Here is a conversation I (Mark) just had with Anna:

It’s pretty much the best short story I could ever write.

This is where I am. Solo bike rides in 30 degree weather just for the view.

This is a monologue I wrote about what I do/did at night.  Pretty regularly.  It’s in reference to the “Middle of the Night” episode of This American Life.  It’s pretty self-involved… as most monologues should be.

Certain names have been changed.  Hope no one is offended.

The night begins with coffee.  It is a ritual that I started years ago, back in undergrad.  Back then, we hardly slept.  About one hour after dinner, when I finally worked up the strength to be productive, there was a ritual that surrounded myself and the coffee pot in my room:

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I promise.  I’m working on writing a lot more.  And on the topic that I previously proposed.  I’m actually working on both a “Bait & Switch” story and a “What We Do At Night” piece right now.  But until those are finished…

This is a very, very short character sketch I wrote a little while back:

There is a child being held by her mother at the Bedford Avenue subway stop.  She is sucking her thumb and staring staring staring at a man who is playing the violin and singing loudly.  It is the saddest song she has ever heard and it drips out like the cries that the child knows exist.  She understands that there is pain.  She has fallen and scraped knees and watched as her mother’s hand shakes while it pays bills.  She knows that this pain is in the world, but she has not learned about it yet.  The girl somehow understands.  She knows that she is staring into her future, through black locks falling in front of her eyes, past her mother’s ears, into her future.  She has been programmed to know that this is the eventual end of all things.  But she cannot fathom it yet.  All of this sorrow, somehow, is a part of the life that she knows she will be forced to breath through.  She begins to cry.  Then her mother bounces her and and whispers a frail, “Shhhh.”  For the first time, the child stops immediately.  The man finishes his song.  The train arrives.

Upon arriving in BeanTown (at North Station), my traveling companion and myself walked along Summer Street across Fort Point Channel which gave a great view of the bridges on Congress Street and Seaport Boulevard, along with the Boston Children’s Museum and the giant Hood Milk Bottle.  Having no idea how pervasive the Hood Dairy Company is on the East Coast, the epically phallic monument to cow lactate had me aghast.

Upon dropping bags off at a custom framing gallery owned by my partner in travel, we headed back in to downtown Boston.  My Hipster-Sense kicked in immediately (it’s a lot like a Spidey-Sense) and I promptly found the most indie of cafés in a 6-block radius to aid my caffeine-stained brain: the Boston Common Coffee Co.

Left on my own to wander historic, downtown Boston, I made my way over to Boston Common.  I assume it’s only famous because of Anthony Clark’s stunning and cut-short sitcom by the same name.  Who cancels a new TV show that ranked 8th in yearly ratings… and who can resist the stunningly engaging Anthony Clark as a down-home Virginia outsider making his way through the big city in the Northeast?

I then made my way to the Massachusetts State House, whose sole historical significance is that of a symbol for antagonist Collin Sullivan’s ambition in Scorsese’s The Departed.

And what visit to historical Boston wouldn’t be complete without a Ben Franklin impersonator.  While he responded to my question about his syphilis ailment with much guffaw and accuracy, I, much like Dwight Schrute, am 99% sure that it was not the real Ben Franklin… 98.

Later on in my meanderings about town, I walked through most of the (expensive) Beacon Hill neighborhood – where the amount of perfectly-coiffed trees and historical homes were only outnumbered by the number of trust funders wearing Ugg boots and perfectly-bent baseball caps.

Rounding out my day on my train ride out to Wenham, MA (where I was staying in a secluded house in a forest), I partook in a cup of Bean Town’s finest coffee: Dunkin’ Donuts.  Rich, steaming, satisfyingly robust with a hint of burn, it was great to end the day with a coffee that didn’t cost three dollars while utterly lacking any sort of quality (Starbuck’s).

The rest of the weekend was spent relaxing with friends, drinks, Old Fashioneds that I prepared for my hosts, and helping a kid who was tripping on acid out of jail.  All in all, a complete success.

p.s. all photos except the milk bottle taken with my iPhone.  Apologies for the lack of quality.

It’s true.  It’s been twelve long years and, for some strange reason, I still skate.  I’ve broken my wrists and ankles multiple times, gotten a few concussions, been ticketed far too many times to count, and had to deal with condescending security guards and police more times than my ego will let me remember.

But even at age twenty-five, something compels me to go out and throw my body around.  I’m coming out of a period where I actively tried to resist skating so that I could concentrate on my studies (grad school), but I now have a modicum of free time.  Again, I find myself drawn to skating.  Somehow, going out and exploring the city I live in while attempting to change the way I view everyday structures (as obstacles, not as objects) still has some sort of hold over me. Continue Reading »

The Myers-Briggs test was first given to me during my freshmen year of college.  Approximately 48-hours after returning from an alcohol-induced hospital visit (thanks, big 10 colleges and bigger-10 egos), I found myself filling in an unending amount of bubbles on an 8-page scantron.  The visit to a school therapist was mandatory in order for me to maintain residency in the dorms, so I decided not to voice my displeasure with the idea that this overweight, underworked human being could glean a portrait of my personality based upon a #2 pencil and unending writer’s cramp stemming not from a Kerouac-esque stream of consciousness, but nearly an hour of responding to questions by elementary “coloring inside the lines.”

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I’ve been a fan of Garrison Keillor ever since I was a little kid.  I didn’t have much say in the matter at the time because my parents refused to listen to anything but NPR when in the car, but that’s beside the point.  I’ve grown to like almost all the same programming as my parents (it makes my chest hurt to say that) and Garrison Keillor’s “A Prairie Home Companion” is no exception.

Since I usually can’t catch it when it airs (sorry, I do have slightly more important things to do Saturday nights…) I subscribe to the podcast that updates every Monday with his segment, “News From lake Wobegon.”  Garrison performs this monologue every week by himself without a script and it’s usually one of the most uplifting, honest, and accessible portions of the show.  This week’s was particularly good, ending with the line:

“He says, ‘We’ll think about it…’ that’s all you have to do, is just think about it.  If you think about it you will say ‘yes’ eventually.  We know that.  Life is irresistible.  Love is irrisistible.  If he thinks about it, he’ll go.”

Here’s a link to all the podcasts, the first one is the most recent/the one I’m talking about (like I said, it’s a good one).

“Human beings are funny. They long to be with the person they love but refuse to admit openly. Some are afraid to show even the slightest sign of affection because of fear. Fear that their feelings may not be recognized, or even worst, returned. But one thing about human beings puzzles me the most is their conscious effort to be connected with the object of their affection even if it kills them slowly within.”

-Sigmund Freud

I wish he hadn’t done enough coke to kill a horse, nor that most of his extrapollated work has been well-refuted by now.  Sometimes the things he says are really spot on.

I’m proud to say I’ve done this: