Bookends

I rub deep sleep from my eyes, stare out the kitchen window at the bridge in its afternoon sunlight splendor, and the coffee seeps in the french press. Knowing I should be hung over, but not. Stretching slowly, enjoying the sensation of my body waking up, I feel ready for another night, another adventure.

I stumbled home madly last night, the long, cold walk like a Sunday stroll in the park to my intoxicated legs, and I walked the whole way home with a great big smile on my face. My city, my sweet little city, so quiet at two in the morning, and I didn't meet a single person. The full moon shone over the apartment where my parents first moved in together, with their view of the docks and their young love. It shone over all my old haunts, my old apartment, my old life. How could I not giggle and dance along the tram tracks?

Sitting at our old bar, the entire night was in fact one big giggle. I rediscovered my old nook under their wings, and I snuggled in as tightly as I possibly could. How simple, how delicious, the unconditional love that made me who I am, that built me up from my pile of ashes and let me fly off in search of the Dream.

Unaware of any of the people around us, we looked each other deeply in the eyes, tears slowly trickling behind fluttering eyelids, and I laughed. I gave all this up. So convinced New York was worth the sacrifice. The more you give up to get there, the more it is worth. I have never been more sure, my choice was the right one.

Second Long Street, Revisited

Brutally shoved back into my old home town, I need no cushion for the blow. It comes softly, seemingly trying to sneak by unnoticed. Almost succeeding. Here I am, and it feels like I was never gone. The streets are all the same, the bars, the weather. Carefully negotiating slippery streets, and the fog that rolled in warmly earlier turns to ice crystals while I am in having a drink. The same kids stumble in and out of warm enclosures, their fashion senses impeccable but don't they seem so much younger than when I was here last? I got old, and the nights have passed without me. I forgive them; after all, did I not pass without them?

The DJ played our song and it made my soul dance. In the quiet corners of my heart I know, I have already left this place. I love this city, I love that it is still home to me, after I closed the door and left it, after I abandoned it for Brighter Lights, but the tingle in my toes does not lie: I have left, and my soul resides elsewhere.

Faces pass by in the streets, in the windows we walk by, and someone always recognizes them, but me. I remember that this was always who I was. I always tried to get lost in the crowds. Being lost is the only way I can see myself.

I think of Morton Street, I drift off to sleep, and I smile.

Rounds

I travel through the Swedish countryside, I make the rounds. I visit friends in old cities, I visit grandparents in the brick houses they built in the sixties, that are dirty now with age and lonely neglect. I walked past my old house the other day, and it looked smaller. Things inevitably change; too much remains the same. Stay away mere months and suddenly everyone is pregnant with a ring on their finger. It gives me the shivers--no longer because I feel as though I've fallen behind, as though I am missing out on that key ingredient they found in the fortune cookie, but because I don't want it for myself, and I don't see how they can.

How are these people so satisfied with jobs, with refurnished apartments and American Idol Friday nights, with the Way Things Are? I suspect they are happy, but all it does to me is make me want to scream at them until their patterned wallpaper tears off the walls. Dejected, I nod appreciatively and congratulate them on that upcoming wedding weekend in Paris.

I was nothing short of grateful as I boarded the train for Gothenburg, and I rolled back into my old home. Here it was, this city that I have so loved, and it felt as though I had never been away. Perhaps that is the thing, then. People come and go, they disappear and when you meet them again they are not the people you knew. I have long since ceased to mourn the passing of friends from my life; too frequently occuring, it became too painful in the long run. But cities, they remain. They welcome you back, whisper stories of your childhood or the street corner where you drunkenly stumbled home at dawn and giggled. The buildings stay, steadfast, and the tram lines will not be rerouted. I trust the cities to remain, and they do. Three beers later and I forgot I had ever been away.

But at night, finally catching a moment to myself and staring at the black ceiling, I think of New York and am overwhelmed with the happiness of going home soon. I remember a conversation with one of our old bartenders, who had just returned from his stint in England. How happy he was to be back. I thought, New York, honey, I ain't done with you yet. Hell, I haven't even begun.

So This Is Christmas

Days pass. The white snow collects dirt and seeps gray into canvas shoes. I look in the mirror and imagine my hair turning darker, adapting to the season. I blend in. If I didn't have a ticket home, would I ever be able to amass the energy to leave, again? The idyllic Christmas wrapped up and tomorrow I board the train heading west, heading back in time, arriving at the platform of the city of my childhood. Everything comfortable, everything recognizable. In space no one can hear you scream.

My sister and I do not believe in Holiday Stress. But we do like slipping little somethings under the tree and sharing the wrapped delights with each other. I give her trinkets of Manhattan flea markets and hope they will live up to her vintage label gown closet. This year, she gave me one of the best presents yet: a reminder of things I already knew, and her honest affirmation that she knew them too.

I return to New York two weeks from tonight. Any way I can make enough money to pay the rent, I should do it. But beyond that, I need no claims to a career, I need not live up to anyone's expectations of what would be the proper course to follow. I went to New York to write, and I can not justify not doing just that. To give it a proper chance. To leap fearlessly and see if I can land on my feet. The thing is, if I don't, I know I have people ready to take my hand and pull me up. People who will not be saying I told you so, because they didn't. What they did was mill in the stands, cheering me on.

If I come back here, months from now, a broken soul with darkening hair, forced to take that straight and wide path and the nine-to-five, then I will do it. I may even do it gladly. Because at least I will have leapt. At least I will have given myself this chance. The word has been in me for so long. There is no other way. And there never was.

Or, as Peter once said:
Write, write, and write.

Arrival. ?.

I walk down snowy streets in a city that is not mine, but it never was and cannot be blamed. Still, this is where I am from. I sat on the subway and looked out over these people, surprised to hear my language spoken, my jet lagged mind finding it hard to keep up with new circumstances. I looked at them, knowing that we had something in common but trying still to find out what it was, like an adopted child staring at her biological parents for the first time. Trying to see what bits of these people were in me as well, what blood flowed through their veins that may have produced me. I found myself at a loss.

How odd to suddenly be here. Not convinced that all of me is. I trudge in thin sneakers through grayed snow and rub my hands in the freezing air. Maybe, tomorrow, there'll be sun.

Departure

Journal excerpt,
December 20, 2009

You know, it's a funny thing, life. What it does to you. What you do with it.

I am sitting in the very same spot where M and I sat, three years ago, watching most of Running with Scissors and waiting for our flight.

From this spot, I can see the Manhattan Skyline in the distance. How small it is, unreal once compared to the vastness of America. I step out of it, look back, and am amazed. Is this really my towering giant of a city, in which I helplessly -gladly- get swept away? And I know that it is.

Last time when I sat here, what a shaking leaf I was. So this break is break up. I could barely stand to look at the City, slipping from my grasp.

Now, I look at it and giggle. My heart swells with love, with joy at the thought of coming back to it, soon.

A flock of geese appears at the horizon. They make their way places. They'll be back.

New York, honey, I missed you without knowing why sometimes. With a longing like a gaping black hole in my heart, relentless even with the passing of time and the makeshift healing of my soul. I came back for you, and I have not regretted it for a single moment.

New York, honey, you are home.

Snow Day

New York, New York in a blanket of snow. In a flurry of a million icy sparkles, twirling quickly to their respective spots in life, where their purposes are fulfilled. Lie here, lie real still, and, for a moment, be magic.

Like a shroud, it covers Bleecker street.

We drove slowly along the Bronx River Parkway in Westchester County. Wary to go down the steep hill to the train, but what choice did we have? The radio raved about the unheard-of-ness of this storm, and from the sounds of it, Long Island was lost forever. Perhaps there would be no train. Staring out on the tracks, it seemed impossible that anything could ever traverse such a darkness. We plowed through the snow toward the tracks and prayed. The city seemed suddenly so far away, and I felt utterly helpless without it.

Not five minutes after we stepped onto that platform did the train come, safe and reliable, as if nothing was different from any other Saturday night, and let us go home now, quietly. At Grand Central, the 7 came within a minute of my getting to it; the same story was repeated when I transferred to the 1 at Times Square. I sat on the train and felt so safe. It does not rain or snow or blow harshly on the subway trains of New York City. They rock through their tunnels, they carry the tired, the happy, the visitors, the faithful. I sat on the train and remembered an old roommate of mine, who was not fond of the system. Because she never knew where she was getting up, she was not connected to the real world while in the underground. I feel completely opposite. As though the subway is the very womb of the City. It's always a little bit warmer down there, a little more quiet. And the real world cannot reach you, there.

I stepped out at Sheridan Square and packed on my winter knits. With no cars on the road, the wind reigned over 7th avenue, racing along the broad street and a cab was stuck at the curb. Green lights came and went as lone cars tried to pull out into intersections. Doormen tried desperately to keep their patch of land neat, but mostly, walking on the sidewalk was like wading in the sea. I danced merrily along, taking the long way home down bedford and walking in the middle of the street. Who was going to bother me? In the cotton of snow, New York was quiet, calm. And so was I.

Lie here, lie real still, and, for a moment, be magic.

Collectives

A cold day you could cut with a knife. And still that sun shining, like a child in love it will not give up on the frozen New Yorkers as they beat their leathered hands together. Stone buildings seem colder still, but their breaths, like the peoples', reveal their inner warmth through puffs of air escaping along the rooftops. I listen to Simon and Garfunkel, giggling at ninth grade innocence, and I think perhaps it is all groovy, perhaps it doesn't have to be more complicated than that. If I love New York, then so be it.

