Showing posts with label fragment. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fragment. Show all posts

25.9.20

Street Photography: 74th Street in Jackson Heights, Queens (Plus Some Creative Writing)

     What was supposed to be a walk to increase my daily steps turned into a journey. People pop out. Restaurants offer outside seating. The night is crisp. Saturn and Jupiter are still visible in the sky — on the way to convergence. I wanted to get more faces in my photographs. But the moments passed by too quickly. I saw a masked guy in a cab. He was balefully looking out a window. The Q49 bus runs along 74th Street. Wear your mask. 

     Today in class an adolescent pupil couldn’t answer a question — so she said to me, “This question makes me feel unsafe.” I was taken aback by her statement. It’s the Covid. I imagined her shrieking out of class. By an unsafe question. I’m teaching a course on mythology. And one characteristic of myth is the unknown. So I get it, girl. Stuff gets real. From chaos to calm. From the womb to the tomb.

Selfie

The Q49 bus in Jackson Heights rolls down 74th Street on a Friday night.

Lit up trees dot 74th Street in the Jackson Heights neighborhood of Queens.

A bagger at a grocery store on 74th Street in the Jackson Heights neighborhood of Queens checks his back-pocket.

A cat peers out from beneath a car.

A shop window on 74th Street in Jackson Heights features South Asian fashion.

23.9.12

On Writing: Late Night Post On Practice Makes Perfect


On writing, and why practice makes perfect.
A joy wall we made at school.

Developmental argument: Practice makes perfect. I look at stuff I wrote when I was thirteen and think, "who was that?"
My friend Glenn and I ate lunch in the 
museum café and then saw the exhibit Lifelike.
Retrospect argument: I look at the stuff I wrote yesterday and think, "ain't perfect but better."
Words I tell myself: Experience contributes to the adage practice makes perfect.
Invasion of the Body Snatchers: Or maybe writing is simply creating several versions of oneself.
Psychopathology of Everyday Life: It is spooky to find something in a discarded notebook with your name inscribed at the top but the contents are alien to your very sense of being.

24.1.10

Fragment: The Moon Shines Bright

2.4.09

Aphorism With Image: "Hemmed"


I write when I am hemmed into a corner. Profile on me: sitting at my school desk surrounded by papers.

image: M.C. Escher, Drawing Hands, 1948, lithograph, 11 1/8 x 13 1/8 inches