I’ve found that the most profound sense of being truly alone in a big city is when you’re sick or hurt. You really have no one else to rely on and you’re at your most vulnerable.

And it never fails to amaze me how most New Yorkers just can’t be bothered to show a little compassion, or when they do, they make sure you know they are being bothered.

Case in point, I wiped out on the sidewalk last night in Hell’s Kitchen. My foot crumpled beneath me when I tried to take a step. This actually happens to me a lot, so I’m used to the fall-sit there-gingerly get up process. Yes, this probably speaks to some deeper issue with my bones, but we’ll put that aside for the moment. More often than not, people slow down just enough to make sure there’s no blood and then keep walking. A man actually stopped long enough to help me up, but it was as if he was the White Rabbit. I could practically feel him urging me to be fine so he could cut short his show of empathy and get to his destination. I mercifully freed him by saying I’d be okay. Another gentleman stopped and actually tried to help me get a cab, suggesting I sit down, etc. When it became apparent that catching one would take a while, I thanked Guy #2 for sticking around longer and “freed” him as well.

It’s so strange. This sense that you’re imposing on someone by daring to be hurt.

A coworker of mine was actually threatened by a crazy person on the subway Friday morning. She came in sobbing. Listening to the account of her ordeal, what stood out to me was that no one on the train bothered to try and help her, to intercede. Shut away in their own worlds, in their personal bubbles of “I don’t see you,” they chose to pretend this poor young woman wasn’t being threatened right in front of them. Why? If she’d actually gotten shot in front of them, without them helping, would that really have more acceptable than getting shot trying to help her? What kind of person thinks, “As long as it’s not me, I don’t care”?

Are people really in such a hurry, so convinced of their own importance, that simple acts of kindness are a burden?

I feel like I’m falling behind in the business of proper blogging. I’ve given up on trying to be a foodie — let’s face it, not having a digital camera really gets in the way of that sort of thing. I haven’t posted many other interesting experiences –again with the lack of digital camera; I can’t ramble about how wonderful Disney World was back in October without visual accompaniment and I still haven’t developed the throwaway roll. And with the presidential race over, there’s just nothing that’s grabbing me in terms of ranting passionately and eloquently.

So, to keep this endeavor from being a complete waste, here’s some linkspam:
Hamlet: The Facebook news feed edition

Cake Wrecks

The butthurt report form, for all your whiny “I was insulted on the IntarWebz” reporting needs.

Cute baby ocelots being cute.

Egads, it’s already December — which means that January and February of 2009 aren’t far behind. How did that happen? The years have begun to fly by. When I was younger it seemed they dragged on forever. Now, in a blink, I’ll be 31 and living out my fifth year in New York City.

And I STILL have that unshakable sense that I haven’t accomplished enough. That I’m going to be thirty one years old in two months and I don’t have enough to show for it. Rationally, I know that’s completely untrue. I’ve worked incredibly hard, I have a steady job (which is important with the economy in the state it is!), and said job is in a medium that I love. I have shifted apartments three times, getting better at the hunting and moving process each time. I have a good crop of friends that I see on a semi-regular basis, and a good crop of friends that I don’t see because they are scattered all over the country. It’s a solid, valid life!

But then there’s that annoying sense of “Well, I haven’t finished a novel yet.” I feel like that’s my huge, huge milestone, my benchmark for success. I mean, sure, maybe a significant other would be nice, but I want a book dammit! I see people finishing manuscripts right and left — people who only started writing a few years ago. I’ve been doing this since I was a kid, you’d think it would be the easiest thing I’ve ever done. How is picking up my entire life and moving it to New York City simpler than writing a full-length novel?

I’m a pretty good writer. I’m a pretty good storyteller. Reading and writing are more precious to me than food and air. Words have gotten me through some of the toughest times in my life. Why do they fail me when it comes to sustaining a story?

I think my biggest goal for the coming year is to finish something.

Before the months fly by and it’s suddenly 2010.