I come home to a drink date on Grove Street. There is no sign outside the bar, and the door looks like the entrance to a stable of old. The piano player sits too near the exit and must wear gloves to play; cold gusts swivel through the place at the advent of every new guest, and we tip her immensely. We drink holiday-themed drinks in wide martini glasses and admire the decor, scoffing at the suits but drinking in ambiance. Such are promises. After the opulence and 15 dollar cocktails, we all return to Morton Streets for pasta and red wine; we are not proud.

And there, in congenial togetherness, half of us sitting on the floor or this beat apartment where art has always flowed, we evoke the Spirit of the city. Here we are, artist, designer, photographer, writer, decorator, and these are the lives we made for ourselves in New York. They are not rich in money, but we are all blessed to love what we do, love what came of it all. When the party has dispersed, my roommate and I hold on to actually viable ideas that came up in the general madness of the brandy-tinted evening. We could make something real of this. It is a night of unending opportunity. All you have to do is jump.

I spoke to my mother earlier today. She mentioned a conversation she'd had with my father, about why I didn't apply myself properly to getting a Real Job, so that I could stay in the city, since I loved it so much. Oh, you don't understand, he had said, she's a writer now. It doesn't work like that then. Sometimes I love my father immensely.

Gee but it's great to be back home.

29° and Falling

For days, I circle the site. I sniff it out like a trembling puppy: curious, but suspicious, longing, but unable to commit. My alert antennae begin to calm, relax, and words dance slowly back across my mind. It can't be helped. I couldn't stay away if I tried.

Early out and having stopped in midtown for some christmas shopping, I walk home down a ridiculously bright Seventh Avenue. When I was little, they told me not to stare into the sun because it would make you blind. I risk assess. Decide that I'd rather escape seasonal affective disorder and that state where all I can do is sleep for five months, and that I will deal with the consequences when they come. Walk 30 blocks staring straight into the light. So far, I haven't gone blind.

Later, I went for a run along the Hudson. Two days later and 25 degrees colder than last time, and suddenly only a fraction of the usual crowd remained. I couldn't blame them. My chest burned from the cold, and flashes of Alice running with the Red Queen zoomed past me, as the wind hit me straight on and it was hard enough just to stand still, much less move forward. My earphones are broken and I was left to the iPod of my mind. All it would play was variations on Ah vous-dirai je, maman. It wasn't entirely helpful. Still, by the time I reached Chelsea, my body had warmed up, and the Jersey shore glittered so much it hurt, clearer somehow in the frozen skies. The restless waters so black, so weary, lapped against the piers as though trying to get up, escape the depths, while my thoughts arranged themselves neatly along my spine. The magic of running along water gets me everytime. For a short moment, I am nowhere at all; I am lost in the water, and I am free.

I stepped into the hot shower. Pushed shut the window by the tub that always falls open and lets the bone-chilling draft rush in. The charm of old apartments. My skin flushed. This was a good day.

Compromised

My words lie silent. I try to will them into existance, to jump the hurdles of my mind, to clear obstacles deposited by emotional winds because I know it is okay. But conscious knowledge alone does not make for unhindered flow.

I was recently made aware that these words were read by uninviteds, people who had sniffed it out and let curiosity guide them through my pages. Which, in all fairness, is something I must accept and which normally I would welcome. It is here, please help yourselves. But these people were a little too close for comfort, and I would have rather they didn't turn the pages of my inner world in such a manner.

No matter, it has all been cleared up now and the bridge has a courteous, but firm, Turn Back sign on it, which I trust them to honor. But my heart trembled a little at the reminder of what it is to put words into the world, and it closed up slightly. It doesn't even feel like I have things to say but censor myself. At this moment, I simply have nothing. (Well, that's not true. I have christmas lights and steam heat. It's not a bad way to spend one's silence.) I wait patiently for my word to return. I hope that you will, too.

Checking it Twice

Rummaging through Word documents, I came upon one labeled "August Resolutions", a list of which I had no recollection. As I opened it, I was greeted by this sweet reminder of a time not so long ago. When I sat on the rooftop in Brooklyn and looked at the City, my elusive gem sparkling across the East River, towering at the horizon but still so seemingly far away. How could I long for something, when it was close enough that I could touch it?

I make these resolutions for [the city],
because I am here and now I have to deserve it.
Because what is the point of going mad,
if you won’t do it properly?

So easy, to crawl into the nine-to-five routine and stay there, comfortably safe and nestled in its predictability. So easy, to walk these streets without really living on them, to go to bed with American sitcoms and get those coveted eight hours on the pillow. To postpone, to get comfortable, to say Thanks, but no thanks, when Life comes knocking.

"...because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn..."

Tickled pink, I remember why I came. I remember the glowing embers within me that love to live, love to laugh, love to be filled with whatever Madness can be found. And it's a good city to be looking for that. Despite the December darkness, despite the inevitable lull, I take my list and I run head-first, into the New York City night.

2. Say Yes, when asked

Eine Kleine Nachtmusik

♥

Simplicity

It got cold outside, and the old house on Morton Street showed its cracks as winter slipped in and chilled the apartment. I layed on my bed, the fluffy dog next to me under the covers, and caved in to turning the radiator on. As steam came through the risers, it began to heave and puff, to hiss, to bubble. A warm scent came through the air, like an old iron over grandmother's starched linens. By the time I came back from my errand the room had heated a good part of the rest of the apartment as well.

The cold brings out my need to nest. I make entire witches' cauldrons of soup, I fill the kitchen with scents of baked goods and stay up past my bed time putting rolls into ziploc bags and sweeping up piles of flour that didn't make the cut. I spend the afternoon trickling throught Christmas markets, falling in love with objects that have meaning and were made with actual intentions, as I chat up the shop owners and love the Farmer's Market infinitely more on a Monday in December than a Saturday in June. I linger in the Indian market near my old apartment, like I always used to because I love the little bags and cannot get enough. Walking down to the old Subway stop that used to be mine and feeling like time healed that wound, if nothing else. I have moved on, even though I had to travel a thousand miles and back to get there.

Some sort of lovely day. Simple enough. Sometimes, it doesn't have to be complicated.

The Sweetness

I crossed through the Chelsea streets and felt the air change; suddenly I was in the projects, and then just as quickly I was in posh Meatpacking District hoods again. This city, always changing. The dirty, dilapidated old New York next to spotless 15 foot floor-to-ceiling windows, city housing projects next to the most expensive square footage on the island. The sun shines on all of it, the exhaust fumes land without discrimination.

I am sorry to always bring the City into this. I did not mean for this to be a New York City blog (although, to be fair, I didn't mean for it to be any sort of blog; there was little thought at the onset), but it can't be helped. Something about the city makes so much sense to me, it connects with something within me and I feel at home. Like the city, I have my dirty, my dark, my seedy underbelly and inescapable despair. Like the city, I have my proper, my skirt suit and glittering high heels, my Times Square bright smile and my naive hopefulness and zest for life.

I suppose that's the thing about the city. It fits all, and it is not, without its parts. It is the first place where I feel like all the bits of me, have a place. Where I can be made up of all those facets and still be one person. I look at my bright shiny city, and I think it is beautiful. I look at my beat, worn down city, and I love it just the same. I can't stop writing about it, because it is teaching me about myself.

Give me your tired,
your poor,
Your huddled masses
yearning to breathe free

and I can't help, but do it.

Thinking of Winter

Man is a terrible creature, capable of such inexplicably heinous acts, against the world and against one another. Of taking humanity and compassion right out of bodies. Of senselessly raising children and youth to beat the blood out of the defenseless, all in the name of some intangible glory, or nation, or god.

That which makes us human, is also what enables us to manipulate it out of us. None are safe. None are stronger than our collective vulnerability.

I have stood before you, looked you in the eyes, on your knees, fear in your breath, and I have beaten your flesh to an unrecognizeable pulp, that you may die, and I may live. I have stared down the barrel of their gun and I have denied you for my own sake. I have returned to my own bed, been called a hero, and I can no longer close my eyes.

There is no army in this world
That can fight a ghost.

They make you promise till death do you part. By the end of the film, I thought, I don't know. If a ghost returns to live with you, a shadow of the person you knew, a person no longer able to live in this world you'd made together, would you let them in? Would you stand by their irreparable scars and pray for a silver lining, tremble in your sleep and hope that the sun may rise come spring?



And still, I thought, this is why I got into my line of work to begin with. To bury myself in the darkest, most dreadful terrors of the human soul, to claw my way into it and let it envelop me. I am so easily numb to emotion. Perhaps this is the only thing that truly gets through.

Burn!Burn!Burn!

Manhattan was gray today, its clouds hanging low and the light so distant that the buildings faded into the haze. I looked out over the skyscrapers and tried to find the Answer, realizing shortly that I didn't even know the question. How can I be worried when this is my life now? When I have all the power to make out of my life whatever I choose? Somewhere in my body I felt a tingle, and as I stared at the twinkling lights of the New York Times building emerging in the arriving darkness, it spread through my body.

It was the bug. In me, this restlessness, this crazy mad jiggle that makes me impatient, forces me to keep moving, never be satisfied. When I was younger, it was excited fervor, curiosity; I wanted to see, to feel, to burn, and it was all in joy. Now I run like hell just to stay alive, to feel like I am alive. Always chasing that next rush. Why else am I out here, fighting? When I could just as well return to my simple stable life at home. Heaven knows that would be easier.

But it's that rush. It's Life. So I keep it up. Too much to feel, do, experience. I can sleep when I am old, and I will be content to, too. I will say, I have done it all, now I long to lay in my hammock by the ocean and listen to the waves rolling, back and forth, until I drift to my final sleep. I am happy.

