out of my shallow mould, I rang out a bullet of exasperation. It followed a straight, determined path unhindered by its precarious surroundings and its own recalcitrant nature. And at last, it hit in the most unlikely of targets. It was no <em>ordinary</em> thing that emerged from the darkness into the light. But it wasn’t the light that illuminated the thing, but the <em>thing </em>that illuminated the <em>night</em>. Independent of the darkness, it brought with it a certain revival.<br /><br />The shot was more than a bullet, but a question, and the response was more than an affirmative but <em>the</em> <strong>answer</strong>. In many ways, it was the answer to the greater list of unasked questions. It consistently baffles me, that in a world where NOBODY HAS TO DO ANYTHING, and most people are not compelled by a Greater understanding to be moved towards good, that people <em>still do good</em>. Despite their ignorance of the Greater understanding, there is still a seed that grows good things from them. I cannot justly articulate the magnitude of this concept that, literally not a SINGLE person in this entire world has to do a SINGLE thing for another person. <br /><br />And yet we do.<br /><br />This idea alone, rebelliously persists and saturates all its combatants. Those that do not want to admit that there is goodness in the world by their mere defiance of the Greater order of things, and that we are capable of good things no matter how ostensibly small the scale. And whenever these ‘random acts of kindness’ (RAK’s) declare themselves to me, it is always as if it were the first time a stranger gave me their seat, while they stand uncomfortably reading their book just so I could comfortably read mine. And like the first visions of an infant at the reality around them, so too does my heart discover great sights, seeing them for the first time. And it is almost unbearably too kind, and I sometimes wish they would abstain from such superfluous displays of conviviality, because the debt weighs too heavy on my heart. And if you think this blog is about you, it probably is.<br /><br />It took only a single shot through this all encompassing darkness for the light to unveil itself before me. Yes, it is the simple act of the kindness of a favor, which reveals to me the profound capability for goodness that exists within that person’s soul…and gives us all hope.biNyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00271887023633859155noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22704146.post-1152163002195370172006-07-06T01:16:00.000-04:002006-07-06T23:55:39.266-04:00Where the East met the West(side)As many moments often find me and then leave me clasping and grasping for meaning, many more find me disenchanted and dissatisfied. I frequently am where I’d rather not be, although unsure of where it is I would prefer in contrast. I am referring to of course, the many moments of our lives that weave through to the next moment of inspiration. These are the instances that fill up the empty fabric of our lives; minutes and seconds that chip away at the core of our existence. It can be your job, your school your everyday minutia. It is but the singularity of happiness that stirs our own souls to persist, despite its rarity and despite its transience, it is our perpetual goal.<br /><br />I was of course running 10 minutes behind schedule on my way to my latest rotation in the heart of the west side of Manhattan, Chelsea. The anxiety of lateness, beats like an incessant drum in my heart, and leaves my mind racing with worries. No other thoughts can coexist in times like these, but those of “I’m late, I’m late” thrive. During these moments it’s only these thoughts that surface, overshadowing possible revelation. In the midst of this chaos, it would never occur, that the act of ‘late-ness’ is not as momentous as my heart has calculated it to be. To ultimately arrive at a time that is 10 minutes after the imposed obligatory time of arrival, would not be of significant consequence if it were the case. In retrospect I find it strange to achieve such disquiet, for such an unworthy object as work. A damn shame, if you will.<br /><br />As the anarchy in my soul approached its crescendo, this anxious unrest unraveled to find itself eloquently juxtaposed to the tranquility that only comes at 5pm on a Friday afternoon. And in this above average instance, it came at 2:45pm, early. As I stepped out on to the side walk, it was surely none other than the salty moist aroma of the Hudson River that seduced me to pursue it. And so I walked through and down the elegantly configured constructions comprising Chelsea and the lower West side of Manhattan in anxiety’s wake. And I took my soles cautiously whilst they nevertheless managed to accidentally slip out of my sandals to feel the warmed concrete, my feet rebelliously indulging in this fortuitous delight.<br /><br />My steps took me to the farthest west side of Manhattan Island all the way to where the brick and fluid collide. This unlikely union did much to remind me that I was indeed on an island, as I so often forget. The geometrical buildings and structures mask its true nature. Manhattan is as if the great Architect poured pavement onto this muted mass of land in the Hudson, turned it upside down and thus dripped the Manhattan skyline to masterful perfection like a row of translucent icicles in the winter. I was unexpectedly overwhelmed as I embodied this feeling, as if I were the east personified, meeting the west for the first time. It was one of those rare occasions when your heart is at ease, though racing, it is content. One of those moments when you are exactly where you want to be, at the exact moment that you are there.