Today, I am celebrating, because much like many of my fellow good flickr members I finally made the effort to make the most of an outstanding invitation from Getty Images to contribute to the flickr collection on their reputable website.
Take a look, I think you'll like what you see!
My Photos on Getty Images
Photo: The inspiring view from my office window this afternoon, overlooking Madison Square Park at the corner of Madison Avenue and 26th Street in New York City, U.S. of A.
“If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible; who still wonders if the dream of our founders is alive in our time; who still questions the power of our democracy, tonight is your answer.”
Barack Obama at Grant Park after his election, November 4, 2008
Now, There is Hope
January 23, 2009, New York City:
I’m feeling post-inauguration glee.
For now I feel, despite eight years of being misled by a confederacy of dunces, we now have a true leader at the helm.
Moreover, he is black.
Wow, how did that happen?
I honestly never thought I’d see the day when we might have an African-American, or any “person of color” really, in the Oval Office.
I just didn’t have that much hope for the American public and I was convinced that prejudice would still reign over reason.
Thank God I was wrong.
Because, now, I feel anything is possible.
Because, now, I feel that indeed we shall overcome.
Because, now, I feel that after 40 days and 40 nights in the valley of death, we can now begin our ascent in earnest to the mountaintop.
Because, now, I feel there is hope.
And for the first time in my life, I actually feel proud to be an American.
Thank you President Obama for instilling some much-needed faith in me.
I’m ready to pitch in to do whatever I can to help this country, and this world, recover.
I’m ready to make an effort to do more for others and less for myself.
I’m tightening my belt, making “less is more” my mantra, and I’ve already signed up to help out at the Soup Kitchen next month.
I’m also resigned to spend less on things I don’t need and more on those things that make life truly meaningful—more quiet time at home, more time reading, more time creating, rather than consuming.
And finally, and perhaps most importantly, I’m looking forward to spending more time with those I love—my boys, my beautiful girlfriend, and all my great friends and family.
Thank you once again for inspiring me Mr. Obama. You give God Bless America new and truer meaning.
O beautiful for patriot dream
That sees beyond the years
Thine alabaster cities gleam
Undimmed by human tears!
America! America!
God shed his grace on thee
And crown thy good with brotherhood
From sea to shining sea!
America The Beautiful, Katharine Lee Bates
“What is required of us now is a new era of responsibility — a recognition, on the part of every American, that we have duties to ourselves, our nation, and the world, duties that we do not grudgingly accept, but rather seize gladly.”
President Barack Obama’s inaugural address, January 20, 2009
Plotting My Escape
November 11, 2008, New York City:
It’s that time again.
The air is cold and uninviting, and my mood—lamentably somber.
The leaves are falling, people are coughing and constantly zipping their liners in and out of their coats; I have the urge to shutter myself away somewhere where no one can find me, so that I might find myself again, because, frustratingly, I’m feeling lost.
And my buttons are falling off again and the cuffs and collars of my shirts are fraying too, but this time—I’m not as inspired to fix them.
Things are in flux everywhere.
There’s a promising transition to power in place that has people dancing in the streets.
Yet, there’s also a looming concern that has people looking over their shoulders, worrying a little more than usual, being all-too-easily irked by strangers pushing against them in crowded subway cars, and fretting about the future—of our jobs, our homes and our disappearing retirement funds.
And yet, we are the lucky ones.
Because there are also a lot more people sleeping in the streets and in the doorways of empty retail spaces and under scaffolding and on top of any warm grate available in cities all across the country.
I recently went to Miami for a few days to try and relax, but instead I just became more restless. To relieve the boredom I took to taking photos in the streets of the night crawlers passing homeless people and hapless drunks sleeping on the sidewalks or in storefront nooks. I couldn’t help but notice that there were a lot of them.
Chelsea recently told me that the bums that come in daily to the hospital are complaining, “There ain’t no more spots anywhere, anymore” and that if they leave their spot to come into the hospital, its gone by the time they return.
A phenomenal number of foreclosures (over 2 million this year alone, almost double last year’s), the highest unemployment rate in 14 years, higher food and medical care costs, and decreases in social welfare programs over the last 8 years have all led to an “alarming” increase in homelessness across the nation, according to a recent article by USA Today.
Thus, my somber mood.
Thus, this lament.
Thus, the yearning to cloister and fall off the edge and into the fire, so that we may rise again ,renewed.
Alas, I am no Phoenix, I am no Christ, no Joan of Arc.
But, I can fix buttons.
Monday, February 4, 2008, New York City:
My Super (Bowl) Sunday was spent taking photos on the streets of New York City.
While most other New Yorkers were indoors cheering on the home team to victory, I was reveling in the brisk clear night, along with a handful of foreign tourists who were likely interested in a different kind of foot-ball.
Since the boys were at the end of a weeklong bout of illness, we spent the weekend indoors watching The Music Man, The Maltese Falcon and Thumtantic. So, when I dropped them off with their mama in Jersey on Sunday night, I decided to get some exercise by walking home to 108th Street from the Port Authority Bus Terminal at 42nd Street.
