All morning so hot, but when we stood there with our bare feet in the Atlantic, we hesitated in the chill. Determined, we made our way into the water. At some point, you just have to dive. Summer was here, and I was back in the water where I belong.
Today my parents celebrated their 35th wedding anniversary. 35 years of being married to each other, for better and for worse, in sickness and in health. It snowed on their wedding day, and my grandmother scrambled to find blankets for everyone at the outdoor luncheon, which she served on those pink flower plates she'd brought back from Italy and which I packed in my boxes last year. She fought so hard for anything to resemble tradition at that wedding. My mother wore a blue dress and I never forgave her for cutting it up and turning it into a blouse and skirt. More useful, she said.
35 years, for better or for worse. I remember kitchen table fights that ended in yogurt against the window that faced the forest. I remember my mother storming out and driving off, and I wasn't sure if she would come back. She'd run out in her clogs and she always said you shouldn't drive with those, they were a hazard. I was terrified. I remember our best friends' parents down the street getting divorced, and I asked anxiously if mine would do the same. Fifteen years later I thought perhaps it would be better if they did.
He never helps with the cleaning, she never dares dream big. She never gets nostalgic, he can't throw anything away. But he gave her the world and she is his pillar of strength. When they cannot sleep in the same bed together, they miss each other. They have been together longer than they have been with anyone else, their own parents included. Through careers, through children, through death threats and loss. They have stuck by each other, in sickness and in health, for better, and for worse.
I stayed in the water a little longer, and it wasn't cold anymore. I considered going up, getting out. Just one more dive. I turned around and swam out to sea. I guess that's the thing. Just one more moment, you think, and you can't get enough. Just one more moment, and you've built a whole life.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Paper Moon
The air was so still today, soft but heavy, pressing on my lungs like lead, and mosquitoes swarmed the courtyard where we drank pink prosecco and spoke of children and the impossibility of Forever. We were still eating donuts, because the man at the store liked my shirt and gave us twice as many as we asked for. It made me reflect over its meaning, and I remembered that the man who gave me the shirt turned his entire life around to help people, to fight for a future better than the one he'd been given.
He was 20 when he got the test results that claimed to be positive but really were anything but. We sat on his bed in the boys' house in Salt Lake City, this house that until that day had been nothing but parties and games and crazy idiocy. And for a while after that, the house sort of died. I think he nearly went with it.
But he rose out of those ashes, he picked up his bags, and he went to New York to tell people his story. All these years later, and his organization has grown to a global network of young people with HIV, who spread their message, who raise awareness and reach out to those who need the help.
We were so young, sitting on that bed, and the future looked so dark, so impossibly dark. We stared at each other and had nowhere to turn, nothing to say. But when I think of him today, when I see his accomplishment and think of all the Good he has done, my heart swells with pride.
All this I thought when the man at the counter smiled at me, and I wanted to tell him. To let him know that that shirt reminds me every time how proud I am, and how inspiring my friend is to me. Instead, I thanked him, and left a bill in the tip jar. Sometimes, it's enough to just be reminded, yourself.
He was 20 when he got the test results that claimed to be positive but really were anything but. We sat on his bed in the boys' house in Salt Lake City, this house that until that day had been nothing but parties and games and crazy idiocy. And for a while after that, the house sort of died. I think he nearly went with it.
But he rose out of those ashes, he picked up his bags, and he went to New York to tell people his story. All these years later, and his organization has grown to a global network of young people with HIV, who spread their message, who raise awareness and reach out to those who need the help.
We were so young, sitting on that bed, and the future looked so dark, so impossibly dark. We stared at each other and had nowhere to turn, nothing to say. But when I think of him today, when I see his accomplishment and think of all the Good he has done, my heart swells with pride.
All this I thought when the man at the counter smiled at me, and I wanted to tell him. To let him know that that shirt reminds me every time how proud I am, and how inspiring my friend is to me. Instead, I thanked him, and left a bill in the tip jar. Sometimes, it's enough to just be reminded, yourself.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
In the Village
Tired voices stream across phones perpetually unable to leave their offices. Still, dinner dates are made, drinks planned. Close to home, yes? I follow my patron saint to the French wicker chairs, duck breast, and chocolate torte. I say yes, to refills. We toast to Friday nights, to saving the world, to living the Life. He comes over and tells us to have more chocolate, to come to the Gansevoort because you can sleep when you're dead.
He's right, of course, but right now I feel as though I might as well be dead. I struggle down the crooked Village streets to my stoop.
Still, I visit the restroom, and it smells like Australia. I can't say what it is; the candle says Tabac & Talc, and I don't even know what that means. My education tells me the olfactory sense has a direct line to our memories, but all I know is that the scent puts me at a young age, and in a country I have forever come to love. Something about Australia says home.