<br /><br />It was because when I looked at the river, the sun reflected off the water like electric sparks racing across the surface. Water it would seem is the Perfect Mirror. I sat on the bench and felt the sun pour down in undulating waves corresponding to the swells of my own heart. My heart swelled with those waves that danced playfully across the surface of my soul, that would thus harmonize with the tune of the heavy noises that occupy the atmosphere of New York City with thick viscosity. The river, what but a narrow sea…<br /><br />Yes, I am exactly where I want to be.biNyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00271887023633859155noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22704146.post-1149360168776704852006-06-03T14:41:00.000-04:002006-06-03T19:08:59.976-04:00A Place Where Ordinary Things Take PlaceThere is something unequivocally above average about people. Something indescribably unique, that keeps my curious eyes looking, watching…searching. Searching for reciprocity, for a smile, oh how I live for the smile of a stranger, and how indicative it is of a more elevated state of character. And the one who smiled would have died, never having known that their smile shone to the dark regions of my heart. Incredible, how I thrive on a stranger’s “hello”, the trivial extension of a hand for hello, my sustenance. I subsist on these things, and for many moments after.<br /><br />Interaction, a reminder that I am not the only one that is alive. Human contact, reminds me that I am not alone. Strange hellos show to me the depth of a heart that transcends both the word and the person who utters it. Paints before me a greater picture of a status of the human being, that we are all connected, whether want to be, whether we chose to be and whether or not we are even aware of it. Connected by an invisible thread, the seed planted within our chests by something greater, and which emits with every smile, wave and hello.<br /><br />The seemingly happenstance of serendipity, the intricately lain sequence of events in life lead me to moments of perpetual inspiration. No greater design could have ever been imagined by the likes of man. So purposefully placed are these occurrences, and yet so effortlessly arranged to perfection.<br /><br />It happened as I was walking to school, a reluctant destination, however the events leading to that goal determined my state when I reached. It just so happened that I would coincidentally stumble across LIFE, on my way. As I crossed the street to the sidewalk to make my way to campus, I barely noticed a small thing on the ground. It flashed before my eyes, almost as if I hadn’t seen it at all. My heart started racing with curiosity as I walked closer…and much closer.<br /><br />I nearly lost my breath as I realized that it was a little baby bird, lying dead on the ground, barely hatched. So I kneeled down, and looked intently at the small lifeless creature. So close was this bird to my heart. Utterly distraught, I peeled myself away from the curb and turned my back to the bird then proceeded toward campus.<br /><br />Three meager steps down; I was swiftly captivated by the most breath-taking tree, in full bloom. Layers upon layers of mauve flowers clustered on this tree, audaciously making sure its presence is known. “Look at me” and I obeyed, my eyes, like anyone else’s are attracted to beauty like a moth to a flame.<br /><br />My pace slowed as I attempted to gather the lush images with my unworthy eyes, I thought to myself, “how can a single moment in time be better than this?” The merciful sun glorifying this tree, and me standing next to it, witnessing beauty manifest. And then an even more merciful breeze fluttered the tender petals of His majesty, while the wind parted the branches revealing something even more unfathomably beautiful. Something only rare hearts would anticipate.<br /><br />Beauty only reveals more beauty it would seem, as long as your eyes are open to see it. The breeze lifted the branches, exposing a frail old woman, looking at me from inside her home. Standing in the doorway, she watched me as I looked at her tree, with her luminous white hair and kind eyes, I had inadvertently stumbled right into her gaze. And we looked at each other for a moment, and she waved a subtle ‘hello’. I smiled and waved back.<br /><br />I walked on with this smile, as this moment transferred its imprint onto my memory. I had momentarily escaped the heartache preceding it, and even the doom of my destination. Sweet escape.<br /><br />I smile because I exploit my capability of doing so, I have never ever been more happy, but then…<br /><br />There is always tomorrow.biNyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00271887023633859155noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22704146.post-1146697179419879702006-05-03T18:57:00.000-04:002006-05-21T15:59:03.976-04:00Humanity is Perpetually One Cupcake Away From Inspiration.It started with a fundamental need. Hunger.<br /><br />A craving for something sweet, perhaps cupcakes.