I could have joined the vast majority of my fellow New Yorkers, and arrived a little late to one of the Super Bowl parties I had been invited to, but, unfortunately, I‘ve had a lifelong bout with not-being-a-sports-fan per se. I love playing them, but I’m just not inclined toward simply watching from the sidelines.
Of course, there are always exceptions. For, now that both the boys are involved in sports—Nicky in the kind of fútbol that rest of the world plays, and Enzo in wrestling—as a proud father, I watch and cheer enthusiastically.
However, when it comes to the big boys playing, I’ll usually pass. I think the most memorable professional games for me were the few San Francisco Giants games I attended with my father in sixth grade when I received a number of complimentary tickets for superior academic performance. But then again, the thrill wasn’t the game, it wasn’t so much the excitement of possibly catching a foul ball, but rather, it was simply the fact that I got to spend time with my father and the great sense of pride that came with earning the tickets, because I was apt to have my nose in books.
Well, today I’m supposed to swell with pride over a different set of Giants.
Alas, I only saw a few minutes of the game as I passed the Jumbotron in Times Square last night. But even then, I wasn’t really watching, for I found the crowd watching the game from the street far more intriguing than what was happening high up above on the screen.
Not being a sports fan has its problems though.
First, there is a certain kind of loneliness you’re going to feel when you opt out of the traditional social gatherings set about the TV. This can be especially true when you’re walking the streets of Manhattan at night alone and there are dozens of people screaming like mad from the windows.
My primary consolation is an attitude that can be summed up in something that Professor Harold Hill (Robert Preston) said to Marion in The Music Man, when he was trying to woo her into meeting him at the bridge by the brook:
“Oh, my dear librarian, you pile up enough tomorrows and you’ll find you’ve collected nothing but a lot of empty yesterdays. I don’t know about you, but I’d like to make today worth remembering.”
Thus, perhaps somewhat arrogantly, I tend to abscond the chance to socialize when it comes to baseball and football and the like. Instead, I often choose to pursue the opportunity to make my time here memorable by indulging in what has made my life most meaningful over the last couple of years—street photography.
Alas, albeit minor, the troubles of being such a social misfit, often continue into the next day when everyone is talking about the game and you have no clue as to what, when or who. This morning I’ve had to lie a lot because the strange looks and shocked remarks you get when you answer truthfully begin to gnaw at you.
After one too many crooked necks rhetorically implore, “You didn’t watch the game?,” you begin to realize that it is best to just lie a little, because no one wants to hear that you didn’t do what everyone else was doing, especially if they themselves were doing it.
Admittedly though, I’m fairly used to it by now.
A few years ago I was sitting at a bar with corporate counsel waiting to negotiate a contract, when a commercial for football came on, on the set looming above. He asked what I thought about a so-and-so team. With a grin, disguised as a sincere and coy smile, I confessed, "Sorry, I'm not much of a sports fan…love to play, but rather not just sit and watch." He responded, "You must miss out on a lot of conversations. It's such a great ice-breaker." I thought to myself, "Well, I probably don't miss much." Nonetheless, we somehow still managed to have an interesting conversation at the bar that afternoon, while we waited.
And allthemore, I feel that by not being much of a spectator I’m apt to not to miss out on something a little more important to me—having a chance to play in my own game, to revel in my own little triumphs, choosing to live, rather than die a slow death in front of the television.
I fully realize that this may sound a bit smug—believe it or not, it is not really meant to be—I don’t fancy myself better than anyone else at all, but I will admit that by professing my doings and don’ts that I do hope to inspire others to likewise forgo the party every once in a while; to take the risk of jumping into the game, rather than safely watching it from afar; in other words, to work a little harder at fulfilling their dreams by executing their passions—so that, ultimately, they might look back happily, rather than lament the lot of empty yesterdays.
*
Speaking of what one can do to make life more meaningful, there is a lot of hoopla over Obama these days.
I darted students passing out fliers in the streets this morning and I have friends sending me links to Black Eyed Peas videos of songs made from rallying speeches by Barack: Yes, we can (change).
As I was explaining to my 8-year old Enzo last night at the dinner table, who happens to be writing a report on JFK, the current presidential candidates have been vying to stoke the passions of people by comparing themselves to the mythical politicians of the past—for the Republicans, that would be Reagan, and for the Democrats, it has been John F. Kennedy.
To complement our discussion, I read the Sunday Times Op-Ed piece by Frank Rich ( Ask Not What J.F.K. Can Do for Obama). In sum, he writes that Obama appeals to the masses because he is poetic and people are yearning for a change, much as people yearned for change more than 40 years ago when JFK was elected, despite the overwhelming odds against him.
However, Rich also argues that while Barack Obama is proselytizing from the podium, Hilary Rodham Clinton has a lot more practical experience fighting in the trenches of the political battlefield, and that, ultimately, this is the kind of experience that might lead to meaningful change.
Either way, don’t forget to vote on Super Tuesday—because indeed it will lead to change, one way or another.
“The great enemy of truth is very often not the lie—deliberate, contrived, and dishonest—but the myth—persistent, persuasive, and realistic. Too often we hold fast to to the clichés of our forebears.”
— John Fitzgerald Kennedy —
