Carpe Pen

I keep having these startling thoughts while I'm riding or waiting for the subway, and I think, "I need to remember that so I can write about it in my journal." Then, of coure, when the time comes to actually sit down and write something, they're all gone. I know what you're thinking: I should be carrying a small notebook or something with me in which to write these startling ideas. And while I won't say you "nay" about that idea, I just want to remind you that I live in New York City, which means I'm already carrying my life on my back - I'm not entirely sure I have room for another tablet.

I'm joking of course. But what makes you think that I'm going to remember a small notepad when I'm rushing to get out of the house when I can't even hold on to striking and original thoughts for more than the thirty-minute train ride home?

As we've discussed, the last couple of weeks have been pretty difficult, financially, but I do have to say that practically every occasion I have to leave my apartment brings a new appreciation of just how good I have it... or more precisely, just how good I have it in relation to other people.

Which has gotten me thinking a lot about that old saw, "the things you like least about other people are the things you like least about yourself." I happen to think there's a special place place in hell reserved for the people who need to make others feel inadequate or unsuccessful just so they can feel good about themselves, and I've been thinking lately that maybe I do that when I look at the miserable masses crammed onto a rush-hour train with me: Maybe I'm just enjoying other peoples' unhappiness a little too much. But then I recognize that for the total crap that it is... Sure, it makes me thoughtful and grateful that although I'm dirt poor and often stressed about my life, at least I'm awake for my existence and not completely trapped in a life I abhor. And it's not like I'm going around to every schmoe I see on the train and pointing out to them exactly how sad their little existence might be, and how superior mine is to theirs.

'Cuz the truth is, (I hope!) I'm smart enough to know that there's no way I can ever fully know those people, and what joys and sorrows they have in their lives. I can barely wrap my head around my own... so it's all relative. My life's no better or worse than anyone else's... at least on the trains of New York City. Now, plunk me down in the midst of a Palestinian refugee camp, and I'll be singing my life's praises left and right. And center.