<br /><br />Hunger an undeniable need that parallels between each and every individual, and unites humanity. Not one of us can escape it, we are slave to it. It distinguishes us, among our other vast faculties, from the inanimate lifeless world we are immersed in.<br /><br />After satiating this tooth with a ray of sugary sweet sunshine, a short walk down Avenue A passed 14th street lead me straight into my next blog. An apartment complex called “Stuyvesant town”. My buoyant steps through the lower east side of Manhattan could not have foretold a more eloquent flight.<br /><br />My complete transport into the very antithesis of the city, it was as if crossing 14th street into stuy town walked me through a passageway that defied logic and took me directly into the scenic landscape of a lover’s dream. As we meandered through its winding paths, I looked back to what was my reality, at the archaic buildings that comprise the lower east side. I could envision the distinct line, no the wall, that separated the two opposing sides of 14th street. I turned back into the dewy dreamland; drew in a deep breath, and prepared to conquer this clandestine escape.<br /><br />Even the dark cloak of night, could not diminish the rebellious flowers that demanded my attention. The tulips in deep slumber, closed for the night, left only its brilliant exterior upon which to affix my gaze.<br /><br />My gentle footsteps did float across the merciful earth beneath, for I would not want to disturb. I caught the whisper of the quiet almost undetectable scent of narcissus, and was enamored by the drenched daffodils in full bloom. No less than dipped in pure gold, they called my name. I closed my eyes as the velvety soft mist from the fountain caressed my cheek. I noticed as my steps grew more firm as I drifted back down from sweet reverie.<br /><br />A question followed. “Roof?”… was all I could decipher through my racing thoughts. A proposal that would birth moments the soul shant ever forget. A short lift up to the roof above the 12th floor I was transported to the view that is now safe kept, adjacent to my heart. Stepping through that doorway and on to the roof, found me immediately submersed in the center of the nebulous collage of buildings that coalesce forming breathtaking vista that is the NYC skyline. The harmonious anthem of artfully aligned architechtures overwhelmed my sight, I was left gasping for air. And without a warning, I was witnessing the very definition of “New York City”, with my own mortal eyes.<br /><br />As I panned around, this extremely lucid night revealed a distinct outline of buildings juxtaposed against an equally luminescent night sky. The pinpoint projections of the stars dramatically mirrored the twinkling twilight of the structures below. It is indeed a rare delight to be able to witness the opposing dichotomy of the skyline <em>and </em>the stars, simultaneously. I know this because it was the first thing I noticed when I got up there, the lonely stars so hopelessly high, longing to be near the earth and to me in that earth. But their distance from me is as close as they can be, for to venture even an instant more near, would be death.<br /><br />For too long my eyes have been shielded by man made barriers. Light pollution, call it what you will, had always obstructed my sight from discovering the stars in NYC. I was not prepared, finally I was above the city and from above the lights, I saw it all. And for that moment I was able to see what was there all along, always there.<br /><br />It took me 22 years to achieve this height. And it took this sight to remind me of emotions that had faded into the background. The earth felt strange and unforgiving when I came back down. Perhaps we are all too unforgiving, and simply need an escape from ourselves. I take solace in that when I close my eyes to recall, my heart swells with the discoveries made on that night, which taught me emotions only beauty reveals. Lessons learned from the conversations between light and shadow reflecting onto the soul.<br />It started with an instinct, a fundamental need…and without a question,<br /><br />I found my answer.biNyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00271887023633859155noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22704146.post-1143694889950778822006-03-30T00:00:00.000-05:002006-03-30T00:06:40.466-05:00Revelations From A RooftopSometimes it takes new eyes to see something for the first time. Consistency is what slowly, numbs the spirit and desensitizes the mind. Desensitizes the mind from its intimate relationship with the luxury of imagination, thought…and revelation. Seeing new things can resuscitate the heart, and awaken the soul to needs native to our nature. My physical and literal incapacity to explore renders me searching the earth with new eyes, or in this case through someone else’s eyes.<br /><br />Above a place I am often in, where I spend most of my beloved moments in solitude and in coveted company. It took a singular roommate applicant to elevate my perspective, and open my eyes to what has always been there. A place so close, and at the same time so impossibly far.<br /><br />As I toured the applicant through our quaint Queens apartment, I found her enamored by the subtle details about the rooms that I cherish so dearly. As her eyes drew slowly up the stairs to the attic room; she asked “who lives up there?”