Monday

At 8:04 I stepped out to find a damp chill freshness I associate with aviaries. In the patriotic deli on Murray St. union guys stood crammed. Hispanic contractors placed calls from a car with its doors wide open. The sneakers I was wearing had to constantly be retied. A mom looked distressed that I would enter an intersection hunched like this. Closed Irish taverns reinforced how I felt about today. The sidewalk sat filled with arrows, spray-painted numerals which told me nothing: 50-12.

Heading south on Church, on the way past a bank, I studied what clerks hung in cubicles (fewer photos than expected, more miniature stuffed basketballs). The person ahead spilled her groceries. A bottle bounced off the sidewalk without breaking, making an exquisite sound. When the woman bent her butt became a familiar icon into which I almost crashed.

I took Cedar just to cross beneath the giant Dubuffet. The stucco texture proved disappointing. Closer to it my senses stilled. Everything suddenly smelled like bacon.

From Pine I entered an indoor courtyard. Gray-haired men (all wearing green sweaters) stood in rectangles as if roped off. Homeless people occupied chairs along the periphery. Some outright slept but most just nodded amidst spreads of newspapers, notebooks and bags.

Side-doors led to Wall St., where I continued east or south: confused by wobbly Brooklyn Heights traffic floating beyond construction planks. Unfamiliar with certain tree barks I thought up identification plaques. Large wooden wheels had been laid along a pit. I wished they didn't have to all go underground. Just as I rushed to the East River docks a water-taxi pulled out for Weehawken—making everything vertiginous and sad. The Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges looked good together. There was no birdshit-free space to rest my forearms. Water slurped against wood pylons.

Back on sidewalk I couldn't stop loving how a woman's suitcase wheels clicked every square. Strikers strode in front of several lobbies (bearing pamphlets but turned inwards). The Seaport Hotel was a particularly generic place I hope to never pass again. Businesses hung flags from windows. Barricades encircled the Stock Exchange. Guards steered pedestrians from surrounding blocks. Traders wearing badges drank coffee beside the guards. As I read about George Washington's first inauguration, at Federal Hall, somebody in a beret seemed to trip on a puddle.

A blonde couple on Broadway passed a black man their camera. He grimaced as they positioned themselves. I wove away from busyness and ended up outside the Federal Reserve. Underneath, a plaque declared, lies a quarter of the world's gold bullion. But I couldn't tell which building. None was marked clearly. As I approached him a wiry adolescent inhaled like he wanted to say Hello. I said it. He didn't respond. A taxi door slammed, cars honked, drills thrust and pinged so that one tossed cigarette butt seemed so well-timed and colossal.

On Pearl a Haitian grandma scanned a gaudy display of business suits. On Fulton one guy's perfectly average haircut got me thinking about what a malignant force this (somehow truly innocent) city exerts upon the world (maybe all cities). I wondered why protests take place in parks, on weekends. Later a woman aimed a bullhorn at a fifth-floor office, accused its staff of kidnapping her son. You've known my name fifteen years, she cried. But never added it to your computers! You've already let me adopt two kids!

Twice the same driver almost hit me—assuming I'd pause so he could turn. A young couple hoisted girls on their shoulders and started talking monkey language. A pigeon in City Hall Park looked sick and would just bat its eyes when you stepped close. A lady with an enormous bosom stood staring at some prewar building. The gas lanterns were on. I admired how a lesbian set off seemingly incompatible shades of blue. Picketers blended in beside a bookstore chain. A cigarette burned from the windowsill.

Tuesday

By 8:26 it felt almost steamy. Someone had smashed the lobby door again. A spiderman dangled, missing an arm. A box had been addressed to Gretchen A. Fagg. A boy waiting for the bus wore bright blue sneakers which seemed to make him extra shy. A crooked stencil on 5^th Ave. read: They stole us/ They sold us/ Reparations!/ Now!

