A Year In New York

In March the Union Square farmer’s market is a meager proposition: onions, potatoes, and some apples. I spent a more fruitful time having a guy write me a poem.
“What do you want your poem to be about?” Benyomin Spaner asked.

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This man’s name is Charlie and the cat’s name is Nicolas. Some Union Square panhandlers just ask for change, but the more enterprising ones have a value-add. Charlie created value by adding Nicholas to the top of his head.
The combination coaxed three dollars out of me. I think Charlie is on to something.

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In the frigid air of March, in the gloom of a deep recession, Manhattan’s clothing merchandisers have announced the dawn of a new, happy age in which everyone wears lime-colored golf shirts and bright peach polos. New Yorkers pull up their collars and seem unmoved.

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It still hurts to take a deep breath after the snowboarding injury I got a few weeks ago. Joo thinks I bruised or even broke a rib. No treatment is available but rest, so I resort to only exercise that doesn’t hurt. I walk to work.
I’ve experimented with different routes and today I walked down [...]

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This morning I pulled the shade to see if the forecast foot of snow had arrived. Not quite. But six inches lay on the ground with more pouring from the sky, and I felt the pull of the wild.
In response, I pulled on my fleece jacket and Gore-Tex shell and the snow boots I’d bought [...]

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