Possibly the most wonderful week I have had in a long time (if you minus the 7 inch of snow, sharp, cold sleet, 30 minutes of walking to and fro to work and close to 3 hours of traveling in ridiculously uncomfortable NJ Transit buses)

I didn't take my Ipod with me to NY. That worst thing the Ipod has done is isolated people in lone-standing animals in a sea full of curios and fodder. I watch people waiting for bus, for subways, for cabs or simply waiting to cross the streets-- with the intensely visible white cords reaching somewhere in their bags or pockets, hiding the Ipods. I was one of those, until I realized there were more enjoyable and perhaps, englightening ways of utilizing that time. Street noise is beautiful. Whether it is the two honey-skinned brazilians singing duets on the assortment of strange, whimsical instruments they have-- or the Indian girl teaching her Portuguese friend english, pointing out to a limo and lip-synching to, "LI-MO-ZEEN"-- or the young teeanger on her way to the local ice-cream parlor with her father shrieking with delight on spotting a random Hollywood celebrity walking down the street --- Streets are a treasure. A live, pulsating, fabric of culture- as real as it gets!

I made new friends at work. Fun, hedonistic, pleasure-seeking women! The ambititous one of the batch is releasing her first novel in 2006. A couple of "desi" girls proud of their lineage. A random marketing agent at a real-estate firm. A couple of high-profile but very helpful editors... yum.

My computer at work needs to be cranked and re-started every hour. It can't handle certain sites- including all blogspot.com addresses! I've felt alienated from the blogosphere but very satisfied with my life.

I've also been hunting online for apartments in NY and have had absolutely zero luck. Why is it so hard to find a place to live?! Let me rephrase it- why is so hard to find something I can afford?

This week has reminded me of one of my favorite poems about New York. It is called Manahatta and was written in early 19th century by Walt Whitman. His words echo my sentiments and energy.

All the same, it is good to be back home for the weekend. It is good to be back with my friends, my roommates, my sister and my boyfriend. I listen to the radio every night as I fall asleep- even otherwise, it's always playing in my room. I like to sleep with music , otherwise I think too much and let my imagination race. Since the last month, I've been listening to a million Christmas carols every night. I am going to be a little sad when Christmas if finally over, tthere's something about this season... everyone is nice to each other, people smile without a reason and wish each other happy holidays. Bus drivers let me on even if I don't have the ticket, passengers let me get on first because I have so much stuff, little boys in wooly red hats give me their toothless grins, a beauitful angelic neice smiles slowly with recognition and jumps ecstatically with anticipation on seeing me... a much-missed sister stops brooding and feeling depressed because I am back.... a handsome, silly man feeds me, makes love to me and rubs my knotted back because it hurts me so.

on another side of this universe, a friend pines for love, another writes with hope and the third struggles with his dreams. It is. Still. a season of goodness, prayers and happiness.