It's nearin' ninety today, and that ain't nothin' to sniff at. Where some of the weaker souls have a hard time with the temperature, I revel in the fact that l'humidité n'est pas là.
Things could always be worse, eh mon ami?
For example, Paris Hilton, another line on your rap sheet is better than say, falling out a window.
You can blame whomever you like but stories like these are horrendous.
I'm of the camp that finds the tragedy in everything leading up to the conclusion. How totally preventable these stories can be.
LiLo is quick to point her finger to her daddy issues and poor role-models, and if that's the case, she has a long road to recovery. Undoubtedly, Michael Lohan and Dina Lohan have concocted the exact opposite of a healthy, nurturing environment for their children. However, after a certain period of time, patterns become apparent.
To wit: A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H...shall I continue?
It's tragic that LiLo thinks she can recover by blaming everyone else in her life, because it means she doesn't recognize that the real problem.
On the other hand, the late Nicole John must have seemed normal and well-adjusted to her otherwise normal parents, if they were watching at all. It's harder to see where the tragedy lies when the only part of the story we have is the ending.
My thoughts go to people who suffer this tragedy, but then I wonder what kind of tragedy it is.
Last night, we had an event with local author, Ghita Schwarz, a civil rights litigator specializing in immigrants' rights. Her new book, Displaced Persons is a story of an unusual family that searches for some sense of normality after Liberation. It brings attention to the Holocaust as a commodity, but also an experience, shocking and traumatic that "Displaced" close to 25,000 different people.
So, then young girls who were ripped from their children, mothers, brothers. Young men who may have killed or sacrificed other lives in order to make it another day in prison, in mud and shit. Is that tragic enough?
And how to prevent tragedy like THAT again? {Ahem, Yann Martel, not your smarmy experience--recall your Adorno}
So as the media frenzy for the Muslim Community Center at the bottom of Manhattan wanes, and media coverage centralizes over other celebrated issues, how to keep in mind the tragedy of humanity?
In my opinion, it is best to dance, laugh, and live.
(lots o links!)
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Sensitive issues
Summer was about to slip quietly off the stage, here in NYC. But then the media pigeons spotted a story.
The Story.
There are plenty of words being flung about like steaks in a dog fight. (I think Jon Stewart has the choicest cuts, thankyew Gawker.tv) Is this an issue of religious freedom or of sensitivity to the victims of September 11?
I thought we were all the victims of September 11th's attack.
Granted this country was founded in the name of Puritanical freedom to burn witches and lofty business speculations--but c'mon now, after all these wars I think the general consensus is that might does not always equal right.
Whatever you believe, you'll have the right to believe it. But justice for all means justice for all, and that includes dissenting opinions.
In my opinion, those taking time to protest the "Ground Zero" Mosque---have you walked those city blocks? They are LONG!
might find that their time is better spent in local politics, local infrastructure and local education. At the VERY LEAST, their local movie theaters, watching
THIS MOVIE!!!
Oh. And in other amendment news:
Happy 90th anniversary of the 19th amendment.
Shoulder to shoulder into the fray!!
The Story.
There are plenty of words being flung about like steaks in a dog fight. (I think Jon Stewart has the choicest cuts, thankyew Gawker.tv) Is this an issue of religious freedom or of sensitivity to the victims of September 11?
I thought we were all the victims of September 11th's attack.
Granted this country was founded in the name of Puritanical freedom to burn witches and lofty business speculations--but c'mon now, after all these wars I think the general consensus is that might does not always equal right.
Whatever you believe, you'll have the right to believe it. But justice for all means justice for all, and that includes dissenting opinions.
In my opinion, those taking time to protest the "Ground Zero" Mosque---have you walked those city blocks? They are LONG!
might find that their time is better spent in local politics, local infrastructure and local education. At the VERY LEAST, their local movie theaters, watching
THIS MOVIE!!!
Oh. And in other amendment news:
Happy 90th anniversary of the 19th amendment.
Shoulder to shoulder into the fray!!
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Rumor Has it.
I like reevaluations.
Evaluation is all well and good, but if your math skills are on par with mine, a reevaluation will improve your situation. (Thusly, dear Mother, you have explained my grades in Math lo' these many years, no time to reevaluate during tests).
We're watching the Monarch Chrysalid quite closely. It's a pearlescent geometric nugget of nature.
