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.