I remember lightning storms that played around Byron Bay and made television entertainment obsolete. I remember dolphins, close enough to touch and Nimbin wallabees with their sage curiosity. I remember the way the orphaned koalas would dig their claws into my shoulder, and I loved them instantly. Endless hours, days, months, in the warm, wild waters of the East Coast and the way the currents would still tug at my muscles after I'd gone to sleep. I stood there in the restroom, inhaling Australia, and something in my heart missed it terribly.
But as we walked down West 4th, to our quiet Manhattan homes, New York creeped back into my heart. It nestles its way into my heart, everytime. I slip in under my soft, Manhattan covers, as the cool, concrete scents of the city drift in through my window.
New York currents tug at my body, too, and I have never had a better sleep.
He's right, of course, but right now I feel as though I might as well be dead. I struggle down the crooked Village streets to my stoop.
Still, I visit the restroom, and it smells like Australia. I can't say what it is; the candle says Tabac & Talc, and I don't even know what that means. My education tells me the olfactory sense has a direct line to our memories, but all I know is that the scent puts me at a young age, and in a country I have forever come to love. Something about Australia says home.
I remember lightning storms that played around Byron Bay and made television entertainment obsolete. I remember dolphins, close enough to touch and Nimbin wallabees with their sage curiosity. I remember the way the orphaned koalas would dig their claws into my shoulder, and I loved them instantly. Endless hours, days, months, in the warm, wild waters of the East Coast and the way the currents would still tug at my muscles after I'd gone to sleep. I stood there in the restroom, inhaling Australia, and something in my heart missed it terribly.
But as we walked down West 4th, to our quiet Manhattan homes, New York creeped back into my heart. It nestles its way into my heart, everytime. I slip in under my soft, Manhattan covers, as the cool, concrete scents of the city drift in through my window.
New York currents tug at my body, too, and I have never had a better sleep.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Simple Together
Such a long, sleepy day, and I cannot believe the week is not yet over. The Great Tasks amass on my post-its and I ignore them, best I can. Say Yes, when asked to have a beer. On to the next and say Yes, when asked to have a glass of wine. How much easier to be incapacitated by intoxication than to accomplish. Manana, I will do it all, manana. (28 years later and I still believe myself when I say it.)
I waited at the platform longer than usual, rush hour regularity come and gone, and my eye caught something moving between the tracks. Such a sad rat, slowly slipping back and forth, he seemed unwell. I was mesmerized; this is all the wildlife we see in New York, after all, and it is dejected, too. Sad rat sat there dying, even as the train approached. The epitome of camouflage, he was as brown as the dusty ground, as gray as the steel rails and ancient garbage. Clearly better adapted than I. The train rolled over him, he did not flinch. New Yorkers, always unfazed, I thought, as I entered the train, won a seat, left the dreary station to its own fate.
But as I walked home down Bleecker street in the last trickles of dusk, remnants of a thunder storm dripping onto my hair, I felt like something had changed. Like maybe I can promise you more than another month's rent. Like maybe I am ready for commitment. Like maybe, New York, I am in this for the long haul. You be nice to me, then I'll be nice to you. I felt a root start slowly to sprout from my heart, it cracked the asphalt, nestled its way in to the warm, safe soil, from which all of New York City may grow. Me, included.
I waited at the platform longer than usual, rush hour regularity come and gone, and my eye caught something moving between the tracks. Such a sad rat, slowly slipping back and forth, he seemed unwell. I was mesmerized; this is all the wildlife we see in New York, after all, and it is dejected, too. Sad rat sat there dying, even as the train approached. The epitome of camouflage, he was as brown as the dusty ground, as gray as the steel rails and ancient garbage. Clearly better adapted than I. The train rolled over him, he did not flinch. New Yorkers, always unfazed, I thought, as I entered the train, won a seat, left the dreary station to its own fate.
But as I walked home down Bleecker street in the last trickles of dusk, remnants of a thunder storm dripping onto my hair, I felt like something had changed. Like maybe I can promise you more than another month's rent. Like maybe I am ready for commitment. Like maybe, New York, I am in this for the long haul. You be nice to me, then I'll be nice to you. I felt a root start slowly to sprout from my heart, it cracked the asphalt, nestled its way in to the warm, safe soil, from which all of New York City may grow. Me, included.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Slips
What a difference a little note can make. So that when I sat down on that train, tired, sweaty, ready for my grave (a cool and comfortable relief after such a day), scrolled around my ipod to put on some Greg Laswell, and my finger slipped and instead turned on a little Guns n' Roses, my whole self was transformed. From slow breaths and leaning against the cool of the train car metal to my blood boiling, my steps bouncing across Bedford Street and Seventh Avenue, and all the world a dance. How grateful I was, for the mistake.