For those unfamiliar with the process by which a milkweed caterpillar becomes a butterfly,
the body of the larva is nothing but an well-spun shawl that keeps all vital chewing gears and pooping parts safe from the elements. As the caterpillar eats and expels his way to the end of the vine, the shawl stretches to keep all the soft parts soft.
Then, after seven days or so of using all its energy to eat and expel, our little miracle might drag itself to a sturdy (albeit inverted) promontory, weave a little silken pad and make a place to hang out for the next two weeks.
Once it is well-seated, it begins to rip the shawl, and a glistening glob settles into a shape that will become a most fashionable bag that will take a prehistoric powder and sprinkle it into a goop that stews into a butterfly with scaly (sometimes membranous) wings. Then, nature rips that bag away, an alien emerges, pumps life-force into its flappable appendages and goes off in search of sex. Perhaps the use of procreational drugs is involved, sometimes called pheromones.
I sent off some mail last week, an opportunity I relished and exploited to sketch a bee on an envelope. Well, I remember getting a ton of mail in camp, and brother, those stacks of letters remind you of home in their own special way. So Chere Cousine S.C. in North Carolina, relish and exploit every moment made available to you. The friendships you weave in arts and farts and crafts, short and long; above all the sunrises.
Also, nobody wants to be the dead girl in the SLEEPAWAY CAMP MOVIE!!
Summer is past its peak and while it is hot, the days are growing shorter. We use these days to reflect the high points of the year behind.
I happened upon Mythology's old friend Thomas Bulfinch this week. He's a delight, and a choice in pure denial, because I also need to review something new that is not the New Yorker, and I have about three write-ups for September. This is of no use, the next month is clearly August.
By Golly, the store is out of good galleys.
So I have fostered the following paperbacks:
Sick City by Tony O'Neill. It struts the stage like Eddie Murphy [following clip most definitely NOT SAFE FOR WORK] Delirious. And the humor is not quite as approachable, or incongruous, or even worthwhile. I think I got over the glorification of track marks and selfish junkies a few years ago. O'Neill's short stories are pretty tolerable, though.
In a similar vein of satire, Albert Cossery, The Jokers. The introduction itself incites scoffing, thank you James Buchan.
Evaluation is all well and good, but if your math skills are on par with mine, a reevaluation will improve your situation. (Thusly, dear Mother, you have explained my grades in Math lo' these many years, no time to reevaluate during tests).
We're watching the Monarch Chrysalid quite closely. It's a pearlescent geometric nugget of nature.
For those unfamiliar with the process by which a milkweed caterpillar becomes a butterfly,
the body of the larva is nothing but an well-spun shawl that keeps all vital chewing gears and pooping parts safe from the elements. As the caterpillar eats and expels his way to the end of the vine, the shawl stretches to keep all the soft parts soft.
Then, after seven days or so of using all its energy to eat and expel, our little miracle might drag itself to a sturdy (albeit inverted) promontory, weave a little silken pad and make a place to hang out for the next two weeks.
Once it is well-seated, it begins to rip the shawl, and a glistening glob settles into a shape that will become a most fashionable bag that will take a prehistoric powder and sprinkle it into a goop that stews into a butterfly with scaly (sometimes membranous) wings. Then, nature rips that bag away, an alien emerges, pumps life-force into its flappable appendages and goes off in search of sex. Perhaps the use of procreational drugs is involved, sometimes called pheromones.
I sent off some mail last week, an opportunity I relished and exploited to sketch a bee on an envelope. Well, I remember getting a ton of mail in camp, and brother, those stacks of letters remind you of home in their own special way. So Chere Cousine S.C. in North Carolina, relish and exploit every moment made available to you. The friendships you weave in arts and farts and crafts, short and long; above all the sunrises.
Also, nobody wants to be the dead girl in the SLEEPAWAY CAMP MOVIE!!
Summer is past its peak and while it is hot, the days are growing shorter. We use these days to reflect the high points of the year behind.
I happened upon Mythology's old friend Thomas Bulfinch this week. He's a delight, and a choice in pure denial, because I also need to review something new that is not the New Yorker, and I have about three write-ups for September. This is of no use, the next month is clearly August.
By Golly, the store is out of good galleys.