The Taft Homes looked cleanest higher up. Most people kept their curtains drawn. But the longer I looked I saw narrow slits, with hands moving near kitchen sinks. A fireman swung his arm to stop me as Firetruck 119 lumbered past. It wasn't in any rush but the sirens wailed anyway. I watched how when pigeons and sparrows dart across firehouse lawn they only acknowledge their own species.

As I turned, two commuter trains purred out of sight. An Hispanic boy said I've been doing commercials. His friend just squinted, defensive maybe. I thought it might be fun to push north under train tracks. It was (but not in a way you remember). Graffiti on a power box read Ghetto Inmates.

A vacant lot on Lexington stood full of two-liter Schweppes bottles. Suburban-looking duplexes had front plots covered in security signs. A bank encouraged renters to put down 3% and buy condos. A battery melted into the sidewalk like an egg. A Central American all in white presumed I'd checked him out sexually. He frowned. The gravel lot behind him had just been combed.

In the CVS plaza one man cried Violence is something; Violence is something. A sexy Thai girl's photograph printed on a McDonald's cup rolled against a sewer grate. My right contact was presenting persistent problems.

I couldn't figure out the Triborough Bridge. During this delay I felt exposed, foolish, tense, daunted. Traffic bore down on me like a waterfall. A sign halfway up the ramp commanded Keep Walking/ No Lingering Between Signs. I looked out to where grackles flickered on beams. Across Bronx Kill a lot of burning waste shimmered.

Randall's Island split into baseball fields. Shrink-wrapped police boats lined its harbor. I wanted to at least touch ground but construction noise made me turn back early.

Third Avenue felt the most family-friendly. There were stable-looking clothes shops, girls in pink jackets. One boy leaned from a stroller so delighted about pigeons he appeared to get stuck. One gay guy felt up a giggly woman. She stepped through shattered lobby doors which smelled like tequila.

A mural depicted Puerto Rican boats under the caption New York Love's Rite-Aid. A Corona salesman stood flipping a quarter. Mini-schoolbus drivers jotted descriptions of contorted individuals waiting in wheelchairs. One sticker with a dog in trenchcoat read Safe Spot—Lugar Seguro. More Lugar Seguro stickers started popping up. A round-faced girl pulled red, green and blue tamales from a vat (each smelled different).

On my return through Taft Homes a black guy my age whom I've seen many times sipped coffee. A trim woman told another We should quit. We're not getting younger. But when you're high it takes the pain away.

My eyes stopped on a puzzle piece. Sixtyish Brazilians hurried past singing. Two unrelated newspaper scraps had melded into a rough-hewn heart. Turning right I stepped near a pair of headphones flattened to the pavement: turning bronze. A tall sexy cop and I looked away as we approached the 4-5-6. A sweet girl in cornrows smiled at the street. I can't decide if the back of my building borders Lincoln State Corrections. It's hard to follow alleys up here because of all the fences.

Wednesday

I shoved my way onto Greenwich at 8:39. It felt like scissors had lodged in my hip. Pivoting forward like a compass I waved cars through the intersection. People without umbrellas stood straight or dropped their glance to the curb. I think it was a class difference. My hat caught in a stray umbrella tine. When I tried to free it a glove got snagged. Under an awning I yanked at these benign objects—my friends almost.

On the walk to the river I passed a retirement-home café where residents could buy their own big orange juice cartons. When a woman checked me out her partner's eyes defocused. The type of hail falling didn't bounce off streets like marbles. Still I dropped my plan to head north along the Hudson, not wanting to hobble amidst hail and traffic and pain.

In Nelson Rockefeller Park the gardener frowned (but only because he loved his plants so much). The bathrooms stood padlocked with a sign pointing south. A saffron air pocket drifted past. I leaned towards the sudsy water for explanation. A Hoboken ferry looked stripped like meat carcasses in Dutch still-lives. As the boat docked, this blur cohered into photos of a Bangladeshi woman in chains. I fell in with a pack of ferry commuters. Each held a silent snowflake aura. At Vessey everyone turned east.

