Walking Across The Brooklyn Bridge At Sunset

Drenched in the evening sun, we walk east of the Brooklyn Bridge/City Hall subway station towards that debris-filled body of water that separates Manhattan from Long Island. Standing on the bridge we see the sometimes intimidating, towering skyline that people have come to associate with New York City and the quaint brownstones of Brooklyn Heights. As we start to cross the East River, another busy day is settling in for the night. Couples walk hand in hand, families, friends, all of them wander down with backpacks, purses and cameras hanging off their bodies walking across the splintered wood marked with a chalk-white running man. Through the metal grating on each side we can watch the cars zoom past below. The air has the soft warmth of August as it blows across our faces. We take a photo at the tower like so many others do, smiles captured in photographic eternity. We continue on foot, reaching Brooklyn some minutes later. As we walk through Brooklyn Heights, we see the lineup for Grimaldi’s snaking around the block, people willing to wait hours for a taste of the most New York of New York Pizza. We turn to look back at the tiny strip of land that I used to call home when it occurs to me that this small space, besides being the inspiration for all those little squares on the monopoly board, contains things that have become household names worldwide – Central Park, Carnegie Hall, the Empire State Building, Park Avenue, Fifth Avenue, Radio City Music Hall, and Broadway among others. It is the home of everything one can imagine – business, film, theater, art – you name it and you can find it within the five boroughs of New York City.

Writer's Block

It’s emptiness, void of thought, of feeling, like a vacuum sucking you hollow of oxygen, feeling, and experiences among much else. Crumbs of thoughts clump into flimsy ideas turn into words scribbled down and subsequently, often violently scratched out, sometimes ripping through the page in front of you. Or, you watching your finger pushing down hard on the backspace key till nothing remains much like the abyss within you.

Nothing is right.

Nothing is right, but more importantly it is over-thought, pointless, boring, overcooked to a crisp like blackened toast. Your much-abused notebook page stares at you expectantly. The blank screen waits.

Your move.

You pick up and try once more. Some ten minutes later the whole sequence may repeat. After you have drained your laptop battery of all power, after you have crushed up several pieces of note paper smothered in black and blue ink, after your hands, palms and fingers are covered into smudges and calluses, somewhere between banging your head into the wall and morning:

It stops.

Or rather it starts. The dam bursts, the doors open, the silence erupts into beautiful chaos.

It is here that the pages come and do not stop.

Words

I melt into phrases punctuated
By breaths of imagery so real I can
Already touch the sensations that
Permeate through air.
Language that speaks through letters, commas,
Apostrophes all drenched in passion and
Passing emotions from experiences
Past, present and future.
My heart is here, in these words and their
Boundaries, and the unspoken that hangs
Gently in the balance between them.

New York, New York

I arrived back in New York today after almost four months away. It is incredible and everything I'd hoped it would be. It's funny, everyone gives the city a bad name for rude people and gruffness, but in my first 2 1/2 hours back I met some of the nicest people I have met in a long time. This coming from someone who just moved to Canada. A stranger paid for my  bus fare because I had two dollars, but didn't have time to get a metrocard without missing the bus. He refused to take money afterwards just saying: Happy Holidays. A subway employee helped me get my baggage through the turnstiles, and a conductor helped me find my way when I got off at the wrong stop in a second of momentary confusion. 

I love this place.

I realize now that I'm back, how much I've missed it. The subways, the streets, the smells, the people. The Duane Reade on every single corner, the street food that is not just hot dogs, but morning coffees, rolls, pizza, falafel, chicken and the most amazing fruit shakes you have ever tasted (47th street between Madison & Park), even the rickshaw drivers. We spent the entire evening doing so much yet nothing at all. There is a spontaneity to this city that exists nowhere else. You need only wander the streets a short time before you find something random to do. It is alive and breathing and it gets under your skin before you know it. 

I also realized that no matter what any immigration law or officer says, New York will always be a home in some way. It'll always be a part of me, and nothing anyone can say or do can take that away from me. I am grateful for the time I had because no matter what, it is mine. 

That said, it'll be very hard to get on that plane Sunday morning. 

Change

Pink rose swathed in violet light, cool

And lay it shivers against

The bed of damp soil in the early

Morning light. A drop of dew

Summons all the strength it can muster

And breaks against deep brown earth, the

Sweet fragrant sweat of petals who

Themselves one day too shall fall and

Be mourned. It is here that beauty

As we know it comes to an end

In this infinity beyond

Light, At this moment after the

Heavy descent of dusk, it is

Here that tears are shed, words melt into

Sentences, thoughts, dreams, and regrets. It is here that hope ends

And yet

Begins.

For in each new day, each new sunrise

There is new life. And for this we

Must be forever thankful. 

Update

It's been a while since I've posted, with little access to the internet, and a semi-functional computer it's been hard to communicate. I have just started at Winners as an allocation analyst - had my first day of the actual position today - so far so good!

Toronto has been good to me, and I really have no complaints. Just moved in with my brother, and so far everything is smooth besides a minor problem with moth infestation which is honestly unlike anything i have ever experienced before. I wouldn't recommend it unless you in fact enjoy a super-high drycleaning bill.

Last piece of news, is that I got published! Well sort of, by an online magazine. Check it out

Waiting

Time
Is a strange thing,
A fickle
Tempermental
Creature whose
Whims and motives
Flicker in and
Out, on and
Off.
Surges of speed
In times of
Great pressure and
Looming deadlines
Turn the hour
Hands in violent
Radical
Shifts,
But at moments
It is sluggish,
Dragging it’s feet,
Walking under
Water, and it is these
Instances of
Anticipation
that are almost
too heavy to
bear.