Thursday

The subway car is packed, crowed during the usual morning commute. This particular Thursday I choose the car of the N express that seemed emptiest only to realize a homeless man is asleep on the center bench, leaving me and my fellow travelers to pile into either ends of the car.

A pretty boy my age rolls his eyes at the man wrapped in the only coat he owns. For a brief moment, I felt sorry for this lost soul after I realize that I had had the same reaction when I boarded the silver train and quietly thanked the Lord that the subway car did not smell of urine and trash. I had made that mistake twice before.

I turned, positioning myself with my feet slightly apart so if I had to take my hand off of the metal bar to turn a page in the book I was reading. When you become one with New York City, you learn these tricks.

Tricks and unspoken and accepted rules. You rarely make eye contact with fellow commuters, unless you're offering your seat to an older individual or a woman with child. Unfortunately, I enjoy people watching -- I observe. I smile at the babies sitting in their carriages, the children sitting quietly beside their parents with their little hands folded in their laps. Usually, the proud parents notice, and they reciprocate the smile in the direction of their child.

My eyes dart to a male, black police officer who pulled his flashlight from his belt just as the conductor stated that we were momentarily detained.

"Hey, buddy," he says as he knocks the heavy flashlight against the plastic seat, beside the sleeping man's head. The man, startled from his slumber, bolted to a sitting position and wipes the sleep from his eyes with his dirty hands.

The officer exits the train. The doors slide shut behind him, and we start to move, our bodies react to the inertia.

I felt sorry for the man. But I admit that I sympathize more for those around me, the ones who woke hours before their colleagues in order to take the subway into Manhattan from Brooklyn; these people work full-time in order to feed their families and pay rent.

I cannot tell you what the point of this little rambling was about. Perhaps this is no more than scattered thoughts of a tired production associate while she rides the crowded Broadway express on a Thursday morning.

Taking Risks

I've decided to quit the job that I've been working for the past 7 months. Although the money was "all right," the hours were not. As a 23 year old living in New York City, I couldn't allow myself to work 60 hours a week for basic pay in a cafe; it's not what I want to do.

So, I'm ballooning for a bit, and I hope this break will allow me to not only learn about myself, but give me the chance to spread my roots. I need to step away from the negativity that cafe brought into my everyday life and relearn what it means to be "Sandy."

So, we'll see. Happy Hunting.

Too Bad

"Don't we all deserve second chances?"
I once asked myself in a pathetic moment of desperation.
At the time, I truly believed it. I wanted nothing more.
I had been denied the opportunity.

When you had returned to me, asking for another chance,
Of course I was wary. But I took the bait.
I thought you'd come to your senses,
Seen how great I really am.

Huh.
I guess you were in it for the sex.
Not the emotion.

Too bad I'm emotionally driven.
Too bad the two go hand-in-hand.
Too bad I was duped.

Amor

Love isn't logical or rational.
It's blind and deaf --
Blind to color and shape; deaf to harsh words and advice.
So how can one plan it?
How does one keep from falling?
Continuously step backwards until Love grows tired of tugging?

No.

Love plays on emotions and takes hold of the heart.
There is no anticipating.
Cupid's stubborn arrows aren't equipped with hesitation.
The arrows aren't easily removed either.
You're fucked as soon as you're hit.

Please don't tell me we're moving too fast.
There is no set pace.
Please don't say it's not what you want.
We both know we've no choice.
Please don't tell me you're scared.
I am to; I'm terrified.
Please don't say you don't love me.
Love only works well with two.

I wonder if they knew, really knew what you were thinking when you smiled for the camera or walked into a room wearing your Chanel No. 5 and revealing dress:

Your self-loathing thoughts of worthlessness.

The man you wished would leave his wife to swoop you into his arms.

How much your scalp burned from the bleaching the day before.

The production company not believing you’re serious about your craft.

The half-empty bottle of pills in your clutch.

How much you wanted to have a child to love like your mother never loved you.

No one really knew, but I wish they had. Maybe you wouldn’t have been my tragic heroine.

Comforting

Harleen closed her eyes to the darkness as Pamela stroked her chapped lips. She’d been feeling under the weather the past couple of days, but never sick enough to ignore Pam’s gentle touches and kisses.

She reopened her eyes to see the moon’s light sneaking into their bedroom through the hastily closed blinds. Pam’s red hair seemed to sparkle at night, and her green eyes always seemed to glow.

This was love, she’d been told. Easiness. Quietness. Softness.

Not brutality. Not pain. Not sadistic hilarity.

Harleen blinked and tried to focus on the invisible patterns Pamela traced with her fingertips.

This Picture sums up my outlook these days...