Until then, I run.

And when I think of it that way, and I walk home through my dirty, noisy city, I am happy with my decision to come here. I am happy with the madness within me that makes me run. How blessed we are to live, to truly live.

There is no other way. And there never was.

Ode

How strange it is, that the time passes and moods shift. That a day as beautifully radiant as yesterday can create a ball of darkness within, whereas the cold gray rain of today still managed to tickle my earlobes and make my step light. Remembering that it is a blessing to be alive. (Remembering, that tomorrow it will no longer be November.)

The forage into the literary voyages of journals past continues. It reminds me of my gratitude at being here. Of what a jewel this city is. New York, you were worth every day's longing. I had so many dreams and expectations upon coming here,the city couldn't possibly live up to them. And then I decided to move here again, and people told me the very same thing. What if it isn't all you've dreamed? How can that city ever live up to all the hopes you have for it? It is only a city, after all.

But the thing is, it is all I've dreamed. At the end of the day, no matter how I feel or where my life is at the moment, the city never disappoints me. Not for one minute do I regret having come here, having put my life and my heart on the line to try to sneak in just a few more months, weeks, days in the safe arms of the city. My home, the place where my heart hums and my soul reels with Existance. Here I am and I can't go. I can't leave.

If I can only remind myself to live in the Now, then I think I will be alright. If I remember to enjoy what is, not to worry about what may come ahead. Those old journals, they whisper of a dream that I would one day return, in whatever manner I could, barely daring to think of it because it seemed so implausible. But here I am. If nothing else, here I am. The cigarettes taste better in New York. It's the little things, that make all the difference.

Sunday Nights

One of Mike's friends last night asked me "So what happens after New York?" And I said There is no after New York.
journal excerpt, 2006

Every day is an endless roller coaster ride, with very little standing in line and catching my breath. All these ups, but mostly these downs, and I can't seem to keep my hands inside the train car. I walked along the Hudson, the sun glittering so much in the water that I had to keep my eyes practically closed. I remember walking that stretch three years ago and how magical it was. The City that I take for granted, it was such a great mystery then, such a gift, but if I wasn't careful I feared I might just fall right off it.

I want to take you for granted.

The thing is, as much as I didn't want to leave New York last time, when I did, I had somewhere to land. I had a life all staked out for myself, and though I hated it at the time, I returned to it. Out of the ashes of my broken heart, I built such a beautiful life, and I enjoyed the hell out of it for a couple of years.

But if I leave New York now... I have nowhere to go. I have nothing prepared, no given set of rules. I don't even have a savings account. I played everything on this one hand, and I don't know yet what came of it. Perhaps it makes me lost. But just maybe, maybe it makes me free.

Gratitude

The air got suddenly so cold. The evening warm but the night blew winter across the fire escape. Arlene's was open and still the street had never been so quiet. Houston was unpleasant but turning onto Bedford brought the calm comfort of a homecoming, my street steadily welcoming, resting with a waking eye. That walk always the best way to digest, to swallow, to clear the head, and always arriving home safe. Strangely greeted by the morning news and updates on the traffic situation, as though it wasn't still Thanksgiving night, as though it were the beginning of any other day and not the end of a party.

Tonight, I am grateful for my New York family. For having people I truly love, so close at hand. Always an open door, always an open heart. Home is where the heart is. Tonight, I am thankful, that my heart is right Here.

I Want to Be a Part of You

(New York)

Funny how the same song can sound so different, depending on your mood when you hear it. How last night it made me unendingly sad, removed, and today I hear it and think, but I am here. I imagine if I would have sat in that old apartment in the other city and listened to it, how sad I would be to not be here. Remembering a time when I unpacked my belongings, listened to Fidelity, and cried floods of longing for the city I'd left.

How sweet it is, not to long. How sweet it is not to have that aching yearning in my heart, that incessant feeling of something torn apart within, healing crookedly and easily ripped up again. How sweet it is, to lay my head on my pillow each night, knowing that I rest here, in my City.

I ran along the water, a slight drizzle coating my cheeks and the piers almost empty in the black stillness before Thanksgiving day, and I thought how it reminded me of running along the harbor back home. But how much warmer, somehow.

New York is like home, only better.

Six Hours Back Across the Ocean

My heart ain't where I'm at, New York

I had to run to catch the C at West 4th, it's always such a short train and stops so far up. Sweating in my winter clothes (despite the late-summer weather), I landed in a seat and pulled out my book. And then there it was, a feeling so familiar, so recognizable, and yet so hard to grasp. Like some form of apathy, or weariness, or perhaps indifference. Even now, trying to recall what feeling it was, I am left empty, unable to recall the details and put them into words.

But what I do remember, is the feeling that I have been there before, that I know that feeling. Images flash past me, of smoking in my kitchen window while the rest of the town lay sleeping, of worthless pacings and walls closing in. Of entire stretches of time where I could walk around in a bustling society and be completely apart from it, feeling like I was encased in a bubble and unable to blend in with the rest.

Again I teeter at the edge of the downward spiral. I seem to be balancig along its edges so much lately, never really committing to falling in, but also never moving back to a safe distance from the currents. It would seem such an easy choice. But there is something so comforting about drowning in that dark mess. Perhaps because I spent so much time there, the morbid version of Holiday Hollywood homecomings. Or maybe it's simply because if you've been caught, you no longer have to use so much energy trying not to fall prey. Like Alice falling down the rabbit hole, I can relax, let the dark waters beat me and carry me off, resting in the fact that I'm in it now. I don't have to run, anymore.

I walked home down the quaint part of West 4th street yesterday, one of my favorite parts of this City. It was so beautiful, put me so at ease. And maybe that's enough, for now.

Broken Back Wisdom

I sleep, I brunch, I relax. Slowly, energy seeps back into my body, the mind begins arranging its thoughts. Out of excuses, I must accept, and let them run through me, let them get to me, again. Vacation clearly over, and the one from myself is no exception.

I found out today that a former roommate of my current roommate is a published author in my home country, the daughter of a highly prominent writer. I remember when her first book came out, how I thought of her being so young -my age-, already published, and how the stories that burned in her were so much like mine: the rootlessness, the youth, the search for home and learning it supposedly must be found within. And now, I learn that the very bed in which I sleep, is one where she slept, years ago, while living her own New York adventure. Somehow amazed, I couldn't help but let that cold grasp of anxiety grip my heart.

Because here is this girl, my age precisely and perpetually roaming the earth, and already she has three published books to her name. The same nomadic wanderings (if more severe in stature) as myself, except proper, beautiful, not in vain. I suppose that is all I ask for, that none of this misery would be in vain. 27 years and not so many less years of heartache, and what do I have to show for it? Modest helpings of adventure and wanderlust, and not a word shared beyond the realm of people who already appreciate me. I am like a washed up copy, a has-been that never was, a wannabe that simply will not be.

With this sense of uselessness I watch one of my favorite movies, so beautiful in all its American wide open spaces. I remember, how wonderful it is to travel, to see the world. I make plans of American Road Trips ahead, and I smile because I truly believe myself when I make them. The answer is suddenly so clear. That it is worth being unsteadily employed, worth living in sublets of somebody else's furniture and stretching every paycheck, to have the freedom to pack your bags and go. That I relinquish the steady and mapped out future I made for myself in favor of discovering what's around the bend. I hold on to this potential for escape, and my heart is appeased, if only for a moment. As long as those dreams keep burning within me, I tell myself, it really is not in vain.

Exhaustion

Thank God for a Friday night with no plans. For a moment when it's okay to close the bedroom door, curl up in sweat pants and lazily read random blogs, until it's late enough to legally go to bed.

Only it gets old, so fast. The mind always ready to run wild, no matter how many Manhattan miles have gathered under the soles of your dirty converse sneakers. The body so drained, but the soul restless. Time for the next step, but too weary to take it. Not sure where it'll lead.

What is this life I am living? I haven't the energy to ponder the answer. Not tonight. Please leave me be. Can't you see I'm on a break? Can't you see I'm trying to hide in the corner of the closet, until this cloud has passed?

I pull down the blinds, find my ear plugs, turn out the lights. Hoping no one can get to me now. (Most of all myself.) The forecast for tomorrow says sunny. I hold on to that, and close my eyes.

the Moment After

And then there I was, stranded at a train station in queens, waiting for the A to take me back to Manhattan. After such a crazy whirlwind of a week, suddenly deposited on the dimly lit platform, all alone. The train came and I sank into some paperback quick-read, bridging the gap between what had just passed, and the life to which I returned.

Because after this vacation at home, I now have to get back to whatever it is I thought I was doing. I have to get back to work, write a list, cut my hair, get a job. In short, I have to get my shit together.

Vacations, such a brief bliss of an existance. Where all that truly matters is that you spend time with the people you love, and possibly also that you do it somewhere with good tofurky and cheap drinks. And those people, the kind of friends that know, and they make it easy for you to talk, to listen, to remember their importance in your life, even when they live so far away. These people built me, and grateful seems like a word that doesn't nearly fill the feeling.

For a minute, I feared that the void they left behind them would tarnish my infatuation with the City, that it would somehow appear a little duller in the street lights. I feared they would remind me of a life I had, a life I really did adore, and that I would want to get it back. But if anything, their visit reminded me how beautiful this City is, how much of an escape. Of how I did run away, but that this was a pretty good place to run to. Having wearily climbed the stairs at the west 4th street stop, I walked the long way home. Greenwich village glittered in the warm drizzle, and I was happy.

on Bleecker Street

Drinks along the saloon bar, and I went out for a smoke break. Such a quiet Monday night and the winds so cold, but something magical about Greenwich village, anyway.

