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.
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ReplyDeletePuss. Dads have their moments. Ours for sure. But just so you know, that's what I say too. "My sister got a fancy degree and went to New York." People ask if you are looking for a job in your profession. I say "no, she is a writer now". Yesterday's response was "jantelagen finns inte riktigt i er familj va?". Lovely, no, you know what, it never did. I got a job offer for a fancy bank, a fancy position, with lots of rewards and freedom and I'm tempted. But suits and regular (stiff) work hours are not all it is cracked up to be. And, sure, our inability to conform to normality makes life more complicated. But sis, I'm sure we'll make it, and be much the richer for it. Though not necessarily through money. But maybe that too. xx
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