One of my faves

One of my grandfather's poems which i tried (blah!) to translate from Hebrew

Oh what fun
to ride on the subway
as I read biographies
etched upon their faces

Dear fellow rider
please don't be mad
You think it a bit queer
Do I find it polite to stare?

But you see
I am but reading
just as you are
right now
It's just so happens to be
the book of my choice
Is your face

From this week's "Diary"

so the first one is a bit over the top, but it's kinda touching in a way, i think.

Dear Diary:

I was coming out of a “Can this marriage be saved?” weekend in early March, when I headed downtown to report for jury duty at Federal District Court. As I walked into a courtroom for my first voir dire with roughly 30 other prospective jurors, I noticed the judge’s name on the door: Leonard Sand.

I remembered him as a legendary guy my then boyfriend, now husband, had covered in his days as an Associated Press reporter, back when he and I drove each other wild in a very different way than we had over the weekend.

Judge Sand looks like a legend: the demeanor of Moses, with a Santa Claus beard cut like that of an Amish farmer.

Courteous and occasionally downright charming, he asked us for basic details, like our occupations and those of our spouses or significant others. One young man replied, happily, “I’m not married — but I will be in three months.”

Judge Sand stopped writing on his legal pad, looked up from beneath his white eyebrows, paused, and with exquisite delivery, said, in a voice resonant with meaning that carried throughout the courtroom:

“Good luck.”

The whole courtroom burst into laughter.

That night, I said to my husband, “Given our current state of marital bliss, you might enjoy this,” and told the story.

He eyed me suspiciously, but I could see cracks in his icy demeanor.

Later that evening, after story time and tucking kids into bed, I punched him lightly on the shoulder.

“Hey,” I said. “Good luck.”

The ice broke. Big time.

Thank you, Judge Sand.

And to that optimistic young man: Good luck.

-Kate Rice

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aight, if you're looking for the entry of the week, this is definitely it..

Dear Diary:

After having been in exile for a while, I relished being back in the city. I waited for that serendipitous moment that would prove to me I was back in New York, the place that jumps to a different drummer.

Now, the Roosevelt tram had passed directly over me, I had seen Trisha Brown dancing with robots, I had seen Kathleen Turner and Jon Stewart on the street (not together), but still...not quite there.

The moment came in my local Johnny Rockets diner. I was eating a late breakfast when Aretha Franklin’s “Respect” came through the jukebox. As one, the white-hatted waiters formed a line in the center aisle and danced to the song, to my delight.

I thought that was the moment. But it wasn’t. The real moment came when I looked around the room to share it with my fellow New Yorkers.

No one was paying the slightest attention.

-Paul Peacock

This Week's Metro Diary. Which's Your Fave?

Dear Diary:

Time: 10:30 p.m., weeknight.

Place: No. 1 uptown train, from Sheridan Square.

Date: Twenty years ago today (more or less).

A large group of people enter the No. 1, heading home from the theater. The subway car is packed as if it were a rush-hour morning. Moving along, then suddenly the train halts. The lights go out, pitch black. The engine stops. We all smell smoke.

The seconds tick on. Anxiety heightens. Although probably only a minute passes, of course it feels like 10. The smoke is smelling more intense. Everyone is close to panic.

My dear friend Steve (long since departed this world and never forgotten) leans over to me and, in his best stage whisper, declares, “We really should have had dessert!”

The car erupts in laughter. With that, the lights come on. The engine restarts, and on we go, as though it had all been a dream. Can one’s attitude change one’s reality?

-Linda Maryanov



Dear Diary:

Arriving at work in Midtown a few months ago just before 9 a.m., I glimpsed a man walking uptown on Fifth Avenue. He was neatly dressed in a business suit, walking briskly, carrying a large cup from Starbucks in his left hand. Nothing special about this.

But under his right arm? A huge live, clucking rooster. No one gave him a second look. Only in New York. (Perhaps that was the breakfast special of the day?)
-Beth G. Kneller



Dear Diary:

For those of us old enough to remember the opening scene from “A Thousand Clowns” with Jason Robards: Fifth Avenue and 42nd Street in front of the library. Mr. Robards’s character tells his 12-year-old nephew that he is about to see a horrible, horrible thing: people going to work.

I grew up in New York and now live in California. Every time I come back to the city, I stay in a Midtown hotel and get up at 6:30 or 7 and go stand on the same corner. Almost 50 years later it is still the same: New Yorkers marching off to work by the thousands. We all have our private memories of New York and what it means to each of us. This scene is my New York.
-Charles Slesinger


Dear Diary:

I was in line waiting to buy a BART ticket (for our Bay Area subway system in California) when this lady started to push herself ahead of me. I promptly told her, “Don’t pull a New York on me.”

She replied that she was from New York.

I quickly replied that my wife is from New York also.

The lady says, “Tell her I said hi.”

New Yorkers, go figure.

-Charles H. Greene Jr.



Dear Diary:

Overheard outside a florist’s shop on Third Avenue near 71st Street in Manhattan:

Potential customer, older man: “Got any doyt?”

