Here's memory. Pittman Ware's first iPod. I even had my favorite quote from a Bret Easton Ellis novel etched into the back, "Disappear Here." A year later I would be walking back from acting class to my apartment in Spanish Harlem when I was grabbed from behind, punched in the face, shown a gun in a waistband, and told, "Give me that iPod," I complied. It was one of my first traumatic experiences.; Not the losing the iPod; I was able to upgrade to an iPod video a few months later (how cutting edge!). No, it was the attack and the sense of vulnerability it created in me, similar to that first brush with death a 20 or 30-year-old has that finally convinces themselves once and for all that they are, in fact, mortal; that death is around the corner and that if you didn't keep your eyes peeled and your pace brisk, it could catch up with you before you're ready to meet it.

But in a way, the attack was a kind of gift. An injury that didn't manage to get infected or leave a scare but taught a lesson; like touching a hot stove when you're a child. To say the lesson was to always be aware of your surroundings would be inaccurate. The lesson was to always be alert, to always be scanning for danger like our ancestors did when gathering nuts and wild fruits, or hunting on the savannah. And its served me well. I noticed that early, when I realised I was always be able to spot friend on the sidewalk or the subway platform in NYC before they ever saw me. Everytime. Well, almost everytime.

That's all.