Turn a cartwheel,
Feet over hands over feet.
Turn the world upside down.

The shaking of my perception,
Changed the way I looked at life,
And low the life I looked at changed,

Correlating into a continual cartwheel,
Tumbling through tumult,
Cycling through calm,
Lacing life together,
Feet over hands over feet.

At times it seems that if I don’t write, my core will burst in a silent explosion contained within a white-washed face and vacant expression. Inside me, tension builds into a boiling blister in want of a voice, whose instrument of burst is my pen, my keyboard and the freedom they allow me.
Yet, in light of my aforementioned recent bout of writer’s block, I find myself worried that a lack of literary fluidity will take a toll on my sense of balance. As a result, I am much less concerned by the fact that any writings I have produce of late have been rambling. If sprawling sentences and disconnected discourse is what it takes to get words out and onto the page, so be it.
Thus, for the meantime, tight thesis papers shall be sacrificed for erratic sixty-second sketches drawn by my mind’s eye and thinly sewn into a scattered semblance of my state of mind.

Out the window of a second floor Silver center lecture hall I watch and old man sitting on a park bench in Washington Square Park, his navy blue crewneck clashes against the deadened yellow leaves left littered about, piled up against green trash bins, and gathered about the legs of benches. My navy sweatered subject holds his balding head in his hands, leaning forward and to his side, body propped upon the bench’s armrest. I wonder if he is cold – his picture is so pleasing from my place in this college classroom so far removed and I must remind myself of my own freedom, the fact that, should I so desire, I could leave this class to sit beside my balding man, whiling away long hours amongst carelessly discarded coffee cups, squirrels, and pigeons, all within a frame of falling yellow leaves.

Of Choice, Passion, and Potential Sacrifice~

Home for any reason automatically means Ham. When given the opportunity to spend any time whatsoever in the country, I immediately prioritize the visitation of my dearest friend, a horse named Ham who just so happens to be my soul mate. Not once have I returned home to see him that I have not proclaimed my intentions to take a break from city life, move out to the country and once again, throw myself into horses with complete abandon.

My high school years were so horse crazy that I basically sacrificed all semblance of a social life in order to train with complete focus. It may not have been the most balanced of approaches but it certainly served a purpose and allowed Ham and I to achieve our greatest goals. Yet as with most intense undertakings, I experienced a bit of burn out which led me to place NYU at the top of my desired colleges list. It was one of the best decisions I have made to date as my beloved New York City has enabled me to open my conception of self above and beyond that of a self contained and single minded barn rat.

Three years down the road, still loving NYU yet missing Ham and my horse girl identity, I find myself at a crossroads. Two proverbial paths stretch out before me, one in the direction of horses, New England weather, my little blue car, long days at horse shows, and giving riding lessons. Down the other way I see myself embraced by Manhattan, walking fast and full of life, finding excitement around each corner. In my heart, I wish I could do both and wonder how such a dualistic scheme could be implemented. I cannot be in two places at the same time and to try and split my time evenly would surely result in a reverberating fragmentation throughout all areas of my life. Yesterday a dear friend said to me, “I know what I am doing, but not where I am going”; I recall thinking that, with purpose, location does not matter and will surely fall into place. As of now, however, it seems that, location does in a way dictate what it is I will be doing…and I wonder which path I will chose to wander, knowing that is it implausible to travel down diverging roads at the same time. Will choice automatically mean sacrifice?

Lately I have had such writer’s block. The only words that I can seem to produce in any synchronistic fashion, are through poetry, a medium I admit to being a bit unsure of. My inability to feel inspired by any essays that I begin is perhaps rooted in confusion…lately I don’t seem to know where to focus my attention.

Energy is moving in my world, and with so much action comes hesitation and some fear. There are times when I am so sure of who I am and others when I feel at a complete loss as to the true nature of my character. At these times I genuinely wonder if I am the same person on the outside as within? It seems that people look at me without seeing me whatsoever. Perhaps I am completely binary and only truly myself when alone and free to be bare, ugly, sloppy, tired, and strange. Or perhaps everyone feels this way?

Dear wind,
Slip me over your shoulder and carry me.
Hold me like a hammock.
Cradle and cook for me.

I’ll put my hands in your hair at the nape of your neck,
And smile in your ear.

What does it mean to be vulnerable?

Stripped of all armor I walk naked to the street.
Fully permeable.

Pliable.
Like a dollop of paint in want of a brush.
Like soup in want of a spoon.

If you swallow me whole, you may spit me out.
If I tumble into light, will I find my entirety,
Or will I discover my downfall?

New York City, for its metamorphic nature is also quite dependable. Like an old friend, there are certain things about this city that are never going to change. For instance, no matter what, when it rains, the city streets will transform into a sea of black umbrellas. Taxi cabs will become impossible to find, and people will scramble about frantically, pushing, shoving and inadvertently stabbing one another with their umbrellas. It is a fact of the city, and something that can be depended on.

Similarly, there are people in this city who are fixtures of certain places so much so that they become representative in one’s mind of their specific hangout and by extension, of the city as a whole. Case in point: there is a woman who whiles away every day in the Starbucks on Astor place. There she sits, soaking up the sunlight, and applying excessive amounts of bright pink blush. I can always expect to see her there, surrounded by suitcases and newspapers, plastering on her color. She is a strange and somewhat sad character, one that fits well with the quirky and creepy aura of the neighborhood surrounding St. Marks Place. She is old, effusive, frightening and harmless, all at once…and she is just like New York.