home
I love the smell of the city. I forget sometimes, being out in Stony Brook, how different everything is; I get used to sameness. But then I get off the train in Brooklyn, I breathe, And I remember. Hair oil and piss and bubble gum in the subway, Chinese food, incense on the street. Every neighborhood its own smell. What happens on those borders? Do the different scents collide and merge, or go their separate ways? Or perhaps there is a gradual shift, a blending of lives? I love this place with all my heart, this mess of a city, with all its dirt and noise, its tangle of subway lines like a spider's web.
It is raining on the platforms-- the ice and snow are melting and water is falling from the ceiling. My interview with NYC Teaching Fellows is tomorrow at noon; it sounds like an appointment for a duel, doesn't it? It might as well be; I am terrified and unprepared. A 5-minute teaching sample. What can I hope to accomplish in five minutes? Three hundred seconds. Time makes fools of us all. I hope I am not too nervous to open up and shine.
It is raining on the platforms-- the ice and snow are melting and water is falling from the ceiling. My interview with NYC Teaching Fellows is tomorrow at noon; it sounds like an appointment for a duel, doesn't it? It might as well be; I am terrified and unprepared. A 5-minute teaching sample. What can I hope to accomplish in five minutes? Three hundred seconds. Time makes fools of us all. I hope I am not too nervous to open up and shine.