Chelsea Station Issue 2
It is an easy minute walk from the hotel. Very nice ambiance, although during the time we were there, all the TVs had the national and Flights Vacation Rentals Restaurants Things to do. Tip: All of your saved places can be found here in My Trips. Log in to get trip updates and message other travelers. Profile Join. Log in Join. See all restaurants in Chelsea. Closed Now: See all hours. All photos Order Online. Ratings and reviews 4. Certificate of Excellence Winner. Large groups, Bar scene, Business meetings. Location and contact. Is this restaurant good for breakfast?
Chelsea Station: Issue 2
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Chelsea Station: Issue 2
Vegetarian Friendly, Vegan Options. Reviews Write a Review. Filter reviews. Traveler rating. Excellent Very good Average 2. Poor 2. Terrible 3. Traveler type. Moreover, there was no practical use for it; no way to make a living , and this theme was reiterated throughout our relationship with one another for the rest of her life.
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- Chelsea Station Issue 2.
Actually, further. Intimations of Medea is not something I am laying claim to here, for certainly childhood friends had it far worse than I did. This is also a theme which I attempted to explore in one of my first doomed overwritten novels, Where Time Goes , a prevailing realization that to have artistic aspirations will not necessarily guarantee parental approval.
Knowing the novel itself was ultimately destined to self-publishing or the scrap heap underscores another truth fairly hard to digest at first: Yes, Mom was right. Presence in development is what the preceding expresses by the paradox of what presence was up against. Another large kernel in that formation, however, was wanting to believe I actually had some kind of talent, mixed with an equally large, or larger, fear that I did not. In caveman tongue, of course, that would translate as: Wubba Chuggie Bu!
The need to be recognized, deep down, for who one is, I think, is not just a seeking of attention, but a basic personality construct in all of us on some level. By the time I graduated high school the intensity of trying to be secretly creative mixed with the negative connotations of being shamefully found out, left me like two fish with tails intertwined. There was something desperate about the spinning. A year following, at graduation, I won small monetary awards for both Creative Writing and Drama, a win which left both me and my parents flabbergasted.
In the bright sun, we appeared to be a force field of aluminum broadcasting to space aliens. Panic of a strange magnitude occurred within me afterward when they actually went ahead and published the damned pretentious thing. Shortly following I received a phone call from a fellow graduate complementing me on my vocabulary. I recalled that this phone caller was there when one of the bullies I dealt with on a regular basis walked by and gobbed a large ball of mucous on my cheek.
I recalled that neither I nor the phone caller had said or done anything back at the time. Questioning his motives, and having no idea what to say, I kept the phone call non-committal and brief. Gupta said that Man is a social animal, but by the time I left high school I much preferred the company of animals and wanted as little to do with anything social as possible. I have often joked with my sister that when I die mourners and pall bearers will have to be rented for the occasion. Time moves. Geography shifts.
Both can go at the pace of slow ooze or a sudden cataclysm.
Events and species, religions and politics, ride on the currents of either. I have no idea why I started this essay except to try and get a clue as to why and where I am in this specific geography and time. I also partially lied in that last paragraph. In addition to solitude, I have knowingly sought companionship and love in ways which entailed a sociability or lack skill-wise comprised of more than dragging someone by the hair back into my cave.
A person can at least set down a bear rug first and invite another to the movies. The somewhat murky idea of acquiring an audience for my writing and art must have come into existence at some point as well, but it remains a hard battle not to want a J. Salinger sort of privacy should the audience part ever occur. Furthermore, to show others whose views you once felt captive to that you have made it is most likely a common fantasy universally, but I believe that it is just the icing on the cake after a great deal of sweat and effort. In other words, success may not be the best revenge, but it helps.
He would have that need, that determination. I have no idea why I am publishing this. I never thought poetry could be so noble, was one of the oddest acceptance notices I ever received from a magazine. Nothing about it did or does strike me as particularly grand.
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It was simply a way of dealing with what I found disturbing, a way of working through the emotional resonance. Is that nobility or a matter of arrogance and control issues? Certainly it is gratifying when another soul can relate to my work on a personal level, and I have been fortunate in occasionally receiving supportive notes or having others say, Thank you, you have expressed something I have felt too. Preaching to the choir, however, is not entirely what I ever aimed for.
On the delusion front this must be akin to believing I can raise peacocks at the North Pole. You must have it made. Then I try to give addresses where they can perhaps submit their own work. I mean it. Where do people find the time, energy, and inclination to utilize support systems? Where and how? This line of questioning is most likely exactly what keeps me working a day job.
This and a not always healthy skepticism rooted in the knowledge that of all the books published, let alone written, a hundred years ago, very few of them are still actively read.
Chelsea Station: Issue 2 by Jameson Currier
Yet did they not serve some purpose while eyes and minds were actually absorbing the print? Was it really all for naught even to the person who did the work? Why be so ashamed of obscurity anyway? You can do what you want without someone looking over your shoulder. Obscurity though, for someone in the arts, does have a stigma of failure. Every few years I attempt to overcome my nausea and reread, re-polish the novels I have not yet dumped in a burn barrel. I try to create flow in what dialogue I think is stilted, condense what sentences strike me as not quite tight, but when remembering rejections from publishers and agents I question if I am being realistic or just passing time with airy castles.
Marcia Aldrich. Uncanny Magazine Issue Lynne M. Noises from Under the Rug. Barry Louis Polisar. I Smell Esther Williams. Mark Leyner. I Will Be Complete. Glen David Gold. Twisted Head. Carl Capotorto. Butch Geography. Stacey Waite. Everything Must Go. Jeff Dupuis. Judith Kitchen. Death by Umbrella! The Weirdest Horror Movie Weapons. Christopher Lombardo. Flash Nonfiction Funny. Tom Hazuka. My Parents Were Awesome. Eliot Glazer. Blues for Beginners: Stories and Obsessions.
Judith Podell. Queering the Way. Darrin Hagen. The Uncollected David Rakoff. David Rakoff. You're Married to Her? Ira Wood. Never Say Goodbye. Quentin Rowan. Good Grief. Stevie Edwards. I Love Science! Shanny Jean Maney. God's Gift to Women. Stanford Friedman. The Revolution Will Be Accessorized. Aaron Hicklin. Steven Reigns. Jason Bredle. Todd Russell. Horror Movies to Savor and Detest. JM Cozzoli. Impact: An Anthology of Short Memoirs. CoCo Harris. Lance Olsen. The Worst Dennis Cooper. Summer Camp.
William T. Raymond Luczak. Leaving Normal: Adventures in Gender. Rae Theodore. Jameson Currier. The Wolf at the Door. Desire, Lust, Passion, Sex. The Forever Marathon.