To Be Reborn

Games come to a close, and February goes with them. Another impossible winter month survived, and water cooler conversation tomorrow will be grim, how could I care. In a quiet moment, it was all revealed. The deadline so neatly handled, the Sunday night schedule suddenly cleared and calm. Reading through old journal entries. You never sing anymore. You never cry. Music seeped back into my soul. Tomorrow is March, no matter the snow clinging stubbornly to the courtyard.

My sister is in India, finding the answer. She tells me I already have the answer in me, and she is right. I have had it in me for years. One dark month does not take my love for New York out of me. Hollywood has nothing on this love story, I think.

Stand Clear of the Closing Doors, Please

Friday afternoon and it never seems to end. The days are getting longer; it is easy to forget to pack up and go home. In the highrise next door, a whole other world unfolds. I see children playing and focused gym-goers running on treadmills that will never take them anywhere. All the hours that I just sit here, desperately chasing a deadline that I seem hopeless to catch, they live on there, behind their display case glass, main characters in their own Real Worlds.

At the very edge of the latest snow storm, a low, red sun fights to shine through. A flurry of white ashes basks in its light and the city seems transported to the industrial revolution, to a world of soot and eternal fog. See us, feeble, small people in our electronic factories, make us warm, remind us that the horizon lies farther away than the next avenue, farther than we can see through this incessant drizzle.

I forgot my umbrella on the E last night. I had put it next to me in the seat, to spend the few minutes on the train reading, my short break where I am unreachable, untouchable, safe. So eager to get home, I simply left it lying there, to ride to the World Trade Center station alone. I am comforted by the thought that it is traveling around Manhattan, maybe even Queens, that is rests on its blue plastic seat, in its quiet, unreachable train car. As though I left a piece of myself in that seat, and it rides the dark, warm underbelly of the city, perpetually.

Not Sure What the Trouble Was

The reasons all have run away
but the feeling never did.

So many days pass, where I am happy-go-lucky, where I think that perhaps I outgrew whatever anxiety used to permeate my being in the past. Perhaps I am beyond that now. And I believe myself to be a new person, a strong person, a capable woman, after all.

But then obstacles come along and demand to be dealt with, and every old ghost of nerves that had been hiding in the corners creep out and hit me upside the head. Even after the explosion, they linger, they worry, they remind me that dealing, alone, was not enough. Now I must fret every word, every twitch of my eyelid and crooked smile. I recognize old reactions and urges to run, and my fingers tremble slightly as I try to roll a cigarette, chase the shivers away. The weather seems more confused than me; giant snowflakes, like sugar cookies, splatter on my umbrella, tear the cigarette paper so I must give up.

Overwhelmed, by the day, by the obstacles, by the stories of moving boxes and separation anxiety from so many dear friends. We are all a mess, we are all distraught, we are all looking to brighter futures and a hopeful spring. How the weather mimics our souls; or vice versa.

I always get lost, when I leave the Village.
Perhaps I'll just not do that, any more.

Mild Weather Days

The puppy always gets scared and hides when it rains; that's how you can tell the weather without even looking outside. Tonight I hear it drip drip dripping on my air conditioner. I would be muddled about it, but my only thought was that if it rains, it must be warm. If it rains, it does not snow.

Too many days I have spent indoors, immobile, allowing my muscles atrophy and my mind to grow mossy. The air is so dry, the light so artificial.

A dear friend plans her unexpected, and rapidly approaching, move to the City. Hearing her speak of it, I am reminded what a treat it is to move here. To imagine oneself on these streets, to peruse apartment listings and fret happily over practicalities that will make the dream true. I looked out over the water towers from the office today and realized that I have lost that feeling, where everything in the city sparkles, where every detail smiles at you. I am grateful that she comes to the city now, that I can see New York through her eyes, and maybe recapture some of the magic.

These last few days, my body has completely somaticized my February feel into an endless array of physical symptoms. But the thing is, they don't bother me one bit. I feel as though the buildup was worse, this is the volcano that clears the air, that eases the pressure. Once I walk out of this fog, it will be March. Once I walk out of this fog, I will be ready for a brand new day. The Word, the Madness, the City. I know they will have waited for me. I know I will be back to hold them dearly, soon again.

Dream a Little Dream

In one of my fevered dreams, I rode down the west side of Manhattan in a cab with my mother, watching the Brooklyn and Manhattan bridges span the wide, glittering Hudson to Jersey, as we drove through the industrial spaghetti bowl of roads that lay around them. Nevermind the utter lack of geographical reality in the dream, here somewhere lay my West Village, here somewhere was my home. My mother looked at me and said, "This is where you live now, how lucky you are." I looked across the wide bridge and remembered fondly days spent here in this neighborhood of steel beams. I was glad she reminded me. Heading northwards once again, the cab had become a convertible, and next to me in the driver's seat was Miss Regina, her suddenly golden hair blowing giddily in the wind and her bright smile beaming at me as we rode along. We sang some silly song, sped across Manhattan, we were carefree.

