Adventures In The Post Office

Time: 1117
Location: Bushwick Post Office
Weather: Abnormally warm and sunny
Mood: Same as above




In order to facilitate my writing of a graphic novel, I ordered a few books from Amazon.com, but the package was too large to fit through the mail slot at home, meaning I had to venture to the post office to pick it up.

I don't like my post office. There's always a line of people, most of them are very vocal about complaining, but I can throw in my earbuds and wait with musical aplomb. Today, however, one woman came in exceptionally upset because the postal worker who delivers her mail only delivers the odd side of the street when her disability check is cut meaning it takes her an extra day to get her money. Apparently she comes to the post office every month to, "raise sand to get her money."

Today, she went from ringing the bell and asking to see a supervisor to jangling her keys in the metal tray and yelling for someone to see her to verbally assaulting the postal workers and saying she wished she had a smoke bomb to throw through the window, capping it off by saying she wanted to find a door to the back so she could kick it down and spit in all their dumb faces because it's the moat disgusting thing you can do.

Though tempted to stay and watch the police come for her, but I decided it was more important to get to work...

The Stories Of Their Lives

Time: 9 and change AM
Location: uptown A train
Weather: cold but clear
Mood: discombobulated


I hope I'm not the only one who does this, watching and analyzing the people around me, my brain makes up their stories, regardless of my desire. My classmate James was keen on saying that humans will overlay meaning on random events, that we had no real choice in the matter. We try and make stories.

It makes sense. In many ways, one could explain a lot of religion that way. All anthropomorphism.

But me, I make up their lives. I make snap judgements (which I realize are most likely incorrect, but I do it anyway...).

Is this a product of writing? Of creating? Or does everyone play this game?



The blonde in the foreground was escorted on the train by an older man who acted rather strangely. Part of me wanted to say theirs was a prostitute-John situation, but ultimately it didn't quite fit. She wasn't jaded enough, she seemed more prone to being intrigued with the world around her, and also a little unsure of where she was. I decided she's new to the city, having come from an eastern European country. She's a modern mail order bride, and when the man knocked on the window to tell her "three" he was telling her how many dresses he wanted her to buy today.

Anyway... Glimpse into my fevered brain. Mail order brides fascinate me, and perhaps I'll look I to that next.