They're out ta get me.
But do you know? They won't catch me.
:)
They're out ta get me.
But do you know? They won't catch me.
:)
Monday, May 24, 2010
Such Is Youth
I don't remember much of the trip. Work hours were long, and it's been so many years now. But I will never forget that lunch they sent along with us for our endless day in remote Belize wilderness. How lush, how humid the air, as we stood by the jeep and ate chicken sandwiches on white bread and drank ice cold Coca-Cola from glass bottles. On any other day it would hardly have made a dent in my memory. Perhaps it was just the hunger, but I have cherished that chicken sandwich ever since.
That was the trip when I learned to adore grapefruits. We packed the equipment on the side of our saddles and rode off, through the forest, up the mountains. It was madness; none of us were skilled enough riders, and still I couldn't get myself to slow the horse down. I felt free. We sat on the hillside, and she brought out those grapefruits, warm and ripe and perfect, and she began to peel them. So many years of seeing sour grapefruits sliced in half, possibly sprinkled with sugar from my great grandfather's tin bowl, and cut with a grapefruit knife. It had never occured to me that you could peel them and eat them like oranges. But we sat there, the green rolling hills of Central America spreading out for limitless miles below us, and I have never eaten a more delicious fruit.
I was 14, and the entire world spread out before me. My entire childhood was spent seeing this world, and I had no idea. I was 14, and all I could think was that I would have rather spent that Christmas holiday with my friends, having sleepovers and watching the 80s movie classics that formed the backbone of their security, so that maybe I could soak up some of their belonging for myself. Such is youth.
But I am not 14 anymore. Perhaps it's time to see the world, again.
That was the trip when I learned to adore grapefruits. We packed the equipment on the side of our saddles and rode off, through the forest, up the mountains. It was madness; none of us were skilled enough riders, and still I couldn't get myself to slow the horse down. I felt free. We sat on the hillside, and she brought out those grapefruits, warm and ripe and perfect, and she began to peel them. So many years of seeing sour grapefruits sliced in half, possibly sprinkled with sugar from my great grandfather's tin bowl, and cut with a grapefruit knife. It had never occured to me that you could peel them and eat them like oranges. But we sat there, the green rolling hills of Central America spreading out for limitless miles below us, and I have never eaten a more delicious fruit.
I was 14, and the entire world spread out before me. My entire childhood was spent seeing this world, and I had no idea. I was 14, and all I could think was that I would have rather spent that Christmas holiday with my friends, having sleepovers and watching the 80s movie classics that formed the backbone of their security, so that maybe I could soak up some of their belonging for myself. Such is youth.
But I am not 14 anymore. Perhaps it's time to see the world, again.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Hiatus
Battery Park City was lush and still, and the sun set over the Miami Vice skyline on the New Jersey side of the water. Glass walls shone in peach and pink, the clouds were the stuff of paintings, cartoons. Perfection.
Our steps meandered across the artificial small-town feel of the riverside, past the luxury yachts and the palm trees in the Winter Garden, through the tales of our hearts. How immense the distance, when storms arise. How tears and voices never can rival the power of my skin against yours, your cheek against mine.
By the time we made our way back toward the Village, the city was dark, the piers empty. Our steps a little lighter, our minds cleared. For now, our troubles were left at the end of the island, slowly drifting out to sea.
Our steps meandered across the artificial small-town feel of the riverside, past the luxury yachts and the palm trees in the Winter Garden, through the tales of our hearts. How immense the distance, when storms arise. How tears and voices never can rival the power of my skin against yours, your cheek against mine.
By the time we made our way back toward the Village, the city was dark, the piers empty. Our steps a little lighter, our minds cleared. For now, our troubles were left at the end of the island, slowly drifting out to sea.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Steal Yours Too
My To-Do list grows. Endlessly expanded with menial tasks, and I place them at the very top, squeeze them in along the sides. For years, tacking them onto the VIP matters, saying I'll just do these first, clear the list, make room for that Big One. Turns out, the amount of neverending ridiculous Things To Do is infinite, and all this side-stepping becomes a perpetual dance of avoidance.
Today, I ignore the work-for-hire, the unruly eyebrows, the unspeakably messy bedroom floor. I put on another cup of coffee and dive head-first into the Story that tiptoes around my conscious, asking nothing but to be told.
Grateful that Someone else has explained it, and better, that I can leave well enough alone by adding a mere link, stop my inane ramblings on this page, and pick up my pen.
