monday morning.

Lately I’m finding inspiration in the simple words of other human beings, unguarded, off guard and generally observational. But the words are revelatory of the writer’s depth of thought and consciousness and ability to see a moment for more than just the physical actions being played out before them, while the figures of study unaware of their identity as actor in the everyday scene. For this everyday scene is suddenly a rupture from the mundane routine. And all that it takes is an Other, an observer, to feel the rupture. It becomes something else; or at least the false bottom drops away like one’s heart upon the decent of a rollercoaster, the future opens up and this gaping past-of-choices propels it. Like an hourglass where the sand slides through the narrow passage for but an instant, where above and below open wide like arms readying for an embrace, the moment slows for a point, just long enough to glimpse and maybe even to feel, before things change and the sands slide on.

A long way to reach something I look forward to every Monday: The Metropolitan Diary in the New York Times. I can’t get last Monday’s mention of stifled poetic possibility out of my head. And today, a whole bouquet of scenes to bloom all the week’s rest.

On tuning out {"On the L.I.R.R."}

On saving the world  and On the sweetness of New York, when all would seem bitter  {The first and the final letters}