Saturday, March 18, 2006


AP: "MEXICALI, Mexico - Despite its name, the All-American Canal has been leaking water to the Mexican side of the desert border for more than 60 years, nourishing alfalfa, onion and cotton crops that might otherwise wither. Now the U.S. government is preparing to line the earthen channel with concrete.Mexican farmers' loss will be California's gain: Scarce water that will no longer be able to seep away instead will help flush toilets and water lawns more than 100 miles west in San Diego."
It's a sad day when lawns and toilets become more important than people's livelihood... I'm outraged.

Thursday, March 09, 2006


Lately I've become more of an observer than an active participant, I read more than I write. Not because I have nothing to say, but I am going through a "must know as much as possible" period that is taking pretty much all of my time. Granted, it probably has a lot to do with the tons of reading I have to do for class (not complaining here) but it might just be that I'm getting tired of my own monologue. There are so many images, theories, names, sentences that are crowding my mind that I would make no sense to anyone but me. There is something to be said about interactions, reactions, feed backs and whatnot's.
For example, I gave a paper this past Tuesday to the professor and it's killing me to have to wait until next Tuesday to know what she thought about it. Instant gratification, or mortification, is my drive. This might be a sign of insecurity, the wanting to be patted on the shoulder. Just thinking about that frustrates the hell out of me. When will I grow out of the teen-age stage of needing other people's input?
Spring is coming, I should start making sense in no time. I'll let you know about the paper...only if I get a good grade...

Friday, March 03, 2006


Writing is work. And I mean work in the sense that you have to make a conscious effort to sit down and actually hit the keyboard. Often I find myself composing entries in my head after I have seen, heard or felt something that I deemed worth keeping into the archives of the written world. But then those moments become a task, and more often than not I either forget about them or just do not put them down. I am sure that I've missed remembering infinite memorable things from pure laziness.
I have composed rhymes about the sounds branches make when the ice weights upon them, stories about pigeons building their nest at the subway station, thoughts about the peddler I see every evening when I go home. But they are lost in my mind, mixed within all the images and sounds that I experience every day.
A long time ago I started writing a story called "Nameless Faces". A story that described all those people we see day-in and day-out and never talk to. Those that we eventually nod to and might even throw a smile to for good show, but never get as close to as to ask them how they are doing.
I remembered it this morning because the one person that at first made me think of writing about the "known strangers" is no longer there. He was a man that I saw every morning as I was walking, briskly and determined as every New Yorker does, between the 7 and the 6 train at Grand Central Station.
He was in a wheelchair and had no legs. His face was aghast and he had no front teeth, but always greeted everyone with a smile and carried with him a map of the subway in case someone had the time to stop and ask him for directions.
I ended up saying good morning to him after I marched by for over 3 years every day, but I never stopped to talk to him. With an ever rampant imagination I had multiple lives for him, reasons for his disability and who his family was, but never once did I confirm my theories.
It's been almost a year now that he hasn't been there. The last times I saw him he was looking even thinner that he ever did. I do exercise my imagination sometimes to an extreme, but this time I won't.
I am often too tired to write down what I feel, see or hear, that which has any impact on my psyche. But tonight I put aside my laziness and write about this man in the wheelchair who had become a constant in my morning commute, so that at least he can be remembered and will continue to be present for the duration of these words.

Wednesday, March 01, 2006


I'm beyond tired and don't want to write, yet I feel the need to write that I don't feel like writing... how convoluted is that?