The point is, when I stood there and looked up at quiet lights warming the apartments above, I thought I wish I lived here, and in my heart I meant New York.

That second when I realized that I do live in New York, it was the sweetest moment I had all day.

Straight Priorities

The New York night abandoned its incessant raining, and we forged ahead into the Saturday night depths. Whatever became of the mad night, none of it was more important than the steady reminder of the worth of friendship. Of how lovely it is to simply sit on the floor of a room that fits no more than our bodies but still envelopes our entire souls. Of how warming the giggles are that pierce through the St Mark's din. Of that sometimes ditching a cab in favor of a few more avenues of silly comraderie is worth it, in the end.

My feet are tired, my smile. The bars closed and the people slowly made their way homewards, as I paced the last few steps to my quiet, quiet street in the Village. I remember that I am who I am because they were there to mould me, or perhaps simply to let me be who I was. I remember the shell of a girl who trembled at every gust of wind before she let them hold her steady. I remember what a difference their presence made in my life then, and know that it still does now.


If it wasn't for them, I would not have gone to New York, in the first place. I wouldn't have dared think that this world was mine for the taking. There is no repaying such a debt. I do what I can, to try.

These Streets Will Make You Feel Brand New

The Great Storm from the South trundled northward and whipped its tail at us, with fierce gusts and ominous clouds full of rain, and all these layers couldn't keep out the cold. It wasn't the red carpet of welcome I was hoping to roll out, and still Morton street remained, smiled sweetly upon the visitors; it doesn't let me down when I try to show it off.

The endless hours of anticipation finally culminated in a few impatient minutes on the stoop, waiting for a shuttle bus with the first visitor. My heart bubbled with joy as I occupied myself with rolling a cigarette, and suddenly the normalcy of having her sit in my kitchen and erasing all that had passed. Calm descended on the sleepover, the blustery walk through Chinatown, thumbing through the Strand and when we came out it was dark. How comforting old friendships can be, how warming that they weather the storms.

But then, another day of arrivals, and again the tickled heart and quick steps toward Penn Station, unable to hold back laughter as the familiar twirl of hair ascended the escalator. We'll meet up at the place where we last said goodbye, and do you know it wasn't that long ago, after all.

And then I realized, how addicting that feeling was, the imminent arrival. At the precipice of something beautiful and scintillating, the moment before you have something for which you've truly longed. Am I not the same in Life, in Love? Jonesing for that next rush of Happy, and once it's been filled, stashing the beautiful longed-for thing away and moving on to the next.

If we like the drugs too much, they hold us captive. We wonder why we let them control us. It's cause it just feels so damn good.

Put on my Riot Gear

Heaven help the ones who know
What makes the world, go slow

I prepare for the arrival of a dear, dear friend, whom I have not seen since I, weak and pallid from a weekend of stomach flu last winter, leaned against my kitchen door and wished her a good escape to the ends of the Earth. By the time she returned from her exodus, I had embarked on mine, and while we never saw each other, many electronic hours were filled with words of separation, of how ungratifying it is to run away, and yet how impossible to resist.

Yesterday, as she tried to pack amid the recent rubble of her life, she said There is no geographical solution, and I shuddered to think she was right.

Because today, as I try to clean my room, that there may actually be space for another person to fit in my tiny Manhattan existance, I fondly remember my last move from Sweden, of throwing out years and years of stuff and of how clear my mind became, how light my heart. I longed, shortly, for another move, to be able to get rid of so much buildup, just six months in the making, to be able to start fresh.

Dark days, I dream of packing up and moving on. I think of organic farms in Australia that need somebody to come pick their macadamia nuts. I think of sunshine and oceans and owning no more than fits in a suitcase. I remember fondly last summer's excursion to Andalucia and living in tents with an outdoor kitchen and a shower that hung from the nearest oak tree, and of how wonderful my heart felt in this skin. I dream of selling all that I own (which is not much, I realize) and simply taking off, into the American night, and seeing whatever dawn greets me on the other end. On those days, even Manhattan doesn't have a firm grasp on me, cannot draw me in and hold me back properly. On those days, I see deep into my own soul, and I am entirely alone.

There is no geographical solution. It doesn't keep me from looking, for the answer.

and the Inability to Focus

Ibland har jag kä nt att jag duger.

Whatever disease it was that manifested itself in my body these past days, it seems to be subsiding. I am merely left with scattered thoughts, an inability to focus and check off my to-do list. I suppose it could be worse.

I have seen many New York homes since I got here, and I am constantly amazed at the degree of decay in which people live. The sub-code heating systems, the layers of dust in the corners, the piles of messes that seem years in the making. How are people wading around in this refuse, day after day?, I've thought. It comes as no surprise, though, that now as I look around my room, I find countless scraps of paper, saved for no reason atop my dresser. I can never quite stretch out because the already limited floor space is cluttered with bags and Remains of the Day. I have fallen prey to the bug of the City; I suppose it is a telepathic current sent out by the cockroaches to make this world more liveable for them. Congratulations, you have succeeded.

But that is not what I wanted to say. I wanted to speak of love, of how distant and unattainable it is. My closest friend just handed over her entire heart, the Everything, on a platter, just to have it sent back. No thank you, not interested. After all that time and so much rose-colored Us-against-the-World Promise, to end up with No Thank You and the black hole that comes after. How is that allowed to happen? I wanted to speak of being called out on all my bullshit in the Park, being reminded that I was no different from those I objected against, that the fantasy world I paint would not be true, should the paint palette change, and how refreshing that was. I appreciated the candid honesty more than I knew how to convey.

All this I wanted to speak of, to not let the thoughts disappear before another dawn brought new smiles and erased the insight. But my limbs are so sore, and there is laundry yet to be folded. The words evaporate, with the dryer sheet fumes escaping along the brick wall into the night.

Guilt and Devotion

How quickly days pass, and I haven't written for so long. And then as I was about to leave the you tube evening on Stanton, I was overcome with such a nausea that I crashed on the couch and came home today, all brunched out, and consequently passed out for the remainder of the day. My head is fuzzy, my limbs feverish, and I refuse to think it will not pass, because this is not the week for being sick.

In conclusion, there will be no wise words of Manhattan Madness tonight, no intricate analyses of what transpired in the streaming sunlight of the Central Park walk-and-talk yesterday. Hopefully, they will come tomorrow, as the fever dissipates and vocabulary and sentence structure reenter my mind. Thank god it's Sunday, and laying around in one's sweatpants is exactly what the day was designed for.

Novelty

Who are you to write a story? Everything's been said, every stone turned and so much more eloquently described than your simple vocabulary can attain. Who are you to add to this mountain of literature, where every pebble is a jewel on its own?

It is nearly the weekend. Turn on. Tune in. Drop out.



And when it comes to that fantastic note where the rabbit bites its own head off, I want you to throw that fuckin' radio into the tub with me

No More to Roam

I'm only going home.

How much the mind can wander, when it is given free range. How easy the City makes it, to be reigned in again.

I stood on the corner of 77th and Broadway, slowly rocking a sleeping stroller and watching the city play out its theater in front of me. A homeless man searched through the garbage can, and it was obvious he had a method to it. A couple with suitcases and bags trying to get a cab got nixed three times by surly taxi drivers until they finally gave up, and I never heard where they were trying to go. People walked by all shapes and sizes: New Yorkers. And I thought to myself, this is what you are doing; this is why you are here.

When all is said and done, this is the place where my soul is happy. There are dreams and hopes and passions within me, decades in the making, that make sense here, that actually have a chance of making it if they are allowed to stay. I have gotten sidetracked, and I may get swayed yet, but in the end, there's a reason I worked so hard to get here. And perhaps it's reason enough to work so hard to stay.

I walked home down the daylight savings dark streets, and I breathed in the cool, clean air of Promise. The roller coaster life continues. Tickled pink, I hold on for the ride.

From East to West

It's all in your mind.

Such short moments of sweet bliss, flying. Where no one can get you, no demands can pressure you, you are free. But then, flying low over glittering Manhattan, the rush houred one way streets strung across it like white and red christmas lights, and landing in a place you know as home, that isn't so bad either.

My weekend away afforded me wide open spaces and a place to breathe deeply, but in such silence, the mind is allowed to run wild, and I left more confused than I arrived.

I came to live a dream. That was all, and that was simple. But it turns out, when you are free to do whatever you want, you actually need to know what that is. With no restrains, I bounce around the Hall of my emotions, and I am only grateful that the walls at least seem to be padded slightly. If only there were a rope, a partition, a guiding hand, perhaps I would not exhaust myself from all this running, perhaps I would instead arrive somewhere.

But just as likely, if someone did try to hold me down, get me a grip, I would merely break free and run off again. So the next realization comes: this may be Life, forever. I got on this roller coaster long ago, and I will ride it through to the end.

Weary, I stumble up the steps to my apartment. Right now, happy to be home. But in the back of my head, nervous tremblings say don't look beyond that moment, don't stir. You don't know what you may awaken, in the dust bowl.

Marry me, Bury me

I'm not
running from you.

I took a weekend off and ran out West, where mountains replace skyscrapers and stars come out at night. There isn't much to say because such is life out here; it is calm, it is what it always was. You drive to places and try to find something meaningful to do when you arrive there. The young cities are neatly arranged on their grids, as the young, white families are neatly arranged on theirs. The sun shines relentlessly, and the desert land goes from winter to summer in the course of every day. It is reliable, dependable, home. Pleasant to be around, hardly impossible to leave. There is always a more Real Life in the wings, waiting patiently for you to come back and get back to what you were doing.

