It is almost silent. 
There is the air outside, that vague sound, but it is low, quieter than the buzz in my ears. My fingers tap and stop. I adjust myself, scrape my shoe along the floor. I think. The city could be dead. 
It is empty in my head. The sirens are broken, the streets deserted. There is nothing out there. I am alone. The apocalypse has been. The noise of everything else is only in my head.
I am in a forest, and now a desert, and now in space, where I have always been, destined for another place, waiting to get there, so that I might find a place to be quiet again and write about that, alone in the silence, the air, the world reduced to the buzzing in my ears.
Tag Archives: New York City
New York Through Dirty Windows
I like this city. 
Some say it is dirty and full of garbage. 
Maybe they are right. 
But I still like this city.
Winter “Buzz” scene
The snow was deep, some drifts as high as 15 feet. 
He made a cave and sat there alone. The walls were more blue than white. He stretched his legs legs out and watched his breath float in clouds, listening to his snowsuit crinkling and then the shifting and cracking of the snow.
He heard steps, his father and Mr. Wylie.
“Huson had a break-in?”
“They went after his motor, chained to his Ski-Doo. Cut the goddamned thing off.”
“I heard they were in Reynolds’ place last week.”
“Left the door wide open. Ruined the floor.”
“They catch anyone?”
“Kids, goddamn good-for-nothings.”
Their voices vanished. He stared at a tiny animal trail going into a frozen hole. He only saw the animals dead on the road, frozen and squashed. 
Love Portal at 14th Street Station
Lots of people busk in the New York subway, but there is no show like this. 
Love Portal is comprised of three guys who dance crazily, bouncing off each other and the walls, in this instance to Steppenwolf’s Born to Be Wild. 
I have no idea what any of it meant, and I don’t think they were too clear about that either. 
Said the guy with pantyhose over his face to the guy in the body-stocking after it was over, “What’s your name again?”
Super Bowl Boulevard: A Whole Lotta Nothing
The Super Bowl is in New York with the cold hype of hyping hype.
Broadway is closed from 47th down to 34th with kiosks and sad fanfare. 
They recommend pre-registration, but it doesn’t even work, not the badges, neither the machines.
There is a promise of giveaways, kicking field goals, seeing the Vince Lombardi trophy, playing trivia contests. 
But the process is slow, often broken, with the long lines stuck in the dark, cold and endless. 
A Storm with No Name
New York has been hit by the unthinkable – a storm without a name. 
People are cold.
Transport is slowed. 
And now it’s getting dark. 
What are we going to do?!
Dead Things in the Street
I can’t move my head. Not even my shoulders. I am pinned, a bright side light on my face and neck.
I am flat and horrible, my eyes wide, stuck against the ground. Stuck there, panicking. I can’t even move my leg. I have no control. I am completely helpless, trapped by monsters, people I don’t know, who have left me here to die, to be tortured and think nothing of it.
I try to close my eyes to make it go away, but it is still there. I can’t move. I want to scream but I can’t even do that. I am stuck in this silence with not even myself, with nothing but my labored miserable loneliness.
(Yeah, I know. I always end with a tree.)
The Art’s Behind You
It was a scene at Emilio Perez‘s Thursday night opening at Galerie Lelong.
The Art’s Behind You
The crowds were thick, the talk excited; there was even a man with a seven-foot feather in his hat. I should have taken a picture of that.
New York Images: Calatrava to Bieber
A few New York images:
Santiago Calatrava’s World Trade Transportation Hub going up
Not Quite Eye-to-Eye
From $100 each to garbage in just three weeks
A musical comedy perhaps?
Fuck You, Christmas Tree Too
I already told you, Christmas Tree. 
Weren’t you listening?
Fuck you. 
How could you fall for this all over again? 
You think that we care because we take you into our homes and dress you up? 
How stupid could you be? 
We use you, Christmas Tree.
We just pretend to care.
And then we throw you out. 
You’re garbage. 
So get into your mulcher and let us get on with our lives. 
Until we want to pretend again. 
Until then, remember what we said. “Fuck you, Christmas Tree.” 