So I have fostered the following paperbacks:
Sick City by Tony O'Neill. It struts the stage like Eddie Murphy [following clip most definitely NOT SAFE FOR WORK] Delirious. And the humor is not quite as approachable, or incongruous, or even worthwhile. I think I got over the glorification of track marks and selfish junkies a few years ago. O'Neill's short stories are pretty tolerable, though.
In a similar vein of satire, Albert Cossery, The Jokers. The introduction itself incites scoffing, thank you James Buchan.
As the French are the wittiest race in Europe, so are the Egyptians in Africa. Cossery's comedy derives from contraposition of exquisite French and an exceptionally squalid setting.
Translated rather skillfully from the French by Anna Moschovakis, The Jokers does not sit well before bed. I recommend sitting upright for this bad boy.
Coming in first, Gary Shteyngart. (Not that cute in real life, I'm told)
His writing found its way into my eyeballs when the New Yorker published 20 under 40, and the excerpt from Super Sad True Love Story had me with its bashful honesty and brutal satire. Perhaps I have a thing for bespectacled writers, estranged from the Russian Jewry.
And it's not just that he has an event at the store. No, it was my LOLing on the subway that told myself how much I enjoy the book. I said to myself, "Self! You are really enjoying this novel written in nouveau epistolary fashion, you are laughing out so loud!"
And really, dear readers, what other test does a book need to pass, if it is not causing you to miss your stop on the train, or LOL?
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Look out honey, I'm using technology
I love having Tuesdays to myself.
I don't have to worry about finding space for the exciting New Releases, although I do get pumped about new titles, and seeing what is being regularly replenished.
I finished Fun Home this morning, enjoyed perusing
the shelves here in Zero-Dome, and have been impelled to use the fleeting hours to read/write El Gran Novela americana.
But whom shall I use as inspiration?
Use this fun (and questionable) algorithm to find out whose writing you emulate!
According to the past five blog entries I have here at Moving Prepositions, I, like, write like :::
David Foster Wallace (haven't read him yet),
Cory Doctorow (ditto),
Nabakov,
and the oh-so-horrid Lovecraft (also never touched, save the copies of a Lovecraft tribute that I counted, packed up and returned)
I have yet to decide whether this is:
1. all that credible (what with the simplicity of web-programming these days)
2. an obstacle I steer to avoid in shaping my own words
3. none of the above
4. all of the above
The store has acquired a pet. Last Thursday, I noticed a fat little inch and a half of Monarch larva feeding his way through the wilting of our weekly floral arrangement. By Friday, our florist had made accommodations for the tiny pest with plenty of milkweed and oregano (whose floral buds are remedial!). When I opened the shop on Saturday morning, the creature had fattened up to about 2 inches, and flung his poop all over the new David Mitchell title and the remaining copies of the third Stieg Larsson. He continued to munch and as Attenborough says, deeeeficate until yesterday, at around 4:30 pm, when he crawled to the underside of a faded sunflower to pull one of these.
Enjoy the linkage today! I had fun throwing it in. Too bad the "IWRITELIKEATRON" can't take my hypertext into account.
Incidentally, is anyone out there interested in/familiar with Storyspace?
From the site, you'd think people who place a high-value on word-structure would hire a decent web-designer, but I'm more interested in the software.
Oh and this entry?
I don't have to worry about finding space for the exciting New Releases, although I do get pumped about new titles, and seeing what is being regularly replenished.
I finished Fun Home this morning, enjoyed perusing
the shelves here in Zero-Dome, and have been impelled to use the fleeting hours to read/write El Gran Novela americana.
But whom shall I use as inspiration?
Use this fun (and questionable) algorithm to find out whose writing you emulate!
According to the past five blog entries I have here at Moving Prepositions, I, like, write like :::
David Foster Wallace (haven't read him yet),
Cory Doctorow (ditto),
Nabakov,
and the oh-so-horrid Lovecraft (also never touched, save the copies of a Lovecraft tribute that I counted, packed up and returned)
I have yet to decide whether this is:
1. all that credible (what with the simplicity of web-programming these days)
2. an obstacle I steer to avoid in shaping my own words
3. none of the above
4. all of the above
The store has acquired a pet. Last Thursday, I noticed a fat little inch and a half of Monarch larva feeding his way through the wilting of our weekly floral arrangement. By Friday, our florist had made accommodations for the tiny pest with plenty of milkweed and oregano (whose floral buds are remedial!). When I opened the shop on Saturday morning, the creature had fattened up to about 2 inches, and flung his poop all over the new David Mitchell title and the remaining copies of the third Stieg Larsson. He continued to munch and as Attenborough says, deeeeficate until yesterday, at around 4:30 pm, when he crawled to the underside of a faded sunflower to pull one of these.
