A September Morning

The lights have dimmed and the shine has dulled and

the loudest of the lot have become so sullen.

The city of charm and romance, the city that claims to never sleep,

the flowers that once glistened, the butterflies and the angels retire and weep.

Their beautiful mouths now hidden from view beneath those protective masks--

Thin as paper, stretching across those unfathomably fragile faces.

All of the lovelies, the models, our radiant neighbors-- their perfectly shaped lips covered with film of debris, the remnants of a trademark dissipate into the sea.

Those beautiful eyes, crying tears which mix with the dirt on your cheeks. You wipe it away but the dust still collects and collects. It collects and collects and your efforts are in vain. You do what you can to ease the pain but the bodies fall and the children are slain.

You can't escape the thrust of the cloud, and all those attempts to make your parents proud, all of it for nothing just like your attempts to wipe away the dust that settles on your once colorful face.

You can't escape the force of the smoke, and I can't forgive those who misspoke, assuming we had their trust when all we have is this inescapable, omnipresent dust.

The most vibrant borough covered in brown and gray--

These shades of sorrow are forever here to stay.

The remnants of the city of the fearless and brave, buried under sheets of that ashen Tuesday.

The murky depths of Hell rise into the streets. Colorless waves consume unapologetically, mile upon mile until the walls appear bleak and the air smells vile. Pallid faces and wan, waxen hair, I look into your eyes with a dismal stare. You glance over and the overcast skies match your anxiety-ridden eyes.

Hoary streetlights and civilians collecting dust, an entire city reduced to brown and gray. Here today, gone tomorrow, stand proud once, eventually fall in sorrow. Every glance stricken with pain and every hand trembling in grief except those responsible who were granted a reprieve.

The Lost World of Iconoclast Park

I was going through old shite in that darkened abyss I have dubbed my closet, and encountered the 2007-2008 yearbook from the highly acclaimed Hewitt School: 45 East 75th Street. After recovering from having died a little bit due to seeing the cover of the yearbook's "Express Yourself" theme (which was absolutely ironic considering they excelled in hindering most forms of self expression), I decided to browse through it.

If you know me in the slightest, you know that I detest everything about the Hewitt School and dreaded my experience there. If you don't know me at all, allow me to tell you that, in my eyes, that school is about as prestigious as a golden gilded shit can. Masked by ostentatious portraits of previous headmistresses (including Ms. Hewitt, herself) and a seemingly out of place grand piano in the library, the students were about as sharp as the convex surface of a plastic spoon. We had Smartboards© though. Those were radical.

Anyway, this post has not been created for the purpose of complaining. A striking thought came to me as I was reading the few student autographs I had in my yearbook. In essence, I was astonished to read these because they remembered me in the way I've always wished to be remembered by people, which I sure as hell didn't expect. I had no idea that I had an impact on some of those girls; I thought I was the least suitable person whom they would even consider learning from and the least likely candidate to come along and inspire them. Anyway, to provide context, here is one of the entries I received on that grand last day at the Hewitt School.

"Shit, where do I begin? You've been here for 2 years (in great pain) and yet you've still managed to offer something great. You are one of those people who come along and stretch my mind. I will miss the conversations we have after Advisory, and being able to look across the room at you and know that someone just 'gets it'. You say what you think, not what others want you to think. You are sanity and originality, brilliance and analysis, even in this ocean of stillness and conformity. I hope you continue to question everything and fight the fight, and one day reach peace. I can't thank you enough because I feel like I won't realize everything I learned from you until I get the opportunity to implement it."

I made a conscious effort to rebel in a myriad ways when I went to Hewitt. It sometimes got me into trouble but it always gave me gratification. We all were forced to look the same via uniforms, so I felt an obligation to make it clear that I was not one of them despite our physical homogeneity. While I do not feel any spirit of warm kindredness toward those girls, I do appreciate that they took the time for one day out of the school year to let me know that my struggle to salvage my originality taught them a little bit about the nature of iconoclasm. God knows if they'll retain it, but that's not where my quandary lies.

My issue is the fact that it is in our times of struggle and adversity that we realize the true meaning of discovering who we are and presenting it to the world. Since I never found my comfort zone in New York, I had to work extra hard to develop a sense of self. Now, I live in California and feel happier with my station in life. I wonder if feeling too situated is a curse, for it destroys that little engine encased in the shrouds of displacement and uneasiness which propels us to find a sense of home and identity.

I think this affliction affects the weak minded and complacent. I try to remind myself every day that we are never truly done growing up until the day we die. Therefore, we cannot become too fixed into our niches; we will miss out on so much learning, growth, and joy.

Panem et Circenses

Hello there my young child. Put that book down and listen to me. My, what a beautiful piece of carbon-based wastage you’re growing up to be! It’s 8:42 am. We’re losing contact. Allow me to nurture you. See how I provide you with the illusion of choice with your 500 channels? Bow down to me. I’m responsible for making Vladimir cry. He envies my ability to vegetate you. It’s 8:46 am. Flight 11 impacts the North Tower. Sit right there. Continue to absorb as I sensationalize. It’s 8:52 am. The F-15s are scrambling. These problems don’t affect you. We’ll get around to fixing them. Stay complacent in your contentment with the war—you’re not the one fighting it. It’s 9:00 am. Flight 77 hits the pentagon. Sit still. Allow me to offer you more short term government palliatives. I know you’ll unwittingly comply. You and I have formed a lovely relationship. You’re bored, I entertain you. You’re disgruntled and I pacify you. I am your baseline necessity. You need me. It’s 9:02 am. Flight 175 impacts the South Tower. Some say I’m sick. They say I should be reformed in order to counteract the natural tendency to seek power. I say fuck ‘em. If you wanna watch The Bachelor getting screwed over by the scantily clad cheap trick in the red, you go for it. It’s 9:21 am. The Port Authority orders all bridges and tunnels in New York to close. You know something? You’re much, much cuter as an inactive, sleeping pawn. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. You’re one big myoma that thinks your planet supports you and you alone, and let’s keep it that way. It’s 10:03am. Flight 93 crashes. Except there are no plane parts. And the hole in the ground is only 14 feet wide. But you weren’t supposed to know that. Young child, don’t let anyone tell you I’m trying to infect you. You’re a pathetic example of earth’s organic heritage, but I adore you! I see you spend with careless abandon, but I love you anyway. Remember back in March, 2003? The Gallop poll asserted that 51 percent of your fellow Americans thought Saddam Hussein was personally responsible for 9/11. That’s all my doing. No need to thank me. So remember, baby doll, listen and listen good—the only way to ensure progress for a more perfect union is to remember who your goddamn boss is.