…<br /><br />“That’s my room”<br /><br />We crawled up the stairs to my room in the attic, and continued our conversation about the apartment rules, among other things. Halfway through the conversation I followed her eyes as again they wandered, up towards my attic window. Even with a lifetime of preparation, I could not have anticipated the question that followed. She asked a most novel question, and thus my heart opened wide and I was born anew in its wake.<br /><br />“Have you ever gone on the roof?”<br /><br />And to my absolute and utter dismay, I had not, despite my hypnotic fascination by rooftops. How could it be that an otherwise complete stranger can read the unwritten thoughts hidden deep within my consciousness? I had met her for the first time, and she had managed to drill right through to the core of me. A formidable challenge to most who attempt, but she succeeded with the ease and elegance of a ballet dancer, twirling a whirlwind of possibilities straight to my soul.<br /><br />I was awestruck, that before me was a girl, unafraid of the consequence of her remark. She so boldly asked a peculiar question that exposed not only my clandestine fantasy, but revealed the same rare quality about her as well. A quality we shared, altitudes above the humble roof overhead. A revelation that was oh so much more about our desire to see, than to be seen.<br /><br />There is indeed much to see from the rooftops of New York than the expansive ocean of stars above you. For just below, is a sprawling reflection of the sky, in the endless collection of ‘stars’ just below. ‘Stars’, so akin to those above, if only we were to look. A paradigm of creation so beautiful, contemporary parables displayed clearly for anyone to see.<br /><br />But only visible from a rooftop…my eyes are open, are yours?biNyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00271887023633859155noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22704146.post-1141972107383213842006-03-10T01:27:00.000-05:002006-05-06T01:35:44.393-04:00a photo albumWe all have these moments. Ones we tell ourselves to hold fast, and remember. I covet these moments in a photo album that I carry with me where ever I go, somewhere between the place behind my eyes and my heart.<br /><br />Sifting through the photographs I find:<br />Image #1: not the first, but the first that comes to mind. Taken from my bedroom window on May 20th, 2005.<br /><br />It was surely my racing heart that woke me before dawn. I awoke with a sense of urgency, and after offering the morning prayer, I prepared to go back to sleep. It was like a magnet that drew my eyes out the window. This was a magnificent dawn ascending from the heavens. My eyes could not resist. Spellbound by the stoic tranquility of the clouds, as if they were waiting still for me to distinguish the multitudes of lavender, and crimson that dimly illuminated the background.<br /><br />I lived the vague lull of sunshine, rolling in and simultaneously replacing the dark blanket that was the sky. There were distinct pockets of feathery white light refracting through the lofty clouds. A cold breeze blew in through the window, the kind of air that you can almost taste in your lungs. The dawn has an intense scent and you could unmistakably smell the morning approaching swiftly. I wanted the day to wait; I was not content with its transience, I longed for just one more minute to memorize it.<br /><br />It is an amazing thing, about the dawn, how it somehow manages to rouse the heart. It precludes your eyes from closing, renders the soul to abhor a simple blink, for fear of missing a moment of its splendor. I wonder if it’s me that makes moments, or if these moments are always there.<br /><br />Are moments made, or just noticed?<br /><br />I suppose it might be me that discerns these minutes, me that refuses to let them go by unnoticed. I will be bold and say, that it must be for me that these moments are waiting, wanting wishing to be noticed. Existing to be noticed.<br /><br />Image#2: taken on the #4 train, 3/9/06<br /><br />Unflinchingly absorbed in my current read, I vaguely deciphered a young boy enter the train on my way home. He slipped so cunningly amid two large, I would say ‘thugs’. His small, slender body fit like a glove between them, occupying the scant area behind the metal support pole. Or so it seemed, his eyes revealed something contrary. It was noticeably evident, that this young boy, age no more than 10, has been exposed to more than I may ever know. With dark circles under his eyes, where was this boy going with no guardian to speak of? So curious, and engrossed with the child, I could not help but look at him intensely. We shared a glance, and in that moment, I looked through a window into his reality.<br /><br />Here, was a boy navigating through the Bronx, a solitary mission. A level of independence at such a young age, I was oblivious to. His eyes than fixed on a group of high school adolescents speaking audaciously about some lewd topic matter, that I dare not recall. His ears open, eyes wide. This was his life, and for an ephemeral moment, I descended into his ennui. He sat, with a quiet calm, almost disappearing behind the pole. Invisible.<br /><br />It is the nuanced collaboration of a community that shapes a life. In his eyes I saw the culmination of this community, within a single soul. The product. I am not sure why I was drawn to him, why it affected me that he was traveling alone. Why I wondered where he was going, wondered where his parents were, I am unable to articulate.