Enjoy the linkage today! I had fun throwing it in. Too bad the "IWRITELIKEATRON" can't take my hypertext into account.
Incidentally, is anyone out there interested in/familiar with Storyspace?
From the site, you'd think people who place a high-value on word-structure would hire a decent web-designer, but I'm more interested in the software.
Oh and this entry?
Monday, July 19, 2010
Adventures in Kitty-sitting
I'm cat-sitting for some teacher friends who live near the bookstore.
Zero is a former tom who sheds fine white hairs on a sparsely decorated, but very nice two bedroom overlooking Fulton Street. Zero has a tabby-vest and apparently, his poop smells terrible, but so far, we've been quietly enjoying company. This is Day 1.
I am still reeling from the physical demand of last week.
The bookstore had a huge party for David Mitchell, whose latest Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet (a Dutch colonialist, so I infer it is pronounced "dazoot") enjoyed a rave on the cover of the New York Times Book Review (by Dave Eggers, no less). We scrambled to make the store perfect, and plenty of folks noticed--the perfect part, not the scrambling.
I've been a fan of cold pasta these past few weeks, they're a nice alternative to cooking in a kitchen that is too narrow not to conjure hell when we broil chicken, boil eggs and melt cheese. I threw tri-color rotini, 1/2 a jalapeno, 2 pepperoncini, celery, fresh basil from the roof, pine nuts and turkey bacon together. Lunch for a week, bam.
Also, MayaBee started getting stuffy so I pretty much consumed two heads of garlic. No vampire bites for me!
I also wanted to share the notion of a watermelon salad that I tried at the FOJBBQ.
Long-lost-Long-Island's mother hollowed out a watermelon, sliced some plum tomatoes and red onions; poured 1 part balsamic (maybe red-wine), 1 part olive oil; and sprinkled fresh black pepper, good salt, and feta cheese. Suh-nap, that was tasty.
Any other delicious cold salads I should be trying?
Zero is a former tom who sheds fine white hairs on a sparsely decorated, but very nice two bedroom overlooking Fulton Street. Zero has a tabby-vest and apparently, his poop smells terrible, but so far, we've been quietly enjoying company. This is Day 1.
I am still reeling from the physical demand of last week.
The bookstore had a huge party for David Mitchell, whose latest Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet (a Dutch colonialist, so I infer it is pronounced "dazoot") enjoyed a rave on the cover of the New York Times Book Review (by Dave Eggers, no less). We scrambled to make the store perfect, and plenty of folks noticed--the perfect part, not the scrambling.
I've been a fan of cold pasta these past few weeks, they're a nice alternative to cooking in a kitchen that is too narrow not to conjure hell when we broil chicken, boil eggs and melt cheese. I threw tri-color rotini, 1/2 a jalapeno, 2 pepperoncini, celery, fresh basil from the roof, pine nuts and turkey bacon together. Lunch for a week, bam.
Also, MayaBee started getting stuffy so I pretty much consumed two heads of garlic. No vampire bites for me!
I also wanted to share the notion of a watermelon salad that I tried at the FOJBBQ.
Long-lost-Long-Island's mother hollowed out a watermelon, sliced some plum tomatoes and red onions; poured 1 part balsamic (maybe red-wine), 1 part olive oil; and sprinkled fresh black pepper, good salt, and feta cheese. Suh-nap, that was tasty.
Any other delicious cold salads I should be trying?
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Martha kept talking about a Heat Wave
I've let this blog get mighty slack.
It's been months, and while there may not have seemed to be much to tell, I get the urge to cram a whole story in this space. Fear not, gentle reader, I will spare you the digest of the changing seasons.
We are only just in the thick of summer, and while last week kept citizens' hopes up in the high seventies, the Fourth of July forward has been pure misery. I wish I could say I was exaggerating, but 100 degrees Fahrenheit melts all sense of hyperbole.