In the World Financial Center Mall, under palm trees, people avoiding rain spread newspapers on benches, sat beside paper coffee cups. One tabloid posted a frowning black man on its cover beneath the title What A Dunce! A disaster-recovery display showed mute footage of Governor Pataki at a press conference. Two workers in tan jumpsuits jogged across the lobby. The woman clamped a cigarette between her lips.

Beyond revolving doors stood sand-filled flowerpot ashtrays. These reminded me of arroyos. My right foot hit a puddle (dampening both pant cuffs). Rocks held down garbage can lids. Coins people had tossed onto pylons turned green. Whitecaps didn't disappear the moment you spotted them. Cobblestone mortar-lines swirled with rainwater.

I strode parallel to a slightly chubby bald man in rough-cut leather jacket, curious if he was representative of our times. Urban instinct led to a covered footbridge across the West Side Highway. A Thai woman cruised ahead with her sandals clapping her foot soles. A musing Japanese woman lurched. Each female had attained her best possible complexion. Some bulged their eyes as if fighting off sleep. Cars below had headlights on. It wasn't something I would notice from the sidewalk. To the north I scanned the Trade Center pit: a tiny shed and orange cones looked quaint.

Along the Church St. platform someone Korean shifted before a camera and suddenly appeared huge. In the World Trade Center PATH station a woman couldn't believe I didn't want a free paper. A rapping METRO clerk paused to gesture behind a rolling cart. A white man broke from his family, crept between columns, brought his son insane delight.

I dropped onto the longest escalator. The steel high above was haunting. The ride back to mezzanine wasn't as exciting. My heart shuddered, sensing bad 9-11 air.

Arrows pointed down a passage marked Chambers Street. To me that means Kristin. Commuters hurried, clearly distressed, while other people plodded along telling jokes. A humming fenced-off E train sighed. A woman with breasts boggling leered as she passed. This dank neon stretch continued for blocks.

On the return to street level my zipper wouldn't budge. From a lobby a man barked orders in his phone. But it turned out to not be raining now—hoisted umbrellas were just a residue.

Thursday

I couldn't leave until 10:06. A crane pivoted with clamped drywall overhead. A surprising amount of wet tobacco fanned out from one crushed Parliament.

Assuming this the last snow of spring I crossed right into Central Park. Already the whitest patches lay pocked. Thawing branches made it feel like rain. Green shoots cleared the soggy drifts. Geese picked through the slush for grass. A seagull corkscrewed down to the water. I questioned a flock of freckled gulls: Do you migrate? Are you terns? About twenty flew off, circled back with one dissonant individual complicating the symmetry.

In the Gardens goopy ice still covered bushes. A Vietnamese groundskeeper said 10-4. His partner's walkie-talkie amplified the phrase. My hip pain sharpened. My gait tightened. The plaque on a bench read Copywriter's Rest. Storm-battered crocuses made successful flowers. Blushed violets continued to wilt. A sliced-in-half worm uncoiled. A silver balloon in a barren plot reminded me I'd dreamt of silver. On the way out I wanted to assist one Spanish couple consulting maps.

The Academy of Medicine's iron grate cast calligraphic shadows. The Times covered the latest Pro-Life fiasco instead of legitimate news. Hadn't 10 oil-refinery workers died in a plant explosion? Where are Christian vigils to support plant safety regulations?

Boys stepped from Mt. Sinai bearing visitors' badges. A man on his way in reeked of cologne. Square wooden crosses near St. Nicholas Orthodox made me internally quiet and serious. I watched a woman lift the gate outside a salon—something I'd never seen a woman do. A separate woman asked her sister Why do you have to make me so conscious about it?

As I approached a bakery a gleaming pick-up clicked like its alarm was about to sound. The muffins didn't look excessively sugared. The dj banter clarified my mood. The line spaced me out though. I had to keep walking.

From Madison someone examining my face smiled just enough so I could respond if I wanted. A gush of ice-melt poured off a blue awning. A crossing guard bulged her eyeballs and joked (kids laughed without really having heard).