And still, suddenly I found myself driving home from a friend, through swerving canyons, across pitch black fields, guided by the steady blue light of a full moon, and confused. How far I was from the City. How little I could ascertain how that felt. So alone out on those back roads and feeling so safe, taken care of by the great expanses of Utah. The place you grew up, the nest where you were coddled, always feels like home. But home is a place to which you can never go back. There is no place for you here, the snow-tipped peaks whispered, as I rushed past, and I knew they were right.

It's just.. I don't know where else I should be going.

The more endless my possibilities, the less certain I am of which road to choose. I stumble along helplessly as the days amass. I plan trips and escape a little while longer. Never making promises I can't keep. Never making promises at all. It's the same old me from yesterday, you end up with tomorrow. In my heart, I am happy. Turns out, that doesn't mean one damned thing.

Toppling Over

I must stop eating so much sugar. Because the momentary high that it brings is so quickly overshadowed by the downfall. The tired, sluggish limbs and out of focus vision, the inspiration that dwindled to catatonia. I suppose the same should be said for blow. (haha)

I found a very old email from an ex-boyfriend the other day, and the feelings and realities I had long since forgotten, resurfaced, linger still. I remembered late night talks about our future home (which I know he has since acquired with someone New), sweet adoration, and roses on Valentine's day. These are things that have always passively resided in my memory as nice trinkets of a life past, of little significance. But this email, it was the one from after I had broken up with him, the last time. This was it, we'd given it another chance (another couple of chances, depending on how you choose to measure failure, and love), and now we knew there was nothing more to salvage. And yet, his sweet words read like a last desperate attempt to pierce my ignorance, to leave an imprint and give me a fighting chance in life. It's time you learned this lesson by heart. All these years later, I haven't learned a thing. I still fumble in darkness after appropriate feelings, having to remind myself that people exist even when I do not see them, and that I can love and be loved without going under.

That email made me inexplicably sad.

But we are going to go ahead and blame the sugar, instead.

Brooklyn, Brooklyn

Brooklyn, Brooklyn
take me in
are you aware the shape I'm in?

Sometimes I forget, that I ran so fast to get here. That I stood shivering at the door and begged to be let in, and that I was. Sometimes I get lost in the Mundane Mondays and errands, and I miss that I am in the Promised Land. Grateful to take it for granted.

Just Like a Woman

Another night on the fire escape in the Lower East Side. Another sunrise walking home. This time, the streets so empty. A few random cabs roaming aimlessly, quietly, softly, as the sky turned blue. The City that supposedly never sleeps, so quiet, resting. Being cleaned up, all the debris from the messy Saturday night swept under the rug. The landfill building more prime real estate and did you know Nicole Kidman looked at an apartment in that very building. Ears that have gotten used to endless noise suddenly aware of the quiet calm, reverent. With a play date in six hours but who knows how that'll go. Kinship sparks and the torch is carried carefully home to the sleeping street.

If you ask me what my favorite part of any given day is, it will always be this. When I am stumbling home at dawn, along quiet city streets. I breathe the city, uninterrupted, and it is mine. I couldn't be happier, than at this one brief moment, all mine.

Later

Sunset over Midtown

Sometimes, I look out over this City, and it is so beautiful that it takes my breath away. The sun sets over the tall skyscrapers, casting golden lights and hard gray shadows throughout, with nothing but a clear blue sky for a backdrop.

Sometimes, I look out over this City, and it looks like a set, a painting. I am not entirely convinced I am truly here at all. And if I am not here now, would it matter if I stayed? Would it matter if I left?

To be honest, I haven't the slightest idea what the hell I am doing. To be honest, I am just as lost as anyone else.

Some days I mind it. Some days I don't.

Sweeping the Clouds Away

Another sunny day. Another day among the millions, shedding scarves and coats like petals in the soft air.

Having taken the afternoon off to run errands, I sat on the downtown 6 train reading Sylvia (always Sylvia, lately). As we stopped at 28th street, I looked up and recognized what used to be my home station. In my heart welled such a sense of familiarity, of comfort. I rarely ride the 6 anymore; it was like meeting an old friend. We moved on, I dove back into my book.

I was so consumed by her words that I nearly missed getting off on 14th street. I felt as if in a bubble. Other people were not there, there was no outside world. I got a little nauseous, wanting desperately to keep reading, to stay on that train until it reached brooklyn and then ride it all the way up again. I pictured myself going back and forth, across the boroughs, completely ignorant to the landscape passing outside the windows (naturally, the the landscape is rather bland on the subway). Instead, I stepped blinking into the bustle of Union Square, creeping along the edge and sneaking into Barnes & Nobles, errands postponed until further notice. Over a large Starbucks (well not the large. Who can drink those? they're huge.) I returned to the enchanted land of literature, nervously counting down the pages remaining and already sad that they'll run out too soon. In the back of my mind the silly shame that this uninspired styrofoam cup and giant chain bookstore should give me such relief, such a haven. But I love this place and its four floors of a break from reality. And I love how she describes life as though she truly knew me. Something inside me stirs, uncertain if it desires being awakened.

I walked home through Washington Square Park, the setting fall sun streaming through yellowing leaves and mosaic tiles of musical acts dotting the pavement. Sitting on a park bench for a smoke, I intently watched the squirrels, unafraid, scrambling about as they will. And all I could discern was the countless ways people sounded, as they walked past. Amazed how many dragged their feet. Ssshhp. Ssshhp. Ssshhp. The clickings of high heels, worn so confidently but unsteady behind the scenes. Sauntering by, all sounds in my head, as though these were not truly people but little beads of mercury, playing games and making music in my head.

What magic this life is, after all.

the Air Went Out

Winter took its icy grip on Manhattan. I turned a corner and my cheek was smattered with tiny icicles disguised as rain drops. Leaving behind the West Village Sunday night millings of people, I turned down Perry Street and thought how much smaller it is in real life than when you see her skip down the stoop steps in her impossibly high heels on television. Typical.

I walked to the west side, to the piers, where the buildings can no longer offer shelter from the storm, where narrow streets do not divide the wind and subdue it. Here is the dark, here is the wild untamed. The last shreds of a fiery orange sunset lit up the New Jersey skyline and the skyscraper lights began to twinkle. I stood at the very edge of the pier, where not even the late night runners bother to go, and I looked out over the black Hudson river waves, crashing and thrashing wildly, pretending to be free in the ocean. How cold the water seemed; I imagined falling and unsure if I would survive. Not sure if I would fight to. In such a collapsed star, does one not merely acquiesce and drift away?

Shifting my body a little, suddenly the wind hit me with full force. I teetered slightly, found my footing, and smiled. As though I were far out to sea, as though the city and its supposed civilization were elsewhere completely and there was only me and the gale. When the storm rages around me, the one within me calms. When outside forces push me around and do all the disturbing, I breathe quietly and am comfortable. I needn't stir. My heart sighed, and I let the rain prick my skin until my naked fingers were raw.

I turned around, and there was my city again, never failing to reappear as I open my eyes to it, never forgetting to welcome me home. I nestled my way back in through the nooks and crannies of the crooked streets, until I, safe and dry, reached the Morton street doorway and landed in that warm corner that is mine. Grateful to have a home. Blessed to belong.

Morning Nights

When I woke up, and pulled the sleep mask from my eyes, it was already dark out again. An entire day had come and gone, while I slept soundly and dreamed of sweet songs drifting out of cold Manhattan air shafts. Windows open to brick walls and somehow offer just as much of a view, if you let yourself see it. The belly, all night shivering from cold or excitement (who's to say), now a mile-deep ravine of hunger. And still, the body refreshed, purged of sluggish weekday hassles, renewed with inspiration and the magic of Manhattan nights that do not end.

This is music.
How are you going to take it?

Hazy Shade of Morning

Friday night turned into Saturday morning when no one was looking. Black stilettos became dog-walking sneakers, the clutch a morning newspaper as I slowly made my way home west on Houston. My body crumbling to pieces and my lips so dry and cold, still I walked determinedly onward, remembering to look in the right direction of one-way streets and avoiding a mid-morning fender bender. Leaving behind obscure German music and smoke in the living room. Remembering the address of the underground club for future reference and stolen swank restaurant soap bars in tow.

Sunrise over the fire escape before packing up belongings. Finally sinking slowly into my own bed and drowning out the sounds of the builders downstairs with sweet soothing images of the Lower East Side after dark. Great things will happen, if you let them.

Look Out Now

Friday afternoon and the feeling that it is time to pack up and go home. Sinfully, delightfully, sneaking out early and the otherwise bustling subway station is calm in anticipation of the storm that is to come. The streets moving so slowly, lines clearing quick. My heart relaxes, takes its time, and surely I can take a bath before considering the next step. Cool air fills my lungs and floats out in little puffs of smoke as I bounce along the quiet cobblestone that leads me home. Friday night and the promise of drinks and music and giggled debauchery. It helps to have possibly the best song ever keeping the beat. Ah, to be young and carefree! I think to myself, and the thought makes me laugh, a silent trickle of a laugh that begins at my toes until it bubbles up through my gut and bursts out into the October sky. I am young. I am carefree. If only for this short, delectable morsel, of a Friday in New York.

79th Street Station

Icy grip on Manhattan. Rain seeps in between my toes; I wore the wrong clothes again. It's at the point where people in the elevator talk about the weather. Misery somehow warming the alienated souls.

