I like your solution.

“Thinking outside the box by burning the box down.”

filter

“i’m not sure if I’m interested in people who aren’t white-collar workers — you think that’s something i should get over?”

“prejudice? yea. i think so.”

miles per hour

no one had spoken in 17 minutes. she knew this because it read 10:15 on the dashboard and the clock’s 2 minutes slow.

about 5 minutes ago she relented on saying anything more, instead curling deeper into her seat. Her position was surprisingly comfortable, head cradled by the seatbelt she always thought was closer to strangling her than saving her.

she was beginning to fall asleep, lulled by the vibrations of the car speeding along the narrow highway — where were they anyway? she puzzled for an instant, before discarding that, too, into the silent mess. but like always, he wouldn’t let her just be.

“you never really liked them, did you?”

“what? your paintings? of course I did.”

“no, you’re just saying that because you don’t want to hurt me.”

“you’re right. i don’t want to hurt you. and you’re also driving the car, so i don’t want to hurt me.”

“i knew it.”

she had barely even opened her eyes. in fact, she rarely ever looked at him when he went on one of his self-deprecating episodes, clawing at her for approval, reassurance. he hungrily accepted pity, which was good for her because lately, that was all she could muster. it had gotten too difficult to look into his eyes, see them searching hers for validation that she didn’t even have for herself. but unlike her, he was easily appeased.

they had left together to live in a remote town in new hampshire. like any self-proclaimed artist, they wanted to escape survival to pursue life. so far, he had a few shows, mostly local — flea markets, firemen’s fairs — nothing too high stakes. he claimed to like the simplicity of it all. people either liked his work or they didn’t, and they told him to his face. that part, he didn’t like so much. he attributed their attitude to their small-townness, their uncultured palates, their banal concepts of aesthetics. she didn’t have much to say to that. it was his own decision to expose his work — sometimes with the paint still wet — to the public.

they had fallen silent again and she felt compelled to check up on him. yup, his eyes were glassy, tears bracing for descent against those thick eyelashes she had always been envious of.

“stop crying.”

“what?” she had startled him, and the instant his head turned in response to the direction of her voice, a tear, too, betrayed him.

“i can see it. it’s passing your nose…and now it’s at your chin.”

“shut up. give me a tissue.”

“i don’t have any. use your sleeve.”

so he did.

and then she remembered when he had said those same words to her as they drove away from the city. she, staring out the window at the skyline, leaving the only place she loved for someone she thought she loved to be someone she didn’t love; and he, next to her, saying that he loved her, but only because he needed her.

["Looking at New York." See Crispy]

a long run

There are roughly three New Yorks.

There is, first, the New York of the man or woman who was born here,
who takes the city for granted and accepts its size
and its turbulence as natural and inevitable.

Second, there is the New York of the commuter –
the city that is devoured by locusts each day and spat out each night.

Third, there is the New York of the person who was born somewhere else
and came to New York in quest of something.

Of these three trembling cities the greatest is the last — the city of final destination, the city that is a goal. It is this third city that accounts for New York’s high-strung disposition, its poetical deportment, its dedication to the arts, and its incomparable achievements. Commuters give the city its tidal restlessness, natives give it solidity and continuity, but the the settlers give it passion.

E.B. White

if only

“I think Obama is starting to get a little desperate. After losing the Olympics last week, he scaled back a little bit. Like, today, he was in New York, making the case for Chicago-style pizza.” — Leno, Oct. 6th

Just had Uno’s last night. Oil-charged, “pastry-like” crust, layer of tomato sauce, layer of cheese, layer of sausage, and more tomato sauce holding together pepperoni, onions, peppers, mushrooms. SO YOM.

Can ya taste it?