A baby bird in the mean streets of Harlem. August 26, 2008

Today I saw a tiny bird on the busy sidewalks on 125th St. I watched a lady hovering over the bird for a few moments, and when she was walking past me I asked her if it was okay. She said that she thought it had fallen from a nest, probably built behind one of the lit-up store signs, and was scared it would be trampled on. She continued on her path to the subway and I cautiously walked towards the bird.

 His feathers were all ruffled and downy. His neck appeared to have sunken into his body and his tiny black eyes glinted slightly with the 10 a.m. sun. His beak was orange and sharp but not at all frightening. I didn’t know what to do. I knew that if I touched him, his mother would leave him for dead. I knew that an ex-boyfriend would know what to do, but we recently had a falling out over a stupid hat that I borrowed to convince him that it was a good hat, when really, it wasn’t a very good hat at all. By the time he got back to me, it would be too late.

I hovered over the bird for a while, since he was at the turn of a corner I thought perhaps my stake-out of that spot of cement would keep people at a safe distance from him. I looked straight up at the tall building he was below and saw no sign of a mother bird or a nest. I searched some more, my eyes straining against a glare off a large window. I realized that I couldn’t stand there all day protecting the baby bird, and began walking down the block to see if I could find a police officer.

I couldn’t stand having my back turned to him, and in a sad helpless desire to shelter the baby bird from harm, I turned around and I stared. I stopped there and watched him as people walked by, barely missing him with their clunky and ignorant feet. My throat was oiled, ready to scream out to anybody who cast the shadow of their heel over its body.

I kept checking my watch, looking about for a police car or somebody walking by wearing an article of clothing that implied they’d know what to do. My eyes began to brim with tears. There was nothing I possessed that could help. There was no way for me to save the little, helpless bird on the busy, angry street that whirled maniacally with people who didn’t watch where they were going.

Suddenly, a large man turned the corner sharply, inches away from stepping on the bird. The scream was in my throat, the hand gesture that implies “STOP” was already in full position, when my heart was almost suffocated from the surge of fear, the tiny bird shot off, zooming through the air like a bullet from a hot pistol across the street and took shelter above the deli where he was either laughing at me or thanking me warmly for my concern.

A train of thought: August 25, 2008

SPF 50 degrading in the sun.
I wrapped the flowers in newspaper.
When I left I didn’t really want to go until I realized that you were going to let me.
Started saving coins in a jar like other people do.
Battle lines of Raid surround the bed that only I have slept in.
I did not appreciate anything beautiful yesterday.
Wearing Halloween underwear in August.
My short toenails collect dirt.
I do not own a vacuum.
I live in one.
There are things I have not seen.
I lusted for a Dominican woman last night on my walk home. She was slender and had a sharp face.
Pairs of shoes lined up in the same row allow me to feel at home when I leave.
My legs are not for running, they are for walking slowly to appreciate where I am.
Perhaps, now, I am satiated.
I met a 3-year old, captivating blond girl in a dream, twice. I think of her during the day. Now she won’t return to me.
I never got to tell you that I feel like you are a funeral I wasn’t invited to.
I painted a picture of you once. It was terrible so I felt it was an accurate portrayal.
Cords and boards fill the floors.
I think I may have been happier before I met you.

I Hate Emily Dickenson August 15, 2008

When I was 8 my brother had a crush on a neighbor girl named Anna and I thought I would help him win her affection by writing her a poem that my brother could claim he wrote and then she would fall in love with him.

It was entitled “Ode to Anna S.” and it compared her skin to milk.

Also, when I was a freshman in highschool I took a writing course. I was the only freshman in the class and  terribly timid. I wrote a few awful pieces about being depressed and living in small town america.

The teacher of the course said I reminded him of a young Emily Dickenson.

I wonder if 8 years from now I will look at what I am writing and say, “Oh, how awful! How immature!” and laugh at myself and the authors who inspire me as I do looking back to my 8 year old and 14 year old self, now, on a Friday morning recalling my past experiences in writing.

Things I accomplished today that make me happy: August 9, 2008

Purchasing a desk, a chair, and a dresser for my new apartment
Assembling my new bed so that I can sleep in it
Having groceries delivered and eating a veggie burger with company
Walking around, looking at curtains
Bargaining for stuff in Spanish

Moving forward with my life with the help of other people

I keep thinking about… August 8, 2008

how old people and babies can die from the common cold, and how somebody had to have passed the cold onto them, and how maybe you or me or somebody else has accidentally killed another human being without knowing it just by sneezing into our hands or coughing or hugging somebody else.

Anyways, it makes me feel terrible.

Another thing to try forgiving New York City for August 6, 2008

Yesterday, on the downtown B, I was sobbing. One of those sobs where the more you try to stifle crying, the harder it comes. And people kept piling in, and I was trying to stay silent, but people were staring. In the time it took the local train to depart 125th st. and arrive at 7th ave and 57th st. not a single person offered me a tissue or a compassionate look.

With a soaked face and dripping nose I darted into the nearest drug store and picked up my own goddamned pack of tissues, took care of my mess-of-a-face and headed towards work.

I think, more than anything, it is the perfect metaphor for my life in New York. Utterly alone and surrounded by people who lack the urgency of social responsibility. They forget, I think, that the rest of us are human beings, too.