Clerk: “What’s doyt?”

P.C.: “Ya know ... ya dig it ... outa da oyt.”

-Conrad Eberstein

More Metro Diary (4)

Nothing really noteworthy this week, a nice picture though.


Dear Diary:

Following is an incident that happened a couple of months ago.

I was driving down the West Side Highway, and as usual, had on WQXR. They were playing a Brahms symphony. I was enjoying the trip and, as a former librarian for the Metropolitan Opera, the music as well.

The driver of the car in front of me kept waving his arm out the window. As I kept watching, I realized he was keeping beat with the Brahms symphony.

He was good. Pickups, cutoffs, silent moments all picked up by this “conductor.”

As he approached 79th Street he put on his directional signal to exit. I had to go on. As he left, I picked up the beat.

John Grande

More Metropolitan Diary (3)

DEAR DIARY

My wife and I often spend our vacations in New York City. We love the serendipitous mix of cultures, neighborhoods and people, but we have difficulty explaining to friends who’ve never been there what makes the city so fascinating.

On our last visit, we joined the runners in Central Park one clear, crisp morning for a jog around the reservoir. After completing one circuit of our route, I took a seat on a bench, while my wife continued for another lap.

As I watched the usual parade of joggers, cyclists, and pets on leashes, I spotted what struck me as a uniquely New York sight. Approaching me along the running path and headed in the general direction of Lincoln Center was a young woman pushing a harp on a small wheeled platform.

“Only in New York,” I tell my friends. They still don’t get it.

-Scott Hunsicker

----

SPRING IN THE PARK

A lark entertains those who pass by the band shell

As young lovers populate the benches

Sharing their lunch with a squirrel

The elderly walk hand in hand

Soaking up the lengthening rays of the sun

Only a few in this tableau will notice

Some drops of ice

Giving them a sly wink

From the top of one

Extremely sleepy bud.

-Ellen Fuchs

-----

DEAR DIARY:

One sunny day last fall I was in the playground with my 3-year-old son. Ezra, as usual, was wearing his hot pink sandals. A boy, slightly older, came over with a curious look.

“Why is he wearing pink sandals?” the boy asked.

“Well,” I said, “pink is his favorite color.”

“But pink is for girls,” the boy replied.

“If he’s a boy and he likes pink, pink must be for boys and girls,” I said.

The boy hesitated and leaned in closer. Quietly, he said “Pink is my favorite color, too.” And off he went.

-Corinne Schiff

-----

DEAR DIARY:

My 11-year-old son, Simon, had agreed to call me during his school lunch and let me know if he was coming home by himself or with a friend.

Much to my surprise, he wrote me from his computer class at school while I was working at my desk computer.

It perfectly represents where we are in our relationship at his age, when “cool rules” and parents embarrass. Below is the actual exchange:

Simon: I am taking the bus.

Simon: dad?

Ahvi: ok

Simon: k

Simon: bye

Ahvi: bye

Simon: bye

Ahvi: love ya

Simon: DADDDDDDDD

-Ahvi Spindell

Metropolitan Diary (i.e. Why I Love NY) part 2

Dear Diary

My husband is a more aggressive driver than I, so I often cringe at the thought of traveling into the city with him from Connecticut. And this occasion was no exception.

We had just returned our daughter to her N.Y.U. dorm after a long holiday weekend. After saying our goodbyes, we hopped into the car and my husband quickly pulled out into traffic.

“Oh my,” I said to him, “I believe we just cut someone off!” Ignoring my back-seat-driver comment, my husband proceeded to the end of the block, where we stopped at a traffic light.

The man we had cut off was signaling to my husband to roll his window down. I pleaded with my husband to not create an altercation, as my anxiety level was rising.

The man rolled down his passenger-side window, and my husband rolled down his driver-side window.

“Dude, you’d get a lot more love if you would just put on your blinker,” he called out from inside his car.

My husband was speechless.

I smiled all the way home.

-Keli Solomon

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Dear Diary:

Fifty years ago, I was a buyer at Abraham & Straus (sadly, it closed years ago) in Brooklyn.

One day, I got on an elevator where a small boy, about 3 years old, and his mother were looking down at his new sneakers. The mother asked if he was happy.

The 3-year-old replied, “All my life I wanted a pair.”

-Miriam Landsman

====

Dear Diary:

I was taking the No. 2 train uptown from 42nd Street on a recent afternoon, and a man in a wheelchair boarded with a guide dog. As the train started to move, the man stood up from the wheelchair, removed his coat, lay down on the subway car floor and began doing push-ups. On the other side of the car, a man announced that it was “gospel time” and started singing.

As the train pulled into 72nd Street, the gospel singer walked through the car asking for tips, and the man doing push-ups stood up and handed him a dollar. He then picked up his dog, put him in the wheelchair, lay back on the floor and proceeded with sit-ups until 96th Street.

-Rebecca Weinstock

=======

Dear Diary:

Scene: A jewelry store in Brooklyn with loud rap music blasting out of three speakers.