The weekend itself was lovely. Thanks to Uncle James' graduation celebration, I've connected with long-lost cousins in Brooklyn. I wish I had a better handle on this whole extended relation business, because the way I see it, family is family. Perhaps one day, my grandchildren will try to figure how they are related to my first cousins' grandchildren.
Anyways, this particular bloodline grew up in Long Island, and her own first cousins throw quite the an annual Let Freedom Ring-er.
I brought a Napa Cabbage Slaw, but when I heard the guest-list topped 200, it hardly seemed worth mentioning. I love visiting folks without pretense. Rather than sitting in the shade of the Beach house, I got along with the other side of my new cousin's line (matrilocal, wassup.) There was plenty to eat, plenty to drink, plenty to do.
It's been so long since I've been to the beach (I hardly think a spring day with Coney Island amusements counts).
We danced long into the night, but at around 11, the Brooklynite/Twentysomethings felt it was time to turn in. (I had to close shop on Monday). We said goodbye to the folks holding down the beach house and found some comfy couches to crash into at one Aunt's homebase. Falling alseep was easier said than done.
One of the long-lost cousins (who shares my hometown!) felt that everyone getting ready for bed signaled intense desire to crowd around a laptop and watch a movie! In addition, there were the adorably little yappy house dogs that reminded the guests who was boss. I reached at sleep, while I stretched out in the air-conditioning, finally nodding off around 24:00.
Around 2:30, the hosts finally stumbled home. The dogs announced this, as well as kitchen lights and it was all I could do not to eavesdrop to hear how the party had ended.
This particular 4th had been special because it also celebrated the hosts' daughter's High School Graduation (woo, teenagers!) Apparently, things were starting to get out of hand so Mama Host made a judgment call and kicked the inebriated teenagers out of her house and onto the beach of Long Island Sound. Drinking, smoking, getting loud, I'm sure we're all familiar with the circumstances upon which memorable parties usually end.
So then, things get dark again, and I drift into dreams once more.
At 3:00am, the proud graduate comes and wakes up Long-lost-Long-Island-Cousin, and asks her to come back out to the beach house. Did they decide to have a nightcap?
No gentle readers, apparently some other responsible adults had forgotten their daughter's flip-flops at the beach house and driven back to retrieve them (they were facing a 10 hour drive back to Buffalo, I guess the flip-flops were important).
When these responsible adults had left the beach house, it had been locked up and dark. When they returned, the lights were on, the door was bust open and the music was blaring. Luckily, one of the responsible adults is an officer of the law, and he must have made it very clear to the young hedonists that B&E is illegal and seeing as how the culprits were all at least 18 years of age, they would be tried as adults (and I'm not sure he had to explain much further). Then, they phoned our hosts, which explained the 3 am wake-up.
The next morning, we all lounged and got to know each other over bagels and schmear, and then I caught a ride to the LIRR and rode into the sweltering city and my very busy job.
The week has been swell. The bookstore is doing fine in the summer, especially since we've installed 2 new A/C units that help keep things cool while browsers crowd the shelves. I rang up a special celebrity yesterday, but in the interest of preserving his privacy, I'll only mention he had good taste and spent a nice chunk of change.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go shower for the third time today.
It's been months, and while there may not have seemed to be much to tell, I get the urge to cram a whole story in this space. Fear not, gentle reader, I will spare you the digest of the changing seasons.
We are only just in the thick of summer, and while last week kept citizens' hopes up in the high seventies, the Fourth of July forward has been pure misery. I wish I could say I was exaggerating, but 100 degrees Fahrenheit melts all sense of hyperbole.
The weekend itself was lovely. Thanks to Uncle James' graduation celebration, I've connected with long-lost cousins in Brooklyn. I wish I had a better handle on this whole extended relation business, because the way I see it, family is family. Perhaps one day, my grandchildren will try to figure how they are related to my first cousins' grandchildren.
Anyways, this particular bloodline grew up in Long Island, and her own first cousins throw quite the an annual Let Freedom Ring-er.
I brought a Napa Cabbage Slaw, but when I heard the guest-list topped 200, it hardly seemed worth mentioning. I love visiting folks without pretense. Rather than sitting in the shade of the Beach house, I got along with the other side of my new cousin's line (matrilocal, wassup.) There was plenty to eat, plenty to drink, plenty to do.
It's been so long since I've been to the beach (I hardly think a spring day with Coney Island amusements counts).
