TIPPING POINT

Last night I took a midnight walk around the block, which stretched into another six blocks and past several men rhythmically shoveling the sidewalk, as the snow fell and pelted me in the face.

The scrape, scrape, scrape sound of shovel meeting snow and ground the only sound in the frigid air, and a cop car silently making its rounds, my eyes watering. Were they stinging from the cold, or were they shedding tears?

In the eye of the impending storm, me and the frozen streets.

Picasso said that every child is born an artist. Maybe every child is born a poet, it's all about if you choose to remain a poet as you grow older, and allow certain moments, places, people to enliven your senses.

This is a story I read somewhere once several years ago, I forget where, but in the version I read, a woman tried to pass it off as her own work. I mean who does that? I did not know this until I came across it again recently, and realized it was actually written by Douglas Adams. It's a great short story, and because all great stories should be shared - Cookies by Douglas Adams.

CITY OF BROTHERLY LOVE

"What are you going to say about Philly on your blog?" my brother asked when I went over to the City of Brotherly Love and Sisterly Affection last Thursday.

"Probably talk about how lame it is," I replied.

Which of course couldn't be farther from the truth. having spent the past five days there and being able to see more of the city, and just walking around in no hurry this time, I was able to fall in love with it for awhile. It was a nice break from Boston, the predominantly white and churlish Boston which will always be special to me, as it's where I came to know who I really am, but the lack of diversity makes it mundane after awhile. Philly has a reputation for being tough and notorious and I definitely got that vibe while walking through the streets, but there is something about danger that appeals to me. Not like I seek it out, but I mean being prone to living recklessly has made the edge on life seem rather thrilling and cultivating instead of fearsome to me.

I came bearing gifts - cupcakes I'd baked the night before for the boys.

You can't see it clearly, but I asked my brother what those pieces of paper were with numbers on them that were taped to their front door. "When we first moved in we didn't have the apartment number outside to identify the house, so one of the guys wrote the numbers out and gave it to one of the other guys to cut and paste on the front door. He taped it to the front door without cutting it and no one bothered to fix it so it's been like that ever since."

I was teaching Izzat how to make corn bread and cupcakes one night. One of his roommates, Adam, joined us. Naveen appeared not long after with his two friends visiting from Iowa. It was around 2am then. We were all on a sugar high by the time we called it a night at 5am.

Watched a really excellent play spontaneously that night while walking through Old City, after an Afghan dinner. A Moon for the Misbegotten by Eugene O'Neill, set in rural Connecticut. The original price of a ticket was about $35, but since we showed up ten minutes before showtime, and were students, we got tickets for $5 and second row seats. Time well spent, as it was a great production.

Philly cheesesteaks in South Street, and an impromptu haircut courtesy of another of Izzat's roommates, Rushdie. 

Now back to another blizzard in Boston.