Today, I ignore the work-for-hire, the unruly eyebrows, the unspeakably messy bedroom floor. I put on another cup of coffee and dive head-first into the Story that tiptoes around my conscious, asking nothing but to be told.
Grateful that Someone else has explained it, and better, that I can leave well enough alone by adding a mere link, stop my inane ramblings on this page, and pick up my pen.
Desolation Angels
It occurs to me that I am America.
On that same old E train with the suits and the Louis Vuitton bags and me with holes in my shoes that let the puddles in and holes in my pocket that let my lighter out. Immersed in my Jack book and so far from the comings and goings and the ladies-and-gentlemen-step-aawl-the-way-in I nearly miss my stop and recover just in time.
It occurs to me that I have embraced being that bum, after all. I am not fighting to reach the top of that career ladder. Then again, I am not even aiming to make a valuable contribution to society. (That shames me.) Still, I do not much lean on it, either.
I just try to float by on that soft river where I can smell the sunshine. Tell me, suit, can you do that? Tell me, am I not lucky, after all?
Jack in the street with his rot gut wine and hobo cats, where did he keep the things that won't fit in a bag?
I panic about the years, about the life. But I needn't. I gave myself this break, did I not? Did I not say This is your time, make of it what you will with no regret and deal with the rest later?
I have enough money to pay rent and buy beans.
Was that not all I asked?
Was that not all I wanted?
Come on in. The water's fine. The sunshine smells like happiness.
On that same old E train with the suits and the Louis Vuitton bags and me with holes in my shoes that let the puddles in and holes in my pocket that let my lighter out. Immersed in my Jack book and so far from the comings and goings and the ladies-and-gentlemen-step-aawl-the-way-in I nearly miss my stop and recover just in time.
It occurs to me that I have embraced being that bum, after all. I am not fighting to reach the top of that career ladder. Then again, I am not even aiming to make a valuable contribution to society. (That shames me.) Still, I do not much lean on it, either.
I just try to float by on that soft river where I can smell the sunshine. Tell me, suit, can you do that? Tell me, am I not lucky, after all?
Jack in the street with his rot gut wine and hobo cats, where did he keep the things that won't fit in a bag?
I panic about the years, about the life. But I needn't. I gave myself this break, did I not? Did I not say This is your time, make of it what you will with no regret and deal with the rest later?
I have enough money to pay rent and buy beans.
Was that not all I asked?
Was that not all I wanted?
Come on in. The water's fine. The sunshine smells like happiness.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
A Day in the Life
We waited impatiently for the light on Park Avenue to change. I rarely raise my head to look at the buildings around me anymore, but for a second I did. And suddenly I realized that these are my streets now, that this is where I live.
I forget so easily. That my life could just as well be spent on those quaint streets in precious little Gothenburg, Sweden, those streets that I have known for so long and can take for granted. Those streets that created me and carried me, and where I could easily have stayed forever.
I take this city for granted, too. I forget to marvel. I go running along the Hudson River with Lady Liberty beckoning in the distance, I drag my grocery bags past the edges of Central Park to the A train, and I stumble drunkenly along the streets where Bob and Jack and everybody giggled madly in their day.
We should all be in awe of our lives.
The lights changed. I went on with my day. But I think of every brownstone, every highrise, every project brick building, and my heart remembers to marvel. Remembers to be tickled pink.
I forget so easily. That my life could just as well be spent on those quaint streets in precious little Gothenburg, Sweden, those streets that I have known for so long and can take for granted. Those streets that created me and carried me, and where I could easily have stayed forever.
I take this city for granted, too. I forget to marvel. I go running along the Hudson River with Lady Liberty beckoning in the distance, I drag my grocery bags past the edges of Central Park to the A train, and I stumble drunkenly along the streets where Bob and Jack and everybody giggled madly in their day.
We should all be in awe of our lives.
The lights changed. I went on with my day. But I think of every brownstone, every highrise, every project brick building, and my heart remembers to marvel. Remembers to be tickled pink.
Monday, May 17, 2010
And It Was Beautiful
The year after I graduated from high school, I lived with my parents in the small town where I grew up but which I was beginning to realize I had outgrown. Blessed with a job where I could choose my own hours, I twisted my days and nights and went to sleep at dawn.
Sometime around two a.m., I would go out walking. I walked from our residential neighborhood, close to the edges of the town; I could walk for hours, music in my ears and frosted breath escaping my body. Sometimes I would hear the sounds of People in the outskirts, but for the most part, the world was mine.
I am sure my mother is glad she doesn't know.
When I finally tired, I would return home and crawl in through my bedroom window. Back into the quiet room, the only light on on the whole street, and I never slept as well as after such a night.
