Even when “Someone” seems mad, I still love the view from my room.

It’s Monday, October 4, 2010. I yank the cord, and the blinds zip up the pane.

I don’t feel like a spy; I’m not close enough to be spying, but I want to catch up on the day.

It’s like how I know my roommate is in her room, because light strobes from under her door, and shadows flicker.

The mountain conceals enough to hide exactness yet reveals enough to spark curiosity.

Damn my curiosity.

There may be no mystery: the joke may be on me. I wait, regardless.

In less than fifteen minutes, the glowing vagueness dissipates, and only clear blue emerges.

What Is Real

These were in the sky Friday evening:





Some friends and I surfaced from the 2nd Avenue stop from the F train. In the Lower East Side, the skyline is lower than just about anywhere else in town, and I looked up, and I just kept looking up. I could scarcely believe my eyes. Of course, with the camera I couldn’t capture the clouds the way my eyeballs did at the time. This is pretty close, though. The colors and the textures and shapes, the brushstrokes; the orangey-pink light suspending rows and rows of cottonballs just beyond my reach, this is all real. My friends saw the sky, too, though I can’t account for their experience. Even if I didn’t have the camera, and I couldn’t convince you, I know what I saw, if only for my personal witness – the instantaneous speechlessness, wonderment and veneration in my soul as I raised my eyes to the sky – burned into my memory.