Lincoln Center was designed this way for people watching.
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Lincoln Center was designed this way for people watching.

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Rivers of Fire, Chicago | Illinois (by Aurimas)
Presence
    He could only be described as ephemeral. Within the four-year stretch of college, I had seen Jeremy off and on. We met at freshman orientation, he with the Ivy League haircut and over-sized sweater, I with my fake pearls and canvas shoes.
    As I studied Voltaire and Rousseau, I’d run into Jeremy at the library, the courtyard, the terrace outside the dining hall. He’d say my name and wave before walking away.
    I recall watching him working on a set backstage. Elizabeth was to meet me after rehearsal. He looked my way and smiled as he sweated over his saw.
    I still remember him. I’m 82 years old.
The Call
    I decided to hail a cab even though it wasn’t in my budget. I couldn’t wait any longer. The hospital elevator took hours to get to the fifth floor. I rushed to the reception desk. My dad was in Room 518. When I arrived, Mom stood up to greet me, her whole countenance brightening.      “Is that Isaac?” my dad wheezed.      “It’s me, Dad. Glad to see you’re awake.”      He had a stroke. He was out cold for a few hours when I got the call.      “Isaac,” said Dad. “Your mother saved my life. She held my hand the entire way.”

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A Start
    Javier took his mortarboard and gown back home. Graduation only three weeks away, he was still wondering. Was community college the right choice? Would it really be worth it? He didn’t get into Baruch or Hunter, and his bank account couldn’t survive NYU. He walked up the stairs into the afternoon sunlight. He didn’t know anyone in his family who had been to college. “This is a good day,” his mother said upon reading his acceptance letter.
    He flopped down in the kitchen, and his mother kissed his forehead. “You have made me proud,” she murmured. Javier had to smile.
"What I believe is that all clear-minded people should remain two things throughout their lifetimes: Curious and teachable." - Roger Ebert (1942-2013)
Looming Grandeur, Buffalo NY
A look up an alleyway in Brighton Beach during today’s snowstorm. Note that someone still had laundry out on a clothesline.

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Fire escapes and a street light on the Lower East Side.
Base Camp
    “Finally, the countryside,” she thought, hiking through the forest, verdant, peaceful, water running in the distance. It was different from car horns, bickering neighbors, and constant construction. She left, a woman about town. She emerged, a trailblazer through unspoiled woodland, camping at twilight. No cellphone reception.
    She was to meet her—well, was he her boyfriend?—at Keene Valley near Giant Mountain. He wanted to go rock climbing and biking, and she was glad someone had come along without a power tie and a timeshare in Cape Cod. She rose at dawn and set out for her destination.
Little Things
    “Let’s go to the movies,” I said. The snow was coming down hard, but I was suffering from cabin fever. I heard a sigh. I knew she didn’t want to go out. The cold would bother her joints, and she would worry the whole drive over. I didn’t want retirement to be just sitting around, but I knew Mary and winter never got along.
    “What about getting some takeout? I could go to that Chinese place downtown.” She nodded slightly, but her eyes sparkled. After forty years of marriage, the little joys still give me strength. I grabbed my coat.
source: photographer
What I love most about reading literary journals is that they seek out and publish new authors. To me, each new issue of a journal is like a wrapped gift. I never know what I will be reading.
from Why I Love Reading Literary Journals by E. H. Kern (via bookriot)

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SLC from above
'Land of Opportunity' has real meaning here.