The other day, I rediscovered old pictures that I'd taken of New York when I lived here many years ago, and I remembered the nights when I'd taken them. When I walked around the city for hours, without eating or resting or talking to anyone. I looked at the city through that viewfinder, and I tried to breathe in every light, every building, every little piece that made this city the home of my dreams.
I looked at those pictures again, and I felt exactly the same. My heart wants nothing but to reclaim my home.
I think it's time to start walking again.
Sometime around two a.m., I would go out walking. I walked from our residential neighborhood, close to the edges of the town; I could walk for hours, music in my ears and frosted breath escaping my body. Sometimes I would hear the sounds of People in the outskirts, but for the most part, the world was mine.
I am sure my mother is glad she doesn't know.
When I finally tired, I would return home and crawl in through my bedroom window. Back into the quiet room, the only light on on the whole street, and I never slept as well as after such a night.
The other day, I rediscovered old pictures that I'd taken of New York when I lived here many years ago, and I remembered the nights when I'd taken them. When I walked around the city for hours, without eating or resting or talking to anyone. I looked at the city through that viewfinder, and I tried to breathe in every light, every building, every little piece that made this city the home of my dreams.
I looked at those pictures again, and I felt exactly the same. My heart wants nothing but to reclaim my home.
I think it's time to start walking again.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Days Go On and On
Another day, another scare for the integrity of the Walls. I try, I really do, to leave the doors open and the words spoken aloud without discrimination. But I am not there. So my voice is silent, and my mind occupies itself with other activities. I am content. If frustrated.
Grateful, that the Hudson River still glitters in the sunset, that the park roses bloom without hesitation. Summer-awakened birds drown out the silence within, for however long it lasts.
Grateful, that the Hudson River still glitters in the sunset, that the park roses bloom without hesitation. Summer-awakened birds drown out the silence within, for however long it lasts.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Two Dollars And Twenty-Seven Cents
America, I have given you all and now I am nothing.
A friend once asked me about the title of my blog. He said, "I get it. The subway fare is 2.25. and this is you giving your two cents, making $2.27. It's your story about New York." I thought he was immensely clever. Of course, such wit is far beyond me, and that is not the reason.
This is:
Today, a dear -if recently acquired- friend of mine regaled a story of meeting Allen at a dinner in the 90s. Of spiritual discussions, and still, at the end of the night, of open questions and open doors. We talk and we feel and we think, but all we truly want is warm skin and eyes to pierce our own.
Allen and his beautiful insanity, his sage words and loving eyes and roaming body. Allen and his perpetual search for love, for life, a black preacher in the Church of the Word and everybody says Amen. Allen and his mad beard and his heavy heart, they were clever enough to give their two cents. I merely trundle after, as closely as I can, and bask in whatever glitter trickles off the madness.
America, you gave me all, and now I am something.
It occurs to me that I am America.
I'm not sorry.
A friend once asked me about the title of my blog. He said, "I get it. The subway fare is 2.25. and this is you giving your two cents, making $2.27. It's your story about New York." I thought he was immensely clever. Of course, such wit is far beyond me, and that is not the reason.
This is:
Today, a dear -if recently acquired- friend of mine regaled a story of meeting Allen at a dinner in the 90s. Of spiritual discussions, and still, at the end of the night, of open questions and open doors. We talk and we feel and we think, but all we truly want is warm skin and eyes to pierce our own.
Allen and his beautiful insanity, his sage words and loving eyes and roaming body. Allen and his perpetual search for love, for life, a black preacher in the Church of the Word and everybody says Amen. Allen and his mad beard and his heavy heart, they were clever enough to give their two cents. I merely trundle after, as closely as I can, and bask in whatever glitter trickles off the madness.
America, you gave me all, and now I am something.
It occurs to me that I am America.
I'm not sorry.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Future Perfect
I ran along the dark, quiet edge of the city. Somewhere in the distance, the sun was turning the sky into peaches, the water black and everything was quiet. I know it's probably more pleasant to run in the warm afternoon sun, but I prefer to go out late at night, when I have the city all to myself, without intrusion.
I always loved solitude. Even as a child I needed that space, unable to assess while in the midst of social storms, a trait all these years cannot erase. In crowds, my skin dissolves, and I cannot distinguish my own experience from that of those around me. Their voices, their eyes, I get lost. So I run in the dark, I take long walks after the People have gone to sleep, and I reaffirm my love affair with the city.
And that's the thing. People ask me why I love the city so, I who seem to belong in the quietest of forests so much more than in this concrete jungle of unending activity. Some days, when I sway with the rush hour crowds and their dead subway faces, I wonder, too. But that's the thing with love. Sometimes you love despite the flaws, even the big ones. Sometimes, you love because you can't not. You make it work, because you have to.
