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.