Dramatis personae: Teenage salesgirl and me, a senior citizen.

Me: “How much is this necklace?”

Salesgirl: “Thirty-five dollars.”

Me: “Do you really like that music?”

Salesgirl: “Yes.”

Me: “Could you make it a little lower?”

Salesgirl: “O.K. Thirty dollars.”

Me: “I’ll take it.”

-Jane Feder

Finding the positive

The video i posted is very obviously a scam. with absolutely no good intentions other then to make money. (and most definitely not the o-my-gosh-i-can-really-save-the-world message that it tries to portray)

But.

It has a point. Regardless of it's commercial intention, it still somehow is able to relate a message. and that message, many of us happen to know, is true.

So why do i care? How do these ridiculously delusional scammers solidify what i was already taught? It doesn't. But it taught me something else.

This combination of power-seeking falsity with a lesser amount of truth and genuine care for another mixed in, is something we encounter all the time when we live with the people of the world. (Aside for certain times, when a tragedy of significant enough magnitude will bring out our better of natures.) Especially if you find yourself in a "Western" society. (-in the atlas of 2008- Everywhere) People will usually block out their caring-for-others conscious for the sake of pursuing their American dream without bother: Wealth, Power and status. If we choose to see everyone for their active priorities, then there is no reason why not be cynical. Of course the world is going to shat; why would anyone care enough for it not to?!
We can however see it how it is. (or how it was) before selfishness covered it, obscured it. If we work at it, we can appreciate it more.

Think about this if you're discouraged by the elections, by the situations of the Israeli government, or by your next door neighbor.

Also, look out for those moments, on the Subway,in the park, in 770... (ok, i won't push it..) Those moments when we get to witness great things. when you see the good shine through.

Amen

notin' comes close to non-fiction. you just can't make this stuff up!

THIS WEEK'S METROPOLITAN DIARY SELECTIONS


As I was riding the Q recently to meet a friend, I idly pulled my ponytail out and ran my fingers through my hair.

A man behind me leaned around and said, “Your hair looks just fine. It looks good.”

I laughed and said, “Thank you; your hair looks good, too.”

We chatted a bit and he eventually asked me very politely, “Are you married?” I said no.

“How is that? A fine lady like you?”

“It just happens that way sometimes.”

“No man got lucky enough, huh?” I laughed again.

“So would I be able to get hold of you?” He had been polite, so I politely answered, “I’m not interested in being gotten hold of just now.”

“You’re not interested in a relationship at this point in your life?”

“Nope.”

He seemed to understand and turned back around.

After a minute he turned to me again: “Well, can I have a dollar?”
-Kim Hewitt

===

This Daylight Saving

This hour gained, but empty, hushed

No one told the birds


-L. Fred Ayvazian

I think I should go to jail

(Quick note: After the Columbine High shooting, we sadly learnt that the tragedy “Could have been prevented” if only the boys’ diaries and essays would have been taken more seriously. So I just hope that writing this doesn’t make me a suspect. :)
So why would I want to go to jail?
Well it all started about a year ago. I was in South Carolina and I went to jail. Well not literally, I was visiting Jewish inmates for the High Holidays. Being inside of a jail for the first time was quite a jarring experience. You walk the halls and think “look at these people, for years this is all they’ll ever see.” Just these walls… and for part of the day when they’re lucky enough, they can go outside and see a few more walls. You leave the building and suddenly its literally a whole new world out there. Suddenly you’re seeing everything you take for granted through the eyes of the inmate. Things along the road that you’d never give a thought when you were driving by on the way there. Just a gas station, just a store where you can buy ANYTHING you need, a beautiful bird flying overhead, a peaceful shady park with a beautiful arrangement of flowers growing. And you can’t help but think “and those guys won’t be able to see this for another ten, twenty YEARS!”.
Do we realize how many things we take for granted every day? What would that inmate give to be able to watch the sun set into a million reflections on the water, to hear the sound of the waves, to see a child smile….. And we are lucky enough to witness these blessings every day.
So what can I do? What is the secret to appreciating what you DO have when you HAVE it? Any suggestions anyone?
Should I go to jail? Probably not a very good idea, I hear the food’s not too good there… What about Amish town?

Poem Inspierd by photo #613

Post to follow (" 'Neider" obviously)

o how i love this time of year=-)

Shirts tucked in, white, still fresh smelling of their mama’s fabric softener. Clean black pants, as crisp as the new autumn wind over white white socks poking out from snappy real sandals. Their hair and face are so uncharacteristically clean and neat and perfumed with the newfound delights of Americana (What they have Headenshoulders here?!) Their bright faces reflect their idealistic spirit. Fresh, strong and unbreakable by the uncertainty of what lies ahead. Optimism, a new challenge, It’s always such a welcoming sight. I just love this time of year. Actually, they’re so ambitious, they might even shock you with an occasional “Slicha” when they kick over your coffee splat onto your new pants…

Yessir.
The new K’vutzeh is definitely in session:-)