You make it work, because when your love smiles on you and your heart bursts in giggles, the every flaw, is worth it.
I always loved solitude. Even as a child I needed that space, unable to assess while in the midst of social storms, a trait all these years cannot erase. In crowds, my skin dissolves, and I cannot distinguish my own experience from that of those around me. Their voices, their eyes, I get lost. So I run in the dark, I take long walks after the People have gone to sleep, and I reaffirm my love affair with the city.
And that's the thing. People ask me why I love the city so, I who seem to belong in the quietest of forests so much more than in this concrete jungle of unending activity. Some days, when I sway with the rush hour crowds and their dead subway faces, I wonder, too. But that's the thing with love. Sometimes you love despite the flaws, even the big ones. Sometimes, you love because you can't not. You make it work, because you have to.
You make it work, because when your love smiles on you and your heart bursts in giggles, the every flaw, is worth it.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
If I Kiss You Where It's Sore
Sunday night and still the shakes from alcohol or giggles or unexplained shivers through the system. How softly singing dawn can turn into such a blustery twilight, I cannot say. But here I sit, obsessively refreshing happy, unobtrusive songs and devouring depressive blogs, like a junky for emotion. Refill, refill, I exhaust my external food sources, and heaven forbid I sit down to examine my own goings-on. Easier, then, to leave the window open to the greenwich village hurricanes and let the day, the weekend, the life pass unannounced and unlived.
This world is too large, this life too short. How do you reconcile that?
This world is too large, this life too short. How do you reconcile that?
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Morninggale
Dawn over the Williamsburg Bridge and birdsong in the Village. Revisiting the old apartment, the old rooftop, and remembering how many nights were spent staring out at that magical skyline. Manhattan. So close, and still a world away when I cannot touch you. How long ago, and still, how much these walls are home.
Numbers traded and suddenly the car drops you in broad daylight. Brooklyn, Brooklyn, take me in. My hands they shake, my head it spins. Jittery, I giggle down Hudson street and contemplate morning on my stoop.
How can we sleep, when we have so few minutes to live? How can we close our eyes, when new angels appear behind every unexpected corner? I lie down, but my eyes dance along newborn birch leaves, stretching their limbs toward the gray dawn. Calling me pretty names, New York. How long ago, and still, how new I love you.
Numbers traded and suddenly the car drops you in broad daylight. Brooklyn, Brooklyn, take me in. My hands they shake, my head it spins. Jittery, I giggle down Hudson street and contemplate morning on my stoop.
How can we sleep, when we have so few minutes to live? How can we close our eyes, when new angels appear behind every unexpected corner? I lie down, but my eyes dance along newborn birch leaves, stretching their limbs toward the gray dawn. Calling me pretty names, New York. How long ago, and still, how new I love you.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
In Stereo
My roommate bought a new stereo, was blown away by the sound. She turned up the cello suite loud as I tripped down the neighborhood to get the mail of a friend who was away. While I was there, I opened the window to let the evening breeze through, and the same concerto came streaming in from the street, from the lone musician I have passed on that street corner before. He always picks the quiet evenings, when the night is dark and soft like velvet, to play his pieces. I sat in the window and watched the smoke curl into his music, as a wind blew in from the west and chilled my weary skin.
And slowly, slowly, I began to unravel. Petal by petal slipped from my shell onto the window sill, down the fire escape, and onto the sidewalk, and that's when it happened. After such a long day of sneaking around my purpose, with endless excuses for my ineptitude, words began to whirl around my head and stream onto the pages. For a short moment, (always too short, these moments), the street disappeared, the lights, the rustle in the trees, the takeout food scents. For that short moment I was only in the world of the Word.
That world is painted a little differently than the supposedly Real one. But the music sounds just as sweet. If only you hook it up right.
And slowly, slowly, I began to unravel. Petal by petal slipped from my shell onto the window sill, down the fire escape, and onto the sidewalk, and that's when it happened. After such a long day of sneaking around my purpose, with endless excuses for my ineptitude, words began to whirl around my head and stream onto the pages. For a short moment, (always too short, these moments), the street disappeared, the lights, the rustle in the trees, the takeout food scents. For that short moment I was only in the world of the Word.
That world is painted a little differently than the supposedly Real one. But the music sounds just as sweet. If only you hook it up right.
To Edward Dahlberg
Don't use the telephone.
People are never ready to answer it.
Use poetry.
--Jack Kerouac, Scattered poems
People are never ready to answer it.
Use poetry.