On the subway, an older man in a classy gray suit sat down next to me and began eating an Italian deli sandwich. We made a joke about something trivial, and as he looked straight into my eyes, unwavering, I thought, here is a New Yorker of the old school. He doesn't need to shy away from fellow passengers. He doesn't need to make excuses for his existance and silly trippings in the train car. Because he owns this city; he courses through its veins, just as his cells are built from its elements. It cannot be taken from him. So he is not on edge. His gaze is steady; he can afford to look strangers in the eye and mean it. Here is a man who has nothing to prove. I sat next to his gray jacket, staring straight ahead, and I smiled that he existed. A cornerstone of the city, making sure it carries on through the years. It made me feel safe.

And still, I trembled. I am no cornerstone. I could be ripped from this place and New York would not even tremble. (Ripped! Hell, it's enough I turn a corner too sharply and I might tumble off the surface of the City, as poorly rooted as I am.) I have everything left to prove, and in a stare-down I fear I would disintegrate, desperately clinging on to the turnstiles but so easily tumbling over and being deposited outside city limits. I hold on, as best I can. I hold on, for my life.

Ramblings

The mornings are getting colder. I can only leave a mere sliver of window open, and it's difficult to get out of bed. In the bathroom, the risers behind the wall heat up the postcards that hang there; I get warm and don't put on enough clothes before I get out.

I sit on the Uptown 1 train all the way through midtown to the upper west. As suits come on and get off, I spend time with Sylvia. Her words paint such a familiar picture to me, of reclusive worlds where darkness is comforting and psychotic breakthroughs always are close at hand. It is, somehow, comforting. Deep in my gut, something stirs.

But then, I find that I am too far removed from it; I cannot connect. I fear the enveloping soft gray blanket of despair, because I remember how it devours me whole. And yet I miss it, the familiarity of that same blanket being one in which I may wrap myself and relax: things are as they must be.

Happiness, so boring in the end.

Bite my Lip, Close my Eyes

What is it about Lists that make them so wonderfully calming? The structure, outlining and grouping things that were previously gray yarns of angst and avoided demands. The promise that all that was Undone will soon be checked off, by that sweet little tick in the corner, and in turn it will have been swept away from my minds dusty corners.

If I could only get a moment to myself, I could maybe begin to think about writing a list. Then I could plan for a day to execute. Then I could believe I was actually on my way to making something of myself, of my time. The days, they seem endless. I revel in swimming around Manhattan's shores and in my open ended ticket here. But I cannot twiddle my thumbs eternally.

Being here is too good for me to waste away in Routine.

Busted Tooth and a Smile

To whom it may concern: I justified the mess I made of life by saying I'd give it order, form, beauty, writing about it; I justified my writing by saying it would be published, give me life (and prestige to life)... I deserve that, don't I, some sort of blazing love that I can live with. I suppose if I gave myself the chance I could be an alcoholic... He wants to be scolded, and punished. That is too easy. That is what we all want. I want to get back to my more normal intermediate path where the substance of the world is permeated by my being... so all is good in itself, and not just a hectic activity to cover up the fear that must face itself and duel itself to death, saying A Life is Passing. There are ways and ways to have a love affair. Above all, one must not be serious about it.

How important is all this? I don't know: it changes, like looking in different ends of a telescope.

Sylvia Plath. Cambridge Notes.
♥

Bright Lights

For every additional mile marker counting our steps out of the city, the lush green parkways turned redder. Along the roads, homemade signs announced U-pick-em pumpkin patches. As I stepped out of the car at our beach house in the Hamptons, the chill bit my cheeks and my shoes filled with sand. It was fall. I looked around and felt that something was really different. It took me a while to realize that it was the blackness; I hadn't seen such dark, or the stars, since I got to the City. I walked along the beach, picking shells and photographing blades of grass glistening in the setting sun. Saved stranded jellyfish and fell asleep to the sounds of waves crashing in the bay.

It was a weekend of hob nobbing with the film industry elite. Of networking and exchanging business cards. Of pre-judgement artistic angst and post-premiere glasses of wine, celebrating the seemingly earnest applause, and possibly drowning the insincere flattery that abounds. The feeling that it is all so familiar. As much as I fought to become someone else, to escape the world in which I grew up, this weekend I completely forgot my education and my supposed career path, and I was home.

Convinced, I returned to the City. As dusk turned slow traffic into a sea of glittering rubies, the Manhattan skyline rose up in the pink, cloudless distance. I sat on the R, watching the wonderfully diverse crowds roll by, the dirty subway stops, sweating in my winter coat, and I relaxed.

It is all so Right. I don't quite know how to handle that.

the Sweetest Thing

New York Yankees, 10th inning and winning.

I can't even remember the rules of the game.

People walk past the bar, glass doors open, and oogle the flat screen tv. At home, my walls are paper thin and I am frustrated. In the street corner, Mexicans stand around and hope for work. It's a brutal world and minimum wage a luxury. Obama wins the Nobel peace prize; I don't know what's heads and what's tails. Over frozen margaritas, sad sad stories are told and I am only a little wiser: Live each day as if it is your last. and: you never escape yourself. My hands smell of limes pushed into the bottle, and I wonder if I will remember, in the hangover.

It's well past midnight and I've turned into a pumpkin. My head spins. I begin to suspect it is not, after all, the alcohol.

Lunch. Naked.

Enter the sanctuary in darkness, movie reel spinning and muffled silence as people find their seats. Scratch footage and 50's aliens. As the lights come back on, everyone looks around to see who they're dealing with. Who are the originals? Who are the posers? Do I look like I belong and know what I'm talking about even though the Beatniks were old by the time I was young.

They read, they tell stories and reminisce, jazz saxophone trickling in the background and we will never see centipedes the same way again. If Allen were here, yes it is simply Allen for these people, he'd be sitting right there, asking Old Bull Lee questions about his sex life even though it made him uncomfortable. The distant suddenly so clear, in this little church of the east village.

Beat reading turns into saké on ninth. Graffitti on the walls and long talks as another bottle is helplessly ordered in. Counting down the hours until the alarm goes off. How to manage, think about it later. Walk home to find that around NYU the city truly does not sleep; delis, pizza places, tattoo parlors, smoke shops stay open, wait for the next youngster to tumble in and demand services. Consider offering to take that girl home because she couldn't walk straight to save her life and the city isn't always kind to those who stumble in the dark.

Burroughs speaks of such a dirty world. His imagery, his madness, I am tickled. But, I think fondly, I love Jack more. Where Burroughs revels in the filth, Jack drools after cream puffs and meats in the restaurants, smiles at the flowers. It may be naïve, but I think it's not a bad thing, naïvété. I hold on for dear life to the precious, the pure. Tomorrow, when I take the A train uptown, I will remember that he stood there, and nothing will look quite the same.

The Grid

We followed the crowds, allowed ourselves to be herded in through red velvet rope and art deco light fixtures. And just as claustrophobia was on the verge of setting in, we were released onto the 86th floor observatory and scrambled out to equilibrium along the uselessly high fence. Clear blue skies and the ends of the Earth, the cabs along fifth avenue suddenly looking very much like toy cars and surely one could simply pick them up, if one reached far enough.

I gazed across this world which is Manhattan, tousled hair blowing in my face and vertigo tingling my feet, and I thought how it really isn't that big of a world, after all. Amazed that such a little island can contain so much hope, so many dreams, unnumbered individual destinies. Humbled to think how my drop of a destiny disappears in the seas.

Looking down, I saw the terrace of our old apartment on 28th street. The rooftop of the summer in Greenpoint. The cluster of trees that hints of my hideaway on Morton. The empty grid of Manhattan is mapped out, piece by piece, and filled in, with places I've lived, adventures I've had, and countless walks home across the avenues.

The Empire State keeps her watchful eye on all of us. Somehow, I sleep more soundly, knowing.

Food for Thought

Insane days of foreign visitors rush past and cram in them everything the city has to offer. When they leave, the list of things left to do will still be twice as long and growing. Better then to relax at the hookah bar that lets you smoke in the garden over drinks, and thank god we live just around the corner because I can't move any further than this.

The sun shines and we stroll along the Kodak Moments. But I was sent this link and it stood in such stark contrast to the New York life I live now, that it must be allowed to speak. In the life of the City, I have only been around for a very short time. It humbles and amazes me. Not long ago, this was New York. Parts of it still are. Please love, even my dark spots.

Brutal New York - 1965/95

Showing Off

New York was on its best behavior.

The newly arrived stumbled downstairs after a night of listening to be-bop on St Marks and having no idea what to expect of the City. Here were are, they said, and now what do we do, we are open to whatever this place wants for us. Amazed at the tall buildings and this really is the city we've been hearing about all these years.

Sauntering turns into endless miles of blistered feet and flushed smiles. Step down one subway entrance and arrive in a whole other world. Times Square much smaller than I expected, everything much smaller than I expected and it is really only a city after all.

New York always disappoints with its mortality. It makes up for that by being absolutely breathtaking otherwise. For looking great in pictures and having secret stories to tell about what used to be before this came along. For always keeping you on your toes and allowing the tickling thought of what if we were to move here, just for a year, just to have done that. We could live in that apartment across the street, that one with the crooked fire escapes; it can't be so expensive, look at how dirty it is. New York wins them over by alluding to an Other life to be had. It makes the bottle-and-a-half walk home excruciatingly pleasant.

and as you try to comprehend this sight you realize that you were never really there at all.

