Here I am, back again after a mysterious absence. Some of you will get very late replies to comments, and for this I apologize. Between Thanksgiving, visits with family, a heavy workload, and business travels in North Carolina, my LJ usage has taken a hit.

It wasn't that long ago that I felt like schizophrenic local, Sam, who was standing in the middle of the street, tears streaming from his eyes, getting pummeled by the torrential rain, responding angrily to the offensive, blank stare of a locked red door; swearing and shouting at the top of his lungs while cocooned pedestrians without umbrellas shuffled by with their heads lowered muttering, "I hear ya man."

However, I had a series of twitches the other day which usually indicates some unusual psychic activity at the Octagon. For those that don't know, the Octagon is a roofless old ruin on little ol' forgotten Roosevelt Island next to Manhattan. Given that it was once a "lunatic asylum," it remains charged with a certain chaotic energy which can be seen from across the East River on a good summer day as a golden discharge through its blown out windows. Anything that happens in NYC, from the slightest shiver of a leaf on the Hare Krishna tree, to the unexpected swipe of a tapas platter from the sidewalk tables of a upscale restaurant awkwardly venturing into Alphabet City-- has a precise cosmic action within the ruinous boundaries of the Octagon, different in form, perhaps, but equal in transcendental significance.

At any rate, the series of twitches I received was unsettling and flushed me out onto the street to join an unexpected array of characters that seemed to be equally affected by the same tremor. Now, nearly every day for the six years in which I have resided in this current apartment, I pass the "Garage Man," an agoraphobic resident who refuses to take one step outside his oily cavern. Even his dog must walk to the full extension of his leash from within the shadowy lair to deposit his feces in the gutter before returning to his hidden master. Garage Man has a inwardly shriveled face, as if a giant had reached down and pinched it. It was after my spasm of twitches that I wandered about the neighborhood, contracting and extending my muscles and cranky joints, before I came upon Garage Man and his dog making their way down a quiet side street. The dog seemed wide-eyed and excited, glancing about as if each and every thing were made of ice cream and chicken. Garage Man was trembling, taking each step only after a series of long breaths. His face seemed to suck itself in and then relax again, repeatedly, not used to the stings of sunlight.

I like to imagine that this was a life-changing event for him. That the Octagon had some great reason for uprooting him from his garage in order that he claim the destiny that awaits him. Assuming he didn't come across the block which some sarcastic fellow littered with plain white boxes each labeled "Suspicious Package," he probably makes regular, fearless tours of the neighborhood, observing all that he has missed out on for years and years.

And so, finding myself strolling up and down my festive holiday-light filled street, shaking hands with the occasional sidewalk Christmas tree and pointing out the presence of flies in my cafe-mate's coffees, I have decided to run with this whole "get out and experience the world" thing which, for me, has suffered lately.

I hope you all will join me!