We danced long into the night, but at around 11, the Brooklynite/Twentysomethings felt it was time to turn in. (I had to close shop on Monday). We said goodbye to the folks holding down the beach house and found some comfy couches to crash into at one Aunt's homebase. Falling alseep was easier said than done.
One of the long-lost cousins (who shares my hometown!) felt that everyone getting ready for bed signaled intense desire to crowd around a laptop and watch a movie! In addition, there were the adorably little yappy house dogs that reminded the guests who was boss. I reached at sleep, while I stretched out in the air-conditioning, finally nodding off around 24:00.
Around 2:30, the hosts finally stumbled home. The dogs announced this, as well as kitchen lights and it was all I could do not to eavesdrop to hear how the party had ended.
This particular 4th had been special because it also celebrated the hosts' daughter's High School Graduation (woo, teenagers!) Apparently, things were starting to get out of hand so Mama Host made a judgment call and kicked the inebriated teenagers out of her house and onto the beach of Long Island Sound. Drinking, smoking, getting loud, I'm sure we're all familiar with the circumstances upon which memorable parties usually end.
So then, things get dark again, and I drift into dreams once more.
At 3:00am, the proud graduate comes and wakes up Long-lost-Long-Island-Cousin, and asks her to come back out to the beach house. Did they decide to have a nightcap?
No gentle readers, apparently some other responsible adults had forgotten their daughter's flip-flops at the beach house and driven back to retrieve them (they were facing a 10 hour drive back to Buffalo, I guess the flip-flops were important).
When these responsible adults had left the beach house, it had been locked up and dark. When they returned, the lights were on, the door was bust open and the music was blaring. Luckily, one of the responsible adults is an officer of the law, and he must have made it very clear to the young hedonists that B&E is illegal and seeing as how the culprits were all at least 18 years of age, they would be tried as adults (and I'm not sure he had to explain much further). Then, they phoned our hosts, which explained the 3 am wake-up.
The next morning, we all lounged and got to know each other over bagels and schmear, and then I caught a ride to the LIRR and rode into the sweltering city and my very busy job.
The week has been swell. The bookstore is doing fine in the summer, especially since we've installed 2 new A/C units that help keep things cool while browsers crowd the shelves. I rang up a special celebrity yesterday, but in the interest of preserving his privacy, I'll only mention he had good taste and spent a nice chunk of change.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go shower for the third time today.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Show don't Tell
I believe seventh grade was the last year I diagrammed sentences, identified clauses, and dangled participles. (For more fun on diagramming sentences, click here)
Eighth grade was devoted to literature and expository writing.
Ninth grade explored prepositional phrases and the introduction to decanting a work of creative writing; identifying the elements that ferment into a full-bodied refreshment.
Ninth grade writing assignments were hell and nirvana. I choked on one writing assignment that required me to show, not tell that "the roller coaster was thrilling." I was probably under additional stress considering Biology, World History and the Coast Guard manual stalking my trail through Homework Forest.
Having at that time fewer than 10 years experience riding Roller Coasters, I was tentative in my treatment of building anticipation while a chain announces each foot of an ascent. The carnies with their smiles like a condemned fun-house, only half there. The hairs on the back of your neck reach for solid ground.
It is too late, testing the surety of the foam on the metal bar now, you have no choice but to meet your destiny.
You are ripped from the rules of nature and suspended over a microcosm of delight, but before you have a chance to appreciate its beauty (for the simple fact that it has not floated away!), you are yanked forward through the dark and carried upwards once more.
There comes a point where it seems to be over, the first peak was ages ago, the train will surely creak to a stop. Then, a final toss of heart to throat, and at last, but far too soon, does everything jerk back into place, hissing relief.
I agonized over the pointless details of the assignment. There were over 50 choices for "Show, Don't Tell" topics.
Was I supposed to let my teacher know which one I had chosen in the title? That seemed to forfeit the game.
Was it like a game of taboo where using the words "roller coaster" and "thrill" were automatic losses?
A whole page?
It's no secret that New York is loud, large city. Its cacophony streams throughout each day. Outside my window it includes, but is not limited to: mass transit, thrumming bass, screaming children, raving lunatics, and blaring car horns.
I've grown accustomed to most of it.
The buses help me keep time. The train makes a friendly whooshing sound as it slows to swallow more passengers.