The Empire State in Fall Shroud

(but it turned out to only be a celebration of China)

The sun sets over Times Square, which is indifferent and refuses to accept dependence. It glitters right back, brighter yet and sparkling. Other skyscrapers face the last glowing rays and inhale deeply, go to rest in the night. Or maybe that's me.

In the same way that the view of Times Square didn't elicit any joy in me the other day, today it makes me smile again, giggle even. Tourists stare upwards and bump into me, I forgive them. Take a good look, take it in, I dare you to see if you can resist falling in love. I am bound to have ups and downs, to want to slam the door and run away from the city. But like with any persisting love, that doesn't mean giving up. A fight isn't the end of the world. I roll with the punches and end up on the side where every sunset over the City makes me smile. It sounds like the kind of relationship my therapist could only dream I would have.

If I'm in it for the long run, I don't need protection, I think to myself. Whatever comes of it will be okay. Everything else I can leave, against everyone else I can close up my heart, but not New York. I just have to remember that, when the dark clouds of despair roll in and cover the tops of the tall buildings. Soon enough, they will pass, and I can walk with my back straight again.

I walked out to the pier and saw the Statue of Liberty in the Distance. I don't know how I got to be so lucky.

Blistered Bliss

I collapse on my bed.
It's the same old city, after all this time, where feet are always tired, countless miles covered on that pavement, day in day out regardless of footwear. On my way home down University Place, I crossed a film set, wardrobes, catering, cables taped to the ground. I scoffed and said, New York, honey, you ain't fooling no one. The entire island is one big set. One day we will take a train under the Hudson and appear on the Jersey shore, blinking and staring into the sunshine of the Real World, and wonder what happened and can we get a refund.

But for now, I happily go along with the charade. Helter Skelter in my ears and a sway in my exhausted walk; dusk darkened over Union Square traffic and I smiled. In this same old city, years later, somehow it's different. I see my roots starting to take, starting to break through the concrete and dare to settle. If I could embrace the entire city, I think I might.

Even if 30 dollars won't pay your rent
on Bleecker street, anymore.

If My Train Falls off the Track

pick it up pick it up pick it up

Twenty-seven years of keeping my head on my shoulders and suddenly it's rolling off in all kinds of directions. Suddenly I'm fifteen and crazy in the way I never was when I actually was fifteen. Suddenly I let my emotions take the wheel and steer, and I lean back in the passenger seat, pleased as a baby, and watch the countryside rush by.

Storms rage, as they will. Great waves roll and I am washed along, sometimes pulled into the undertow, slammed into the rough sands at the bottom and landing along the shoreline with salty breath. But for those moments when I catch the surf, when I coast along and am pushed into ecstatic winds and my very toes tingle, for those moments it is all worth it. So I stay in. I let my body get tired and my fingers get pruny. What's a little chill, against the ecstasy of the ride?

Hell I still love you, New York.

Jag får liksom ingen ordning

...på mitt liv

Projects turned into margaritas in the Village. Into silly giggles and afternoon intoxication. By the time China went to bed, Sweden went out, I went home. Circumstances turning into excuses. Lewd behavior and the paintings on the wall suddenly crooked. The unexpected somehow expected, in the aftermath. Painted fingernails and planned brunches ahead. The hangover will pass, when no one is watching.

Familiar Tingles

My fingers are restless. A familiar sensation runs through them, courses through my veins and my mind races. Words, words, new projects flash past my inner movie screen as I mill about the apartment, in cleaning mode, and a cool September breeze rustles through the Morton street trees and into my room. Books appear in my head and beg to be written, scraps of poetry trickle past and giggle. I write lists, make plans, all the while grateful that I am nowhere else but here. How I fought to get here, how seemingly impossible now to ever want to leave.

I find old notes from Peter about my writing, my heart swells and smiles. I find the business card of my old therapist and get a yearning to write her and say I am here. How I went on and on about this City with her. But then, I went on and on about this City with everyone. Thank god I am here or they would never hear the end of it.

The thing is, if I wasn't here, I have no idea where else I could possibly be. Lost, rambling about in the Great Unknown and all the more confused. Even when it's got me kicked to the curb and mud-sloshed from taxi drivebys, this City gives me a purpose, a lifeline. Sometimes the waters get rough. I have to hold on.

I saw the gooseflesh on my skin. I did not know what made it... it was the poetry... I had fallen into a new way of being happy.
S. Plath

Upkeep

I would like
to be one of those people
who update regularly
so here I am.

Way past bedtime, not tired. Two days of sweltering heat, of sticky humidity and a woman leaned against my arm in the subway today, sweat made the back of her shirt damp, warm moist cotton pushed against my skin. Stepped into a near-empty train car on the upper west and the AC was busted in there, it smelled just like in a sauna. Not of sweat. Of material slowly fizzing in combustion.

The dark days come. Eventually, they pass. Suburbia beckons with its quiet calm, its placid satisfaction. But over a 5th avenue lunch, my friend said he was done with this City and its expensive callousness, and my heart fired up in protectiveness. It is still my sweet love of a city, after all.

Howl, 2006

Sometimes, all it takes is a little reminder, a voice from your own past to speak up, to make Hope beat, a little stronger, in your heart.

Journal excerpt, September 2006:
I sat at B&N reading beat Poetry. And it all changed. I wanted (desperately) to do drugs and ramble about the streets of the East Village in a crazy rush (I sat down for coffee instead).
I wanted to be up all night with no goal in mind but being just where I was.
We went to a classical piano concert in Harlem (Harlem! Piano! Free!), which blew my mind, teared my eyes, tossed my soul, all the while full of delirious words rushing through me, beyond me, hitting my every nerve, my every vein like a jelly shot in the dark.
Pang
Pang
Pang
with Madness!

It isn't so difficult, my dear! You need only spend some time inside yourself to Remember your Soul's Sadness, and therein its ecstasy,
and once you've done that, the words are there.
The Word is there.

Ginsberg wrote of Union Square, just as I was sitting on it. Me! on Union Square with Ginsberg! I am in New York. I have arrived. Wooee.

Familiar Territory

I realize what it is. Reality sinks in slowly, reluctantly, and I am forced to glance at it and consider.

Perhaps I expected too much change; that the airplane, like a cocoon, would carry me across the water and I'd emerge in a brand new skin, metamorphosis complete. Instead, one day I woke up and was the same old insect as before. For months I could keep up the illusion that my attributes were glossy, shiny, that anyone who saw them would know that here was a person who'd found home and who possessed the streets as well as could only be done by those who belong. But the gloss begins to be tarnished, the slick leather scuffed, I am tired. My body fills up with unused potential; what used to drive me now amasses like an unending to-do list under my cheap manicure.

I retreat to comforts tried and true. Making friends with Sylvia Plath on the hard, carpeted floor of the Bookstore. The world is easier in poetry. You envy them their leaps off the edge and into literature. You are afraid of heights.

Smoke fills your room, you've been told to stay low in case of an emergency and now you're crawling blind, searching for exits. But the moments still come when you see the flickering of lights and the mad sparks flying. You are not ready to give up on them yet. One hand on the doorknob, you can still turn around. Dive head first, into the flame.

Fake It till You Make It

Apathy reigns surpreme.
At the glimpse of Times Square from the office bathroom windows I feel nothing. Usually it makes me smile at being here.

The days pass, all seemingly alike. I am indifferent.

Even my need to rant about it dissipates. I am left with mere morsels of words, they trickle out as i feign interest. Not nearly bed time, I tuck myself in. Perhaps tomorrow I will let myself get swept away again.

the Nearness of You

Long lazy Sunday in the park, unexpectedly contemplating mortality. Youth providing no immunity against it, as it turns out.

The September sun radiated its warmth over the park-goers. The runners, the children, the lovers, and sweltering heat. Moving to the shade and suddenly fall sends shiver down the spine. The afternoon turns into a constant move between the two and nothing satisfies the restlessness. Finally waiting for the local at 81st, and though the platform was warm, the train car was cold, and the AC brought goosebumps to life.

At 50th, a young man carrying a copy of the New Yorker sat down next to me, and he brought with him an air of body heat, that thawed my shivering arm. It was all I could do not to lean in. On such a sunny day, this being something else, as though no amount of sunlight can replace human contact. It's another lesson learned. Reluctantly.

Roller Coaster Riding through Life

It's still the same old me from yesterday you wind up with tomorrow.
(Kate, French Kiss)

Run run run as fast as you can. You can't catch me, I'm.. oh wait.

I don't know who it is that the City was trying to impress today, but I'm sure it worked. Awoke to a beautiful, sunny day of clear skies and mild temperature. The Hudson River Park a seemingly endless stream of runners; the high line packed with slow strollers and cameras. Everywhere the sun gleaming, off the cast iron bars, off the high rise windows, off the sparkling waters around the pier. And somewhere in there, me; a collapsed star slowly gathering more blackness, a ball of darkness, stoically keeping out the beauty and the brightness of the social saturday.

Some days, I stand at the precipice of the downward spiral and simply walk away. But today, I was completely unable. I walked through the City in search of a lifeline, but it was powerless to help. The fire escapes offered no consolation. The water, the random glimpses of the Empire State between buildings. To cure my solitude, I forced myself to squeeze into the Union Square Farmer's Market madness, but I was as if in a cocoon. Softly feeling ripe tomatoes and picking through unshucked corn eased my troubled soul slightly, but my mouth still tasted of cotton. When surrounded by so many thousands of people, how is it possible to feel so alone? Like all the other people melt together into one collective experience of Manhattan, and I remain, the singular black pearl of resistance, the hard shell.