My walk flowed to the 96^th Street Library. A bald man complained about Thursday's crummy hours. His bag hung held together by safety pins. An SUV with a turn-signal flashing continued straight through the light, so close my face felt it. A particularly composed woman made me flinch/duck inside a clothing store entrance: what was I reacting to? A mom called Hey you're crazy for climbing up there. Her son stood on a giant flowerpot. His sister smiled looking up. There were newly installed daffodils.

The backs of all the Friedrich air conditioners made me think of Nietzsche. Inside a boutique a cashier checked his profile. A clerk tied her own French braids. Both kept talking simultaneously.

The dirt trail I tried to take home ended on smoldering mulch. The distant high-rises rippled. I shouldered a rutted maintenance path, feeling like an arsonist. I reached for a navy-colored balloon halfway down a staircase and slipped. When I turned over the wrinkled balloon it read Feliz Cumpleanos. A lady yanked a mutt's leash yelling Enough already with the chickenbones! A blond informed his frenchie it was time to settle down.

Friday

I held the door for an Arabic man but he lingered far behind. I turned west and a walk came to me. At 9:12 the air was loose and gray. A hairdresser had hung her posters askew. An exhausted blonde handing over spare change spun off when the guy started to tell his story. From a small gold sports car sprang the percussive buildup to "1999." Part of me surged.

A neglected John Hancock statue looked very plain anyway. A suspicious black man in a fez cap glared. I passed many churches, forgetting names, unable to read whole titles. It was scary when a jogger caught up from behind. One quaint sign just read Chop Suey.

A tall German girl wearing a lot of skin cream smiled when we passed on the climb up Convent. Somebody asked someone stapling preschool flyers several meandering questions. He was obviously trying to pick her up. From church steps a man called Seventy-five years! You bet I'm happy! A dressed-up boy on the opposite stoop ate an apple adorably.

Random snow lingered on just one block. I smiled when a maimed Chinese student passed. Afterwards I regretted this. I took my hat off and the hair stood up like a shell.

Joy as I continued up Convent couldn't find any cause at first. Then the flushed brownstones started. Stained-glass details made the morning delicate. An Asian carpenter carried his level straight. I felt an insane desire to confirm I'd seen gas lamps. I crossed to inspect the one lit porch (as if I couldn't tell this was electric light). A tour group outside the Alexander Hamilton Museum took interest. A stout Native American wrapped his arm around a banker—lead the guy into a Lincoln Continental.

I pictured parks coming around 146^th. A church front resembled a huge concrete slide. There wasn't any park. I soon turned east. A stripped mansion stood at the corner facing another entitled Dawn Hotel. Burning plastic fumes left me faint. A man selling Black Power fists stopped as I crossed. A magic-markered sign read Head Start Closed (Good Friday).

Along St. Nick's Park I passed crocus shoots sprinkled with torn cups, lotto tickets, pens. Workers swept debris down Convent Hill. An androgynous art student climbing the staircase looked especially slender beside her portfolio. Someone had colored certain squares on stone chess-tables pink and blue.

In front of the Lionel Hampton towers a dog wore a homemade cheetah-print top. I said Hi to the owner. She didn't look. Four guys split apart to let me pass. One kept bouncing his basketball so hard it sailed above him. A funeral home kept stretching along the bottom of one apartment house. This took up at least four awnings.

From 125^th I was still unsure whether to make cars stop when I had the right of way, since only white people seemed to hold such expectations. Scaffold graffiti just said Rip Dice. A man with an earring had to drag one foot. A guava juice sat on a payphone ledge. Across Frederick Douglass a girl poked her friend and pointed up at a Fanta sign. It showed one woman dressed in orange sway beside another in purple.

The flyer in a Senegalese café presented a crouched boy karate-kicking barefoot above his afro. When the man in front paused I also hesitated: shifting keys from coat pocket to pants. One spaced-out girl stared off pressing a lobby intercom. One shy woman passed shielding wildly bucked teeth. One neighbor wound a wheelchair through the plaza, gave his gregarious dog some exercise.