Spring grows slowly; at first you cannot see it. But deep in my belly, a little sprout has begun to tickle my nerves. Frozen bodies thaw, too.

Oh Please Don't Change a Thing

A quiet bug nestled its way into my unassuming body, made a home for itself, and caused me to keep my half-conscious head close to the toilet bowl for a long, weary night. Three days without appetite later, I begin to emerge from the clouded cognisance that has been my mind, and my limbs slowly stretch in recollection. Despite the lost time, money, work that needed to be done, despite opportunities missed and so many days having passed, I am glad. As though I not only step out of the heavy quicksand of illness, but that I shed whatever emotional weights were bearing me down as well. Purged, pure, ready to be filled anew with sunshine, excitement, adventure.

I just need to be able to walk more than 500 feet without tiring.



I, too, take the C train uptown. I, too, get off at 42nd street and walk through those same turnstiles into Port Authority Bus Terminal. I, too, get out on the street that leads to glittery Times Square. How gratifying to see it through somebody else's eyes. How reaffirming in the Greatness, of such a small event. Those turnstiles, those steps, they are part of my every day life now. Taking New York for granted, is worth a purging, sometimes.

And Everything's Not Lost

When I counted up my demons
Saw there was one for every day
With the good ones on my shoulders
I drove the other ones away

Another day of sleet and snow. Of trudging through God's message, loud and clear, that spring is not near, that the light at the end of the tunnel is far away yet. I sat at the office with baby food on my sweater and newly acquired germs in my skin, staring out at tenth avenue and wondering how I will possibly get through this. An invite sifted through the room; I tried to shy away, scurry into my dark corner and pretend it was not out there. My mind dreamed of sweatpants and early nights tucked into quiet pockets of ignorance, but there was no excuse, so my face mouthed a yes, reluctantly.

And now here I am. Tipsy on a Tuesday. Full of fancy hors d'oeuvres and celebrity schmoozing. With silly stories traipsing through my mind and a slight beat in my heart for 5th avenue after dark. I pull out a note from my pocket, the bartender's number on it.

New York, my darling. You give me that last strand of hope to which I can hold on. And I do. One day, New York, I will be someone who deserves you.

Where the Heart Is

I suspect this is the infamous bottom rock. Where the body is a dark steady ball of lead. Where silence is painful but concrete. I stay still, in a state of inertia from which I am not sure I want to be changed.

I crawled out on the fire escape and watched the smoke slowly curl from my cigarette. Amazed that New York can be so quiet. That a hundred year old ladder can be so sturdy and hold me, regardless. Hungry to the point of nausea, I have been unable to make myself food all day. The apartment empty enough that I could spend most of it at the piano. Something about song that opens my heart and lets me bleed all over those ivory keys. I was relieved I still could.

I slowly climb back inside. Did the apartment get even more still while I was away? My steps are so slow. I pass a mirror and remember that I have not showered for days. I wear clothes that needed to be washed several baby feedings ago. I know I went out looking like this this morning, that is surely no good sign.

And still, I am somehow comforted in this day. In reclining in the comfort of this feeling. Recognizing myself in the middle of it. Words swim around in my head; I am grateful for their company, for their tireless return. My heart beats steady, awaiting Spring with unabandoned innocence. New York, honey, holding your hand I know I am safe. That is all we need, in the end.

59th Street Bridge

New Yorkers relocate. 13 years in Chelsea and now somewhere new, entirely. I don't like these streets. I don't think we belong here. When you are tired and want to go home, you remember that there is no such place. It has been packed up and transported. In the old house, history in the chimneys. Here, a clean slate.

Outside the window, the Roosevelt Island tram gathers strays and sends them across the water. The sun sets, and the bridge disappears into a steady stream of Saturday evening traffic. We drink our beers and fill cupboards with plates and bags of flour. The baby is restless, confused. She expresses so well what her parents can only sense in the back of their hearts.

Exhausted, I walk to the subway along fancy streets of closed furniture stores, while Bloomingdales sparkles in the night. How quiet this neighborhood, sterile. When I emerge from the W 4th stop and see the streets milling with people, hear the sounds of my New York trickling down the Greenwich Village fire escapes, I smile. This is home.

What a good day for curing a hangover. Metaphorically, too.

Twinkle, Twinkle

Another blizzard warning seemingly gone to waste. We ventured out in the morning, to reward ourselves with a wintery breakfast but finding the city quickly melting away. But by the time we had walked around TriBeCa art supply stores for a while, the wind picked up, and the snow beat hard on the underdressed pizza deliverers on Canal Street. We went out to the river, and New Jersey was quickly disappearing in a haze; downtown and the Empire State went soon after.

Snow day spent with wool socks and blackberry brandy. Warming up in sheer frustration and blaming weak knees on the long walk but well aware there are other forces at play. Avoiding the sickness indefinitely. Wet feet skip through dark Greenwich Village streets and admire the silence of the storm. The exhausted body but racing mind making their way back home, none the wiser.

