Subway advertising

She started modeling late in life. At first it was just to keep busy. She’d been retired from teaching for five years already and going to occasional casting calls and photo shoots gave her something to fill up her day with. It paid well too. She wasn’t really a fan of the atmosphere. There were a lot of divas and bossy photographers; some of the other models where nice though. She liked itwhen she had to take family pictures. Usually she was in a kitchen or on a porch with a set of parents and kids. Every now and then though she would be called upon for a grandmother/grandchild shoot, and those brought her the most joy. It reminded her of teaching. She didn’t have chalk in her hand and there was no lesson plan, but for that time the child’s attention was hers. For a second that child was hers and she belonged to that child. For a moment she was a grandmother, a moment that could last forever, if only in a poster.



She only wore green on days when she really felt like she had to recoup. It wasn’t superstitious and she had no record of the ritual ever bringer her anything like luck. But she didn’t believe in luck. She believed in the power of the brain. She hated the color green. It made her think of slime and swamp mutants. But she liked to challenge herself. She liked to turn mental switches off and on. So that if she started her day actively deciding to wear a color she detested, than maybe she would take a new route to work, and maybe she could answer her emails faster and more efficiently, and maybe when Terry in accounting hounded her for her daily report she’d already have it in her out box ready to send, and when it was time to lay the bingo cards on the table at the weekly game, her eyes and ears would be more attuned to the letters and numbers, her hands more responsive and her cry of bingo more winning.

The rut

It was seven and he had to be at work in two hours. He had just enough time to get to Brooklyn, give Sara a goodbye hug and get back on the train to make it to work, hopefully no more than twenty minutes late. Not that it mattered anyway. They were never going to fire him. The turn over there was so high they couldn’t afford to let go of anyone who cared enough to get to work within an hour of their call time. It was one of those bars that felt like any time you walked in it would be dead. Maybe there’d be a few neighborhood schmos who didn’t care to talk to each other. That’s what it looked like most of the time anyway. Desolate. Lonely. Sad. Pitiful. But there was some dusty little glimmer to it that made you think this place could be great. And every now and then it was. Great that is. You’d walk in on one of those nights that you wanted to do exactly that, be that neighborhood schmo that just sat at the bar and sip on whatever and contemplate life or misery or love lost or the mystery of what have you and it just so happened that on that night everyone else had that same idea, and the bar really would be great for the night. The juke box would make its quarters. The bartender his money and the customers would all unite in their loneliness and sing loudly to songs they loved in high school. He told himself that’s what kept him there. Nights like those. They happened so seldom that they still had a sense of novelty to them, some sort of warm charm that made him feel at home, but they always seemed to happen when he was ready to walk in and quit, or not show up at all, or go in and get right to work and suddenly go off on the first customer that complained that the beer was warm. “You don’t like warm beer?” He’d say. “You don’t like warm beer? Then why do you keep coming back to this dump and ordering it? You know it’s never going to be cold. These taps are never going to get fixed. And you sir are never going to amount to anything more than a man at bar who habitually orders a drink that at some point was beneath him.” But he doesn’t say that. He simply tells the man that he will talk to the owner as he always says. But he doesn’t talk to the owner. He doesn’t walk out either. He doesn’t quit. He keeps coming back. Tonight is going to be one of those nights. He can feel it. It’s been bad lately. It’s been slower than usual. His contempt has snowballed. He is due for one of those nights. Especially tonight. She’s leaving tomorrow and this two hour window is his only chance to say good bye.


I’m working the Thursday night shift at my bar tonight. I’m trying not to dread it. I want to walk in on a positive note. So what if it’s ghetto. Who cares if the kids are rambunctious. Fuck the divas. Just smile, stare past them and make their drinks. Tolerate the repetitiveness. Make the best of it. You’ve already had to Jameson yourself and your shift starts in less then an hour. You just want to see him don’t you. Smell his neck real quick before your night turns to familiar monotony. Make him laugh. Look at him in awe. Touch his hair. Kiss his angel face tenderly. Wonder what he see’s in you. Take him in close to you by that little waste. You met there on a Thursday night after all. This night belongs to both of you.

Journal entry past

July 4th, 2014

It’s a little too crowded on the subway to draw. It’s not that crowded, I just sense that the colors that surround me are vibrant with curiosity and perhaps more inclined toward a sense of national fellowship. I think someone would ask me what I’m drawing and I’m way to stoned to oblige. Likewise, pulling out the old marble comp book feels like drawing to much attention to myself. Pun may have been intended, not sure. Yeah I’m ripped and I don’t have any music to listen too. I think that’s what I’ll do at Xin’s. Load this phone up, and my new piece of shit phone, with music. That’s going to be weird. But I’m going to do it. Should I go back to blogging? To short stories? Am I more willing to be forthright? To commit? To put myself on display? Should I go incognito? Disappear? Thrive in disguise. I don’t know. I think I should continue to publish on Amazon. Blog more regularly. Tweet more regularly. Publish on ReadWave for sure. I’m not ready to leave ReadWave yet. I do still have other social media platforms to erase myself from. YouTube. Tumblr. Examiner. What else? I just want to keep it clean. Not in the “moral” sense but in terms of digital clutter. I used to join networking sites willy-nilly and it was fun. Now I think i’d like to narrow it down to ReadWave, meetup, twitter, possibly Instagram, though I’m leaning toward not, and of course my blog. Just makes more sense to keep it simple. That way I can focus on my slow progression toward full on IRL engagement. We’ll see. Attempted to go to the pool yesterday. Maybe I’ll go on Monday.