--Jack Kerouac, Scattered poems
About Time
Apparently we are all plagued by procrastination, by always doing all the things we need to not do, especially when there is something we really need to be doing, and now. And apparently, researchers, these men and women of Truth, have come to the conclusion that people who forgive themselves their procrastinations, tend to do it less the next time around. (http://bps-research-digest.blogspot.com/2010/05/cure-for-procrastination-forgive.html)
But I don't know. I remember my youth, when I was a very unforgiving girl, when I was strict with myself and relentlessly punished for my faults and my sidesteps. And it seemed the whip was effective at correcting my misbehaviors, even if it left me with a bad taste in my mouth. Who cares what goes on inside when the surface looks so pristine and put together.
I grew up and decided to forgive myself, to enjoy the lusts in which I dug my fingers, to allow imperfections in what I put out and remember that deadlines rarely meant death, after all. And perhaps I was a calmer soul, perhaps I was less rigid, more alive and my smile more genuine. But I was not as productive, I was not as Good, and I hardly procrastinate less now than I did then, I only do a worse job when I get to it.
I took today off. I scheduled a day without interference, without so much as the requirement to get dressed or answer the phone, so as to allow the word to flow, so as to permit creative ambition the space it requires but never gets. Already afternoon, and although I am still in sleepwear and endless cups of coffee in a row on my dresser, I have still not a single word to my name. How long do you wait for inspiration, before you pack up and resign the day to the garbage can?
It just seems that if I didn't cut myself such slack, these words in my head would be on paper a long time ago. The alarms have gone off, so it's about time.
But I don't know. I remember my youth, when I was a very unforgiving girl, when I was strict with myself and relentlessly punished for my faults and my sidesteps. And it seemed the whip was effective at correcting my misbehaviors, even if it left me with a bad taste in my mouth. Who cares what goes on inside when the surface looks so pristine and put together.
I grew up and decided to forgive myself, to enjoy the lusts in which I dug my fingers, to allow imperfections in what I put out and remember that deadlines rarely meant death, after all. And perhaps I was a calmer soul, perhaps I was less rigid, more alive and my smile more genuine. But I was not as productive, I was not as Good, and I hardly procrastinate less now than I did then, I only do a worse job when I get to it.
I took today off. I scheduled a day without interference, without so much as the requirement to get dressed or answer the phone, so as to allow the word to flow, so as to permit creative ambition the space it requires but never gets. Already afternoon, and although I am still in sleepwear and endless cups of coffee in a row on my dresser, I have still not a single word to my name. How long do you wait for inspiration, before you pack up and resign the day to the garbage can?
It just seems that if I didn't cut myself such slack, these words in my head would be on paper a long time ago. The alarms have gone off, so it's about time.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Omnia Mea Mecum Porto
Sweltering heat, we had to get out. As we turned down first avenue, a young homeless man walked ahead of us, tugging his belongings in a shopping cart behind him with a leather strap. His boots, his jacket, a tangerine, a crumpled oreo package. I pushed the stroller slowly along behind him, crossing 61st, 62nd, 63rd, his tan muscles flexing with the effort of navigating his shell along the sidewalks. As he drank his bottled water, I reflected how proper he was, with his neatly shaven skin and glossy curls atop his head. His back so straight; when did I walk with such proud strides last?
On my trip to my parents', I unearthed a few boxes in the garage that I had packed a year ago, when my entire life was either sent to storage or forced to fit into airline weight limits. Here was a picture frame, an old record cover, a metal Coffee sign that I bought in Natchez, Mississippi near the restaurant where they flipped your corn bread for you. Here were reminders that I had a life in a whole other world, a life that I loved and had painstakingly been building for so many years.
It took me years to put together that life, to gather bits and pieces of foundations that would anchor me to a city, a country, a person I hoped to find I could be. It took all those years, all those pieces, to realize that who we are cannot be taken away from us, cannot be lost in the move. Years to learn that the people we love are with us to the ends of the earth, because they are the foundations we built within ourselves. I left behind the couch that my parents bought with their first proper money and that I loved so much, the bookshelf my great-grandfather sent to my grandfather when he was away at college, the orange lamp I discovered in my ex-girlfriend's mother's barn. I boarded that airplane, and I brought with me the person those things had made me.
All my things I carry with me.
I am never homeless, thus.
On my trip to my parents', I unearthed a few boxes in the garage that I had packed a year ago, when my entire life was either sent to storage or forced to fit into airline weight limits. Here was a picture frame, an old record cover, a metal Coffee sign that I bought in Natchez, Mississippi near the restaurant where they flipped your corn bread for you. Here were reminders that I had a life in a whole other world, a life that I loved and had painstakingly been building for so many years.