Screaming children are a part of life, and mostly one that tends to be in bed after 11 o'clock. What's more, I've heard the same raving lunatic drop some serious gems on the sidewalk on more than one occasion. Just last week, he was urging some truants to stay in school, lest they end up a crazy mother-snackpack like he.
I even love the satisfying syllables of the freight trucks as they careen down my street towards Flushing, leaving the ground with one sweet "kuh" and falling back down with a "chunk."
I can even handle to incessant car horns of the car-service driver who is lost and wants to make all the sleeping people aware of it. And the whooping car alarms of the sorry fool who thought he would park his car at his front door? Well, I learned that tune in the suburbs.
However, there is one thing I still have not grown accustomed to, (and it is here where I try to show, not tell) the snackpackin' garbage trucks. It is a truly painful sound. Like nails on a chalk board, if the chalkboard was rusted metal and your teacher's nails were collapsing cans and glass bottles (which need to be recycled!) The pistons always already seeming to exhale their last effort, but no, this is New York and there are probably hundreds of pounds of trash left to compact on this block alone.
NYC garbage trucks are nightmares of reality, and I'm sure--if what I learned about Socrates in 12th grade was accurate--Plato would have urged us to stay in the caves, content with the puppetry, so as never to deal with the amount of waste we create in the world.
Eighth grade was devoted to literature and expository writing.
Ninth grade explored prepositional phrases and the introduction to decanting a work of creative writing; identifying the elements that ferment into a full-bodied refreshment.
Ninth grade writing assignments were hell and nirvana. I choked on one writing assignment that required me to show, not tell that "the roller coaster was thrilling." I was probably under additional stress considering Biology, World History and the Coast Guard manual stalking my trail through Homework Forest.
Having at that time fewer than 10 years experience riding Roller Coasters, I was tentative in my treatment of building anticipation while a chain announces each foot of an ascent. The carnies with their smiles like a condemned fun-house, only half there. The hairs on the back of your neck reach for solid ground.
It is too late, testing the surety of the foam on the metal bar now, you have no choice but to meet your destiny.
You are ripped from the rules of nature and suspended over a microcosm of delight, but before you have a chance to appreciate its beauty (for the simple fact that it has not floated away!), you are yanked forward through the dark and carried upwards once more.
There comes a point where it seems to be over, the first peak was ages ago, the train will surely creak to a stop. Then, a final toss of heart to throat, and at last, but far too soon, does everything jerk back into place, hissing relief.
I agonized over the pointless details of the assignment. There were over 50 choices for "Show, Don't Tell" topics.
Was I supposed to let my teacher know which one I had chosen in the title? That seemed to forfeit the game.
Was it like a game of taboo where using the words "roller coaster" and "thrill" were automatic losses?
A whole page?
It's no secret that New York is loud, large city. Its cacophony streams throughout each day. Outside my window it includes, but is not limited to: mass transit, thrumming bass, screaming children, raving lunatics, and blaring car horns.
I've grown accustomed to most of it.
The buses help me keep time. The train makes a friendly whooshing sound as it slows to swallow more passengers.
Screaming children are a part of life, and mostly one that tends to be in bed after 11 o'clock. What's more, I've heard the same raving lunatic drop some serious gems on the sidewalk on more than one occasion. Just last week, he was urging some truants to stay in school, lest they end up a crazy mother-snackpack like he.
I even love the satisfying syllables of the freight trucks as they careen down my street towards Flushing, leaving the ground with one sweet "kuh" and falling back down with a "chunk."
I can even handle to incessant car horns of the car-service driver who is lost and wants to make all the sleeping people aware of it. And the whooping car alarms of the sorry fool who thought he would park his car at his front door? Well, I learned that tune in the suburbs.
However, there is one thing I still have not grown accustomed to, (and it is here where I try to show, not tell) the snackpackin' garbage trucks. It is a truly painful sound. Like nails on a chalk board, if the chalkboard was rusted metal and your teacher's nails were collapsing cans and glass bottles (which need to be recycled!) The pistons always already seeming to exhale their last effort, but no, this is New York and there are probably hundreds of pounds of trash left to compact on this block alone.
NYC garbage trucks are nightmares of reality, and I'm sure--if what I learned about Socrates in 12th grade was accurate--Plato would have urged us to stay in the caves, content with the puppetry, so as never to deal with the amount of waste we create in the world.
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