<br /><br />I turned my head, and followed him with my eyes when he got off on 170th street, unable to shake the image of his penetrating eyes that flowed so expansively deep.<br /><br />I closed mine, and tried to sleep.<br /><br />---<br /><br />…This is an ongoing album, I have some more ‘images’ to document, they will be coming up soon. Thank you for your patience.biNyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00271887023633859155noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22704146.post-1141455425866075922006-03-04T01:54:00.000-05:002006-03-04T22:12:44.833-05:00ode to broMany thanks to the brother that rekindled my elusive obsession that is the seduction of the ink in a ball point pen. The almost involuntary movement of my fingers across a keyboard meticulously recording my stream of conciousness. He reminded me, that I have a special ability to see the world with different eyes. Eyes, that the pages of DiPiro's pharmacotherapy almost destroyed! <br /><br /><br />It started.<br />The inspiration to my heartbeat, the brother...the archetype of a brother. Eternal thanks.<br /><br /><br />P.S. also, thanks for this sweet new machine!biNyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00271887023633859155noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22704146.post-1141192606537591612006-03-01T00:54:00.000-05:002006-03-01T19:32:28.366-05:00the mirror reveals itselfSubtitled: “holy moly” in past tense.<br /><br />It was a Sunday night, and I was in the last place I wanted to be, doing the last thing I wanted to be doing: standing at my job.<br /><br />Life often finds me, rarely where I want to be, when I want to be there. So, against life, standing on the borders of a dream, a figure approached. As my vision re-focused into reality, I saw it was a gentle old woman tottering up toward the register. She was dressed, appropriately for the frigid conditions, in a floor length fur coat.<br /><br />What first went through my mind was interestingly NOT, “who does she think she is? Or is she not aware that fur is murder!” Albeit, my views are indifferent, I caught myself wondering whether or not the coat was a genuine fur.<br /><br />“Can I help you?” (as I say in robotic monotony)…her answer no more than a whisper, but I understood. She mumbled her last name, and I scurried to find her prescription. I stood there, as patient as a squirrel waiting for spring, listening to her quiet muttering while she documented the check she was preparing. As this archetypical granny handed me her check, irony struck me like an arrow, straight through my white lab coat. What precision, as if aimed directly at me.<br /><br />I saw in her silence, that the woman was resonating volumes more than those whispers. The moment <em>after</em> she extended her arm to hand me the check, I saw the hint of a mirror reflecting her soul to me. I was caught by surprise as her motions exposed <em>a gaping hole</em> severing her fur coat, at the seam where the sleeve met the bodice. And through that hole, more was revealed than just the sweater underneath. I saw through the old lady, to a once beautiful young woman, a visionary, a lover. But it seems time tore through that reality, leaving another.<br /><br />I saw a woman, striving hard to sew together a former life… what was left of her youth. The vanity of youth is verily a transient bliss. Its allure so seductive, we wage war against time, in a fruitless attempt to grasp the remnants of what appeared to be of such cherished value. With disingenuous assurance, she flaunted this paradox, perhaps completely unaware of the proverbial Judas betraying her in the back. Lurking behind her, following her like a shadow. And as a mirror reflects in merciless detail, she was exposed through that hole. Uncovered.<br /><br />I had never imagined being in the presence of such palpable irony. Its purpose only for me to understand, and articulate the anthology of meaning that resides within a simple hole. I indulged in the lucidity of my introspection, amused that I drew from that hole, like water from a well. I contemplated the thought of divulging my secret, but perhaps she was already aware of the phenomenal betrayal taking place right behind her. I muse over the likelihood, that she would never realize the transcendent poetry emanating from the emptiness inside.<br /><br />She faded into the distance, like a mirage.biNyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00271887023633859155noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22704146.post-1140934419527517042006-02-26T01:12:00.000-05:002006-04-21T22:24:03.963-04:00Deconstructing the Boundary Between a Subway Car and a Single LifeAn inextricable parallel continually flickers through my mind as I stand on a subway platform, staring down the cavernous tunnel. I trust, unquestionably, that the train will come on time and transport me to the location of my desire.<br /><br />At last a glimmering light peaks through the profound nothingness. A vessel. I turn away, as I feel the artificial breeze ruffle through my coat tails. Such intense speed and all at once, it stops.<br /><br />Anticipation, tension builds as doors slide open, but patience- let others exit before you enter.