It took me years to put together that life, to gather bits and pieces of foundations that would anchor me to a city, a country, a person I hoped to find I could be. It took all those years, all those pieces, to realize that who we are cannot be taken away from us, cannot be lost in the move. Years to learn that the people we love are with us to the ends of the earth, because they are the foundations we built within ourselves. I left behind the couch that my parents bought with their first proper money and that I loved so much, the bookshelf my great-grandfather sent to my grandfather when he was away at college, the orange lamp I discovered in my ex-girlfriend's mother's barn. I boarded that airplane, and I brought with me the person those things had made me.
All my things I carry with me.
I am never homeless, thus.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Star Bright
I sat on the porch, in the dark, silent, still country night and looked at the stars. You never see them shine this brightly in the city, and I thought, have I really lost this much touch with myself? I who am perpetually a girl of nature, wanting always that connection with the soil, with the air, with the unending expanse of the universe. I spend my days in artificial lighting and noise pollution, concrete under my nails. But for these few minutes, as my cold breath dimmed the view with its clouds, I was a part of this planet, again.
I lay there staring at the stars; they twinkled, as they will. I think I was hoping for a shooting star, and I wasn't sure why. There is no wish granted as they plummet, and still I thought if I could just see one fall, I would know the universe was taking care of me, that I was being looked after. But the streaks of light always seemed to happen just outside my line of vision. I gave up, shivered, walked inside.
You can't go home again. I do not belong here in their white family worlds, their church on Sunday and Pink buckets of Kentucky Fried Chicken for a social movement. Their streets built more for cars than for people, orchards disappearing quickly in favor of the latest box store. Their bubble of awareness barely larger than that of their congregation. I do not belong here, and yet, for split seconds, I wish that I might.
Life seems easier, when spent in blissful ignorance.
I wish I may, I wish I might
know the wish I wish tonight.
I lay there staring at the stars; they twinkled, as they will. I think I was hoping for a shooting star, and I wasn't sure why. There is no wish granted as they plummet, and still I thought if I could just see one fall, I would know the universe was taking care of me, that I was being looked after. But the streaks of light always seemed to happen just outside my line of vision. I gave up, shivered, walked inside.
You can't go home again. I do not belong here in their white family worlds, their church on Sunday and Pink buckets of Kentucky Fried Chicken for a social movement. Their streets built more for cars than for people, orchards disappearing quickly in favor of the latest box store. Their bubble of awareness barely larger than that of their congregation. I do not belong here, and yet, for split seconds, I wish that I might.
Life seems easier, when spent in blissful ignorance.
I wish I may, I wish I might
know the wish I wish tonight.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Coming Out
How easy, to look down on those Rocky Mountains and lose every single word. To get in a car at the airport, breathe fresh air, stretch limbs and emotions until no ink remains to be painted. I did not grow up in this valley, I never lived in this house, but it is home. It is where my parents exhale and, as such, it is a place where my soul can rest as well. And while it does, I have nothing to say.
And still we sit there, over crab legs and clams and another glass of wine, and speak of the Heart. 27 years of being their daughter and they still do not know who I am. Or they know, and I am simply the one pretending otherwise.
27 years of being taught to expect only the best, only the extraordinary, from oneself and from others, and now the question did we leave you empty-handed?
Answers are hard to come by, but sometimes I think they were not the point in the first place. I balance along the narrow beam, eager to please but so anxious to hold on to the last safe space, the last fortress of solitude where the person who is me can fit without qualms.
If I one day hope to have People read my words, I will have to let them read me. If we one day hope to have people truly know us, we will have to let them see us.
I drink water to alleviate the rush, to combat the altitude. May whispers in the margins, but the Mountains tremble with snow. In a guest room the size of half our apartment on Morton, I crawl into the furthest corner, I sleep heavily and dream bizarre circus dreams with swings. Exhausted, by the quiet, the dark, and the endlessly familiar. I assess the head on my shoulders; I contemplate the leap.
And still we sit there, over crab legs and clams and another glass of wine, and speak of the Heart. 27 years of being their daughter and they still do not know who I am. Or they know, and I am simply the one pretending otherwise.
27 years of being taught to expect only the best, only the extraordinary, from oneself and from others, and now the question did we leave you empty-handed?
Answers are hard to come by, but sometimes I think they were not the point in the first place. I balance along the narrow beam, eager to please but so anxious to hold on to the last safe space, the last fortress of solitude where the person who is me can fit without qualms.
If I one day hope to have People read my words, I will have to let them read me. If we one day hope to have people truly know us, we will have to let them see us.
I drink water to alleviate the rush, to combat the altitude. May whispers in the margins, but the Mountains tremble with snow. In a guest room the size of half our apartment on Morton, I crawl into the furthest corner, I sleep heavily and dream bizarre circus dreams with swings. Exhausted, by the quiet, the dark, and the endlessly familiar. I assess the head on my shoulders; I contemplate the leap.
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