Walking home down West 4th softened me a little; the stoops, the lush canopy overhead, the cobble stoned calm. So glad to return to the Village. But I crawled right back into my little room and thought, it's you and me. The City cannot save you from yourself. It probably won't even bother trying. Or, as you always do, you wouldn't let it, if it tried.

Safe Haven

The sun set over the tall buildings. The day had turned beautiful just when you'd given up under the rainy clouds, and now Washington Square park was full of mumbles, a guitar solo, old men reading newspapers. I pushed through the college kid crowds and walked up Broadway in its noisy traffic bustle, to slip through the doors of the silent sea of the Strand.
From the craziness, it's a whole other world. It can be crowded and still so calm. Mazes of books, that old hardback smell. I ran my fingers along the used copies. Upstairs there was a reading, people drinking something bubbly in plastic glasses and nibbling on pretzels and pretense. I roamed around the ground floor and in an obscure corner found a biography on Hunter S. Thompson; I leaned against an ancient radiator and sank into the foreword. For a moment, I was all alone in that bookstore; I saw no one, heard no one, it was many twists and turns before I was out in the open space of the store again.
Slowly I trickled downstairs, where even fewer people milled about in the review copies. The basement of the Strand is like a cavern, a catacomb under the notre dame, that underground scent in the lighting. Fans instead of ventilation. I followed the old philosophers to the far wall and ended up in the A:s of Psychology. Remembering dear feelings for a W, I repeated my ABCs silently in my head, following row after row of books. By the time I got to the end of the alphabet, I was in the tiniest corner of the store, with barely room to move around. No fans got here, and it was still, the air warm and soft. As I stood there, one of the green trains ran by on the other side of the wall (below? nearby? there was no way of telling) and made the floor, the books, tremble slightly.

And at that moment, I was softly washed over by such a feeling of comfort and serenity. In this small, tight space, so humbly lit and protected from everything, rocked by the lullaby of underground railroads, I felt at peace. I thought, this is the magic, of the Strand. Firmly holding on to Sylvia Plath, I stepped out into the Manhattan night, and smiled.

When the Universe Speaks

You must listen.

The fog has lifted from my indifferent eyes. The fort of paperwork and office chairs I hid myself behind to avoid the questions I didn't want to see still existed, has crumbled. The questions do not scare me, and I should've trusted myself to know that all along.

I was tired; I'd stayed too late; and hungry. I just popped my head in to the other office to say good night when the older, wise man who sits there began to regale his tales, the way people do when they have amassed mounds of experience. And they are always interesting, so I listen and smile, but I really was aching to go.

I guess sometimes the Universe just has to slap me upside the head to get my attention.

He told me of learning about Zen Buddhism in Los Angeles in the late 40's. Of taking that knowledge with him to school in Oregon and sharing it with another student, who had never heard of it before but was thus introduced. Turns out, the student went on to become a Zen Buddhist monk himself, and this the man told me humbly and as just another bit of the story. And as I stand there, in the doorway, poised and ready to go, completely unprepared, he asks me if I know of Jack Kerouac. Because this young kid sitting next to him in the college classrom, this budding mad man, was none other than Gary Snyder, in my world more commonly known by Kerouac's moniker for him: Japhy Ryder, zen poet, the original Dharma Bum.

Shivers ran up and down my entire body, my feet went numb, tears welled up in my eyes. It sounds silly now, but that was my reaction. It was just so Big. I had reread the Dharma Bums just weeks ago and been reminded of its beauty, of Japhy's sweet love for the world, of the Bigness and Simpleness of it all.

Jack is the reason I am in this City in the first place. And here I was, talking to a man who was to this day a good friend of a person Jack admired so. It was too big, it was too untouchable. I rambled home through the village and giggled madly inside. On this day when I seemed to lean into the downward spiral, when I was ready to ask what hell I was doing, the Universe reminded me. We get so few chances to live our dreams. I have been allowed to come this far; there is no reason for me not to dive head first into the flames. My heart smiles, I go gladly.

...as I was hiking down the mountain with my pack I turned and knelt on the trail and said "Thank you, shack." Then I added "Blah," with a little grin, because I knew that shack and that mountain would understand what that meant, and turned and went on down the trail back to this world.

Surreality

ça continue.

Today, Manhattan cool and gray, indifferent. White puffy clouds roll by in search of greener pastures; they can't even be bothered to stick around and amass, turn to floods.

Peter says time slips by, not like sands in an hour glass but like rocks in a landslide. He is brilliant. Already it's veering towards late afternoon and all I've done so far is scour the electronic world for tales of other people's misery. I pretend it helps me feel better, when in reality it opens up entirely new words of heartache.

I write lists. They make me believe in the Potential of tomorrow. The truth, and I've learned this too many times to ignore it, is that it merely allows for procrastination. Again I feel like I sway at the fork in the road; it's becoming clear to me that this is where I stand, and have been standing for months. It explains why I feel like I am walking around in a dream, why I am invincible on these streets but also a little numb. I don't feel my usual masochism, my self-doubt and fears, and I thought New York was being my buffer. I realize now that perhaps it was because she is a Shadow, walking around and pretending to be me, while in reality I stand at that fork in limbo. You must commit, dear, if you want to live.

Human, human of the year and you've won.

Across the street in midtown, at the top floor of what looks like a hotel, with the facade so colorful and floor-to-ceiling windows, is a space that is being used for storage. Cardboard boxes, mattresses, dust. All I keep thinking is, god, the opulence of allowing stuff such a view. My fingers smell of nicotine and weariness.

Is That All There Is?

The days pass by. The sun rises sweetly over the water tanks and sets over Jersey. Lights come on and off and A/C units are neglected one by one as fall seeps in through the foliage. I, meanwhile, am none the wiser.

Most days it is enough to revel in the beauty of being here, the simple bliss of existing where your dreams wished for you to be. But in the moments where I stop to catch my breath, I inevitably falter. Some days, the concrete underneath me isn't as sturdy, isn't as safe.

Those are the days when I glance behind me and see ghosts of doubt in the corners of my eyes. They whisper all the unanswered questions I haven't cared to answer; they remind me of the impermanence of my current state. Who are you, and what is it you have come here to do? The straight and not-so-narrow needs you to commit yourself, to take your education and your skills into the 9-to-5 and be done with it. Get a grip. The crooked and less beaten path beckons, reminds you that you have come this far by throwing caution to the wind and wouldn't it be silly to give up now?

This is the moment when I must define myself. When I am no longer safely nestled in a university institution or a steady job. When none of the ties that held me together can guide me and give me purpose. This is the time when I must make my own choice, whatever that is, and go with it. Around me, people are getting married, having babies, setting up the next phase. They move effortlessly to jobs and new tax brackets, while I kick and scream and do anything to resist.

But if you choose not to follow one path, you must choose another. I stand at the fork in the road, longing desperately for a map, a flashlight, I hesitate. I was so sure, so long, and now I am letting the dark woods scare me. New York holds my hand reassuringly but I feel my grasp slip, I am undeserving.

On the uneven cobblestone street, she tripped on her high heel. Recovering, I take a deep breath and carry on.

Quote of the Day

I miss the fuck out of you

First Day of School

When the alarm rang it was still dark out, despite summer barely having ended. Walking to the subway, it was still black, and only on the avenues were there any cars; residential Leroy Street was completely silent and everyone slept but the rats, who scurried to their corners as I snuck by. West 4th was quiet, the express train still running on the local track, and class showed up quickly when i was the only white person on the train until midtown. Leaving the subway station, there were a few more people. All men. Unloading vans, setting up food carts, and many that were harder to define and classify than during the day. Why would this guy be up? As I walked down a sleepy 52nd street I realized that I was all alone on a dark street and that maybe that wasn't so smart. I got tricked by my daytime attire.

At the apartment with big windows, dawn was approaching, the sleeping City at its most beautiful. Out of the inky void came little stars of office lights turning on. Great silhouettes of buildnings reaching for the skies emerged, and the backdrop turned purple, blue. I sat in awe and looked at it. By the time the little girl had woken up, the sun had burst through and made all the buildnings brown, the glittering lights of Times Square no longer distinguishable. She yawned and stretched like a kitten; when I asked what was special about this day, she said, "Today is the day for feeding the Frogs!" Not until later did she mention that it was her first day of school.

And so it was, that I, not her parents, took her to her first day of preschool. The closer we got, the tighter she held my hand. In the playground, her nervousness made her run around crazily but all the time coming back and nesting in my lap, when it got too scary. Once in the classroom, she held on tight when I tried to leave her on the carpet with her new teacher. But then, she got asked to sit at her new seat at the table, and she got to pick a paper to write her name on, and suddenly, she was in her new world. She wouldn't speak this strange language they spoke, but she knew what the teachers said and nodded diligently.

And I stood in the doorway, and couldn't leave. I felt my heart expanding in my chest and wanting so much to hold her hand, to tell her that everything would be okay and convince her that she'll make friends and learn so much and love every minute. But I can't tell her. She has to see it for herself, and I know she will. I had to be the patient one, the strong one, and walk away. I've no doubt she's having a great day now, that I am far out of her mind. But it became painfully clear that she now occupies a large part of my heart, and that I am glad she is there. I always was a sucker for children.

By nine o'clock, my work was already done. I trudged toward Columbus Circle and was nearly swept away by hoards of people going in the opposite direction. What's so great about 58th street, I thought, until i realized that all the office people were simply beginning their work day, when mine was done. It's like there are different universes going on in the City, and for brief moments they overlap. I clock out. You clock in. The City inhales and exhales without interruption.