Perhaps I learned nothing today. Perhaps it was another useless winter day gone to waste. But I survived another day, and for now, that is all I ask. Pink sparkles will come, eventually.

Fuses Blown

Pale skin turns pink in mere hours of sunlight. As if to make clear just how much it has been lacking. The newscasters cried out over another Great Storm, and the Hudson River piers were blissfully ignorant. The baby and I leaned against the railing and watched the ice dance. Great big blocks of it would break and then softly lap against each other as the water heaved. Out in the current, relatives swept by, leaving nothing but a soft rustling sound and the feeling that there was more fun to be had away from shore. I could have stared at the spectacle for hours.

This little child; I read a book to her about animals today and realized that it made no sense for her to learn what sound a cow makes; it will be years before she ever encounters one, yet. And still, when we came out here, and my soul reeled at wind and sky and forces of nature at work (the small sliver of nature that we do see in this city), I remembered how much we need this. We came from the earth, there is no evolving beyond that. As she slept, I stared straight into the sun and tried to remember what it is like to be alive. Finally I had to zip up my jacket, put on some gloves; dark clouds were rolling in. Later, looking out my bedroom window, I saw the snow begin to fall. Great big flakes slipped softly onto the silent New York night. The power went out. I did not.

Keep a Bottle Near

If you have nothing nice to say,
keep your mouth shut.

My mind is a jumble. Perhaps it is time I dealt with that on my own time, for once.

Repose

The storm never came. Manhattan merely got whipped by its skirttails and the day was bitterly cold.

I crawled underneath that dark rock, to hide from the unending winter and perpetual dread, feeling that I had already done enough complaining to my surroundings and wearing their patiences with my self-pity. But the thing is, arriving in that dark, quiet, place, I was nothing but relieved. Here is a place I remember; here is a safe space I know.

Because as I took the day off, not only from social responsibility but from self-imposed guilt over unaccomplished agendas, I found myself in that place where the Word lies. Where all things are obsolete except the quick tap taps on my computer's keyboard. Where page after empty page is filled with the strings of letters that make our stories.

Here is Life. It may be dark, lonely, accompanied by mourning music, but it is Life, and it is mine. I sink in. I relax. And I write.

Little Miss Sunshine

It's funny
how many people,
so dear to my heart,
don't think I can ever
be down.

But,
you know,
not funny ha-ha.

Fribiljett mot Himlen

They say the snow is coming. They say it will cover the Northeast corridor and we may lose Jersey completely. Somehow, my mind cannot wrap itself around that; all I see is the ice beginning to break along the edges of the river. Perhaps it is Friday afternoon optimism, (perhaps it is Friday afternoon exhaustion), but today I believe in Spring.

I spoke with a friend recently about lazy summer days spent reading in a hammock. Although, technically, neither one of us had actually owned one in our youth, the hammock came to represent the very essence of summer (and of our love for books). And as we reminisced, I could start to feel the lush, green grass between my toes, soft summer breezes rustling the trees and neverending sunlight trickling down through them. I remembered what it is like to not see darkness for weeks on end, to step out of one's home barefoot, to never tire. I remembered, gladly, the feeling of wild spring rapids in my heart and quivering limbs unable to hold still.

I know Spring will return. I know it is waiting just around the corner, and with it waits the person I recognize as myself. Dark clouds blanket Manhattan; I see the slightest streak of light at the horizon. I hold on.

Choosing Not to Fight

When I was a child, and the world got a little overwhelming, I would often crawl into my closet and sit there, trying to sort it all out, trying to ride out the storm. It was my safe space, my dark, warm womb where I could be alone with my demons, where outside pressures would not force my stale smile, my stumbling limbs reluctant to accept comfort. The other day, as I sat in my room with the world spinning, I remembered that feeling and thought, perhaps, the magic could work here, too. That if I could pull out my suitcases, my rubbish, I could crawl into that little corner where the heat runs through the walls, and somehow I would find myself again.

I didn't try. Perhaps I feared the social ramifications of having my roommate find me playing in my proverbial fortress.

My friends make their moves, get their jobs, change their lives. Always on to the next natural step, all trickling onwards. Meanwhile, I carry on, on my side of the ocean, struggling in the opposite direction, swimming up the Hudson without so much as a life jacket, and wouldn't it be easier just to be swept away? I look out over the river and see a giant cruise boat slowly making its way to the open sea. I'm not quite sure, but I think it's looking up at me and saying "in your face".

I know what I want. I know what I came here for. One does not dream an entire lifetime simply to have that dream vanish, leaving nothing to do but turn around and go home. Every dark question finds its answer in the one fantasy, and it is only Winter now that plays tricks on me and turns me into this spectre of a human.

If I could, I would take another warm body with me, slip quietly under the covers, and not emerge again until Spring. Then, my dear cruise ship, we would see who had the last laugh.

Famous Last Words