<br /><br />Step inside and scan for a seat. Immediately a determination is made, you are either one of two types of people:<br />1. scavenger<br />2. soldier<br />I find myself to be the latter of the two by default, and by virtue the mere lack of seating during rush hour in NYC. But alas, no complaints for I am where I am as I’d want it to be.<br /><br />Enter, as I secretly cosset myself in the scenic view of strangers. People I would otherwise never find myself in such close proximity to. Standing in the car, fingers gripped round the metal support pole, I find myself on a stage. On display, and instantaneously I am ultra-aware of my attire. My every subtle expression exhibited for this melancholy collection of strangers to behold. I glance around and am inundated in this sea of unfamiliarity.<br /><br />At last an opening, and the burden shifts off my feet. The same anonymous audience, nevertheless I am again excited to indulge in my clandestine delight from a new angle. A snug fit, human contact and yet completely detached. Fortuitous eye contact is quickly averted, and reciprocated with an almost apologetic look away. Everyone sitting together and completely apart, separated by self-erected protective barriers. Personally, I found it difficult to connect with mom when she said, “<em> never talk to strangers</em>”<br /><br />United by our direction, destination, and divided by our respective stops; decisions. We trust, as together we plummet through emptiness, that we will arrive at where we intend. We share the same trust, and even so we continue to withdraw from each other, ultimately alienating ourselves from a sincere human experience. Our shields raised against a ubiquitous enemy, an undeserving outsider with no reason to prove harmful, and still we are on guard.<br /><br />Especially the slightest gaffe in human interaction is quickly acknowledged as accidental… “I’m sorry for my eyes being open to the exquisiteness that is existence, for that my eternal apologies.” Because we are all strangers in a strange world, and I will be the lone visionary to smile at you when I see you, and you will have known it was me. And you would think to yourself… “hey, I read your blog and it was fabulous” … (I amuse myself)<br /><br />Perchance this is the reactive dichotomy that births when life meets lifestyle. Are we not all traveling through the same darkness, chasing after the shoe strings of some glimmering ray of illumination? Sometimes it’s our train, and often times not. So we persist on that omnipresent platform, and wait for our train to take us where we want to go. Ultimately our destination is the same, regardless of the manner in which we reach. Our attitudes flow in different directions creating schisms that divide, and determine our experience during the ride.<br /><br />And maybe the world would be better off if our mothers instilled a contrary doctrine into our moral repertoire… “<em>talk to strangers</em>”. If only we could all adopt this policy, we would be able to collectively disarm this mechanism of fear. Strangers would consequently cease to exist. (except maybe in zoo’s, locked away in cages reserved for the real weirdo’s)<br /><br />So, perhaps our eyes have met in the past, and will meet in the future… but next time, try not to look away too quickly. You may very well have been staring into the eyes of a social revolutionary…or just another charlatan like yourself.biNyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00271887023633859155noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22704146.post-1140417812737038362006-02-20T01:31:00.000-05:002006-03-04T22:18:30.403-05:00why i would never write a blog<strong>I am an insignificant speck:</strong><br /><br />How important am I, that you would expend moments of your existence on reading my thoughts? The mere idea, that anyone would take away from their time to step into my stream of conciousness for even a second, for no reason whatsoever is beyond my frame of understanding. And yet you are here, reading these words, that bear no meaning to you. Reading about other people, perhaps gives your own life meaning. Reading their thoughts, criticisms, observations, maybe you take on those views as your own. A succession of recycled thoughts, criticisms, observations all circulating in a cyclic manner. In a world that bleeds for originality, we are still so far from it.<br /><br />I guess I carry more weight than I thought.<br /><br /><strong>Writing with the intention for others to read implies megalomania of some level:</strong><br /><strong></strong><br />I write, not for the intention of external validation. I would have to be slightly narcissistic, to want to see my words and know people are reading them. I must have delusions of granduer to believe that my words are even worth reading, worth you spending your time to read. I am a little too un-important on the scale of things to expend the vast power of the human mind. (ties in with the first point)<br /><br /><em>One caviat:</em><br />1. If perhaps, I held some position of significance to you, be it any level, this would be a singular justification for me to write, and in that case you would be justified in reading.<br /><br /><strong>Detached:</strong><br /><br />In my constant attempts to connect with humanity, blogging would be another step away from it. You wanna know what I'm thinking? ask me.biNyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00271887023633859155noreply@blogger.com1