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.