I’m currently reading “Life of Pi” by Yann Martel. I’m truly enjoying it and can’t wait to finish. Anyway, the point is that the novel has inspired me to do a bit of writing. Martel has a writing style that I was tempted enough to try to imitate. In chapter 35, as the Patel family is leaving India, Pi lists all of the things his mother would miss about India. So, I decided to write my own piece about New York. While I don’t think it’s quite finished yet and I will most likely come back to it again and again for additions and subtractions, I thought I’d share it regardless.
New York of…
Of dog lovers in Central Park.
Of 153 square blocks of green surrounded by steel grey.
Of subway performances and subway beggars.
Of unity in diversity—Harlem, Spanish Harlem, Chinatown, Little Italy, Greenwich Village.
Of taxi cab drivers attempting to run you over.
Of absentminded tourists walking with their eyes—and their cameras—pointing towards the sky.
Of grumbling natives side-stepping around them during lunch breaks.
Of gyro carts, bicycle taxis and modern horse and buggies.
Of dinosaur exhibits at the Museum of Natural History.
Of monkeys, polar bears and giraffes at the Bronx Zoo.
Of hours spent in the local public library doing everything, but reading.
Of fierce drag queens, men in prosthetics on trains and undiscovered street artists.
Of slushy snow residue covered streets.
Of sun-reflecting skyscrapers.
Of twin towers suddenly brought down.
Of communities brought together by loss.
Of longing glances into 5th avenue shop windows and their clientele.
Of metaphorical big apples.
Of bright light illuminating 3am as if it was noon.
Of a city that never sleeps.
Of a people who are more than unique.
New York.
So…. what do you think? Any good?
Did I miss an essential aspect of what makes New York what it is? If so, leave your suggestion in the comments!
Laters,
Tuma
This legendary and very beautiful village, steeped in folklore and immortalized by Washington Irving's "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow", boasts several world famous landmarks including Philipsburg Manor, the Old Dutch Church and the Rockefeller Family Estate Kykuit. Once called North Tarrytown, the name was officially changed to Sleepy Hollow in 1996.Onto the pictures. I chose of few of my favorites to share. Hope you like them. Please leave your comments and critiques in the comments.
http://www.sleepyhollowny.gov/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=130&Itemid=194
In the middle of Ricky’s Costume Superstore, I stand, arms tender and shaking from the weight of numerous costume choices. With limited vision, I slowly make my way to the dressing room, mumbling “5” to the clerk in answer to her barely audible question of ‘how many items?’ Walking into dressing room 13, my lucky number, I throw my burden onto the seat, before turning to shut and lock the door. Click.Taking a deep breath, and a quick look at my watch—crap, only have 20 minutes—I quickly grab the first costume and put it on.Twisting one way, then the other, the four mirror-covered walls capture the khaki shorts, polo tee, shades and imitation camera around my neck. I stop, lean closer, scrunch up my nose, make a decision. Nature photographer for National Geographic? No.Costume Number Two: A white coat, stethoscope, smiley face sticker and lollipops as props. Single shake of head. Pediatrician? Nuh-uh.Costume Number Three: Business wear, microphone, notebook and pen. …Still not quite right. Journalist? Not happening.Costume Number Four: Business wear again, more old-fashioned. Silver wire rimmed glasses attached to a sterling silver chain. Pile of books in arm. Closer look in mirror. Nearly, not quite. Love the books, not the rest. Librarian? No way.Costume Number Five: Business wear once again. Sigh…but wait? Another look—more casual, comfortable. Grade book and novels in one hand. Apple in the other. Staring intensely, straighten up. Turn this way, turn that way. A smile. It’s perfect. Almost.If only I was in—wind, gust, momentarily blindness, ending—in a classroom.A blink. Another. Gaze clears. One pair of brown eyes meets 25 other pairs in varying shades.In those eyes—25 desperate hopes, 25 whimsical dreams, 25 inquiring minds, 25 windows—some clear, some dim—to 25 fledgling souls, 25 rare chances for 25 daily successes, beginning with a single line interpreted 25 many ways by 25 unique beings.Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Today we’re going to learn…How to read, to write, to explore, to live.How to scream, yell, give voice to pain.How to survive, to be, to succeed.How to care, to love, to share.How to rearrange the letters in D-R-E-A-M and make them R-E-A-L-I-T-Y.How to fly, to run, to jump.How to smile, to laugh, to grin, to smirk.How to…Sudden wind, gust, momentarily blindness. A blink. Another. Gaze clears. One pair of brown eyes looking at their twin. In those eyes—a single burning flame of passion, a single determination, a single goal to be the greatest English teacher to ever live.Another look at my wrist, “Time to go.” Frantic undressing, messy repackaging. One last guilty look at the mess left behind, I unlock the door and hurry to the register. ‘Will that be all?’ ‘Yes, found the perfect one’. Proud Smile. “That’s be $200,000, please’. Cringe, wince. Reluctant handing over of credit card. Deep breath. In six years, it’ll be worth it.
Six wooden pieces with their matching wooden frame. They were meant to form a single image. Unable to see much clearly through the tears in my eyes, I sullenly attempted to force the pieces into place. One by one, I made them fit. One by one my tears dried as the image slowly appeared. A final smile of triumph as the final piece found its rightful space and the image showed itself to me.It was the halfway through the first day of kindergarten and I played with puzzles alone as the class did something else. It had been an emotionally stressful day for the smaller-than-average five-year-old that was me. Being ripped away from the arms of a loving mother. Abandoned with a promise of returning soon. Attempted escape when soon didn’t seem to be soon enough. Thwarted, as the teacher zipped down the hall after me. Finally, hope that maybe this strange place called “school” wasn’t so bad, as I played endlessly with toys for the rest of the day.
It wasn’t something that I would normally notice, but something made me look up that day to notice the sign. It was diamond shaped, yellow with black lettering—like any other pedestrian crossing sign really. Except, this one was turned the wrong way, almost as if we were meant to walk down the road. As I stared at it, my mind flittered with thoughts of reasons for the sign being turned: maybe they had changed the direction of the road; is it possible to simply move a road in any way, but then why not change the sign too? May-be some idiot kid moved the sign, I finally thought dismissing the stupid sign.Just as I turned away to continue on my way to class, I heard a loud, piercing shriek. ‘What the hell?’ I thought as I whipped my head around to look up at the large skeletal tree behind me. As my eyes followed up the paths of its leaf-less branches, I saw it perched at the very top. “A crow,” I breathed softly. “Or a raven. A bad omen”. I looked up again at the turned sign. I shuddered once and shook my head. "I should probably lay off the Edgar Allen Poe for a while,” I chuckled and finally went on my way to class.
Where I’m FromI’m from the Boogie Down,The BX – born and raised.From a seat of power –Leader of four younger siblings.From a journey made by a young couple.From a world lost in words, butNever at a loss for words.From Judy Blume and R.L Stine.From Double Dutch and meltingIce pops on the corner after school.From relatives too many to count.
