On Stoops

I walked past our old apartment today. Past the terrace where we smoked so many cigarettes and dreamed our New York dreams. Past the street corner where the Chrysler building would glow. Past the hardware store; I still have the keys. A man was waiting to get buzzed in at our door, do you remember that door? We had our drinks and made our way to Koreatown. We missed the doorway, it was such a seedy place, but promises are promises and a few floors up lay the air conditioned karaoke room that I'd spent years avoiding. We parted in the street a few hours later, and I don't know that I'll ever see you again. I don't know what my life would look like without you.

The walk home was long; the flatiron lay shrouded in darkness and the Memorial Weekend streets were so quiet. A voice came down the line and suddenly the village was not nearly far away. I sat on the steps and pretended my alarm was not about to ring so soon. A train awaits, a trip awaits, my room is a chaos of bags that can never contain all of New York and I can't get myself to feel tired.

I wish you were here. I wish I was never leaving. I said a lot of things, it was the sake, forgive me, forget this, a million years ago I lived on 28th and Lex and I had no idea my life would turn out this way.

But then, isn't that the best bit? I dreamed New York would return. And I did.

I close my eyes real hard, I hope for sweet dreams anew.

Count Down

Cobblestoned corner on W 12th and W 4th, the wine bottle cold but the skin sticky hot. Summer in New York, a million cars parked at every intersection, clawing their ways out to greener pastures, to brand new tanlines. The dogs happily teetered around the tables, the night had an air of reckless abandon and summery revelry. Words of departure came and went; they were too surreal to believe.

My room changes shape. Piles come and go, rearrange themselves on shelves according to priorities. Fifty pounds plus carry-on. Choose your life. A week from now, who will you be? What words will remind you, what fabrics express you, does it matter at all in the end? Pack for adventure, pack for the leap. You will not know where you land, until you are brushing the dust off your skin.

You do not stop to look around. You do stop to mourn your loss. There is only next week, now.

There is only the leap.

Last Time

journal excerpt,
January 1, 2007

I have, now, left New York City...

I can feel in my heart that my body already misses it. Goddammit.

It rained as I packed up and cleaned out. The Empire State was nowhere to be seen in the fog, the City was tired and dreary. Then we got in the shuttle and the windows were covered, so I couldn't see the City as it zoomed passed. I felt disoriented and lost, in this city that was mine, knowing these were the last minutes I would see it and wanting to savor them but unable... It was as though it was no longer there. At least not for me. And I doubted I had ever really been there, at all.

But then, we took off, and through my airplane window I saw the City, so small suddenly, the Empire thin and fragile but red and green nonetheless. I saw the buildings glitter and the darkness that would be Central Park...

If what I wanted was closure, I've been left unsatisfied.
What I have now is an already overwhelming longing and a determination to make it back. Hold out, for me, New York. I'll see you soon again.

and Mirrors

I came home last night, and my shirt smelled of nostalgia. We sat in that dark lounge smoking countless cigarettes in that way which is no longer legal in any other place. Out in the open and free from the rules and restraints of the last few years. How different things seem; you can't go back again.

Tonight the sun set over a boat in the Hudson and we drank our Coronas with a wedge of lime and a slice of summer in the making, my shoulders sprouting freckles as the skyline lit up. How it returns, how it always returns and here we are. A year older, a year more rooted, more entrenched, more helplessly in love and what happens now? I wish we lived here, she whispered as we walked down Bleecker, but we reminded her that she already had. When I turned back onto Morton, the air was still so warm, so soft, unmoving. I frantically make plans for tomorrow. So many faces to imprint, one last time, in my mind. In my mind, this will be you, forever.

This apathy, this surreal, heartless, cold that surrounds me, it will break my fall. Without these scars around my heart, I'd never make it out of here alive.

Steam

For a minute, the rain relented. I stepped off the stoop and instantly, a tiny bead of sweat started rolling down the small of my back. New York summer was back. Men in suits looked uncomfortable, college girls walked around Washington Square in their sheerest nothings. MacDougal smelled of concrete and cigarette smoke, of cold, conditioned air blasting out of doorways and that sweltering thickness of the humid outdoors. I walked down Minetta Lane and an old man stood in the quiet alley smoking pot. The sweet smell lingered; the air did not move.

How beautiful this city is, all in itself. With its crabby inhabitants, its tireless impatience, its garbaged streets and exhaustive air. Where standout characters blend in and a million dreams are dreamed, or crushed, or realized every day.

I do not need to visit those unseen corners, experience that thing I've talked about for years but never made it to. New York City is my home. It will be with me always. And I will be back.

Good love, is too good to let go.

14th and 8th

Twice today I climbed the stairs at the 14th street station. At six in the morning, my eyes so heavy, my bags so light, I took the long way home to remind myself I was back in New York. West 4th street lay quiet, so quiet, it smelled of summer blooms and humidity, and only the strange creatures were out. Tonight I walked down Hudson, past the White Horse, with such loud music in my ears and I felt my heart beat quickly with gratitude over the life I have.

How does it feel to be leaving New York, she asked, but I had no answer. The question has been miles from my mind for so long now, this past week an eternity in length and my silly woes set in perspective against the frailty of life. But now that I am here, now that the minutes remaining are so few, I panic. This, my city, my home, and soon it is no more. Or, soon I am no more in it.

I walked under the Williamsburg Bridge and the world was bathed in that odd glow that comes when the sky is thick with clouds and the City's lights bounce off its ceiling. This is home, I thought, and took the long way back to the Village.

We only have this one life. It is unbearably short and wickedly unreliable.

I am glad, somewhere in it, there was you.

Penance

Tonight my thought was elsewhere, forgive me. Tonight as you lay writhing in your strange bed in your strange home where you do not belong, in this new world where the words in your mind do not reach your lips, I was busy with pleasant conversation. I allowed myself to wander elsewhere, to feel his skin against my fingertips and to shiver in anticipation of the next move.

It seems cruel that our lives will continue, will resume, will remain pretty much as normal, when your hell is still so very near.

I am sorry.

and Downs

We saw it as soon as we stepped in the room today. You were not well. A hundred medical things were going right, they were moving you again, they took the last of your wires, but you were not well. It's begun to sink in, what a world you have entered, what a life yours has become. We can offer no solace, we can grant you no freedom from these chains. Jokes are made about escape, but we all follow orders when they arrive.

Sometimes today we laughed, we spoke of other things, we let our hearts breathe for a minute and rest. But as I drove down into my valley tonight, I cried, and I could not stop. I missed the exits, I forgot my errands, my mind isn't here and all I know is how to drive that damn highway, up and down, to see you.

The mountains have been so beautiful this week. Every day a new miracle, a play of lights, a snowy shroud, a dance of clouds and streaks of sun, so green, so green, so beautiful it hurts. I stare at them when I wake, when I drive, when I sit in your hospital room and have run out of words. They are tangible, when everything else falls apart. I lean on them. There is nowhere else to go.

I Hope

Another day, another improvement. Cold fronts full of rain and snow pass slowly as I sit by the hospital bed and try to hear words unspoken. You tell me you miss your babies; you show me pictures of them and caress the paper softly. You are sick of this bed, this prison, this inability to speak. Doctors, nurses, therapists come and go, test you, check you, nod encouragingly but you shrug. I tell you you are already much better than you were; I tell you I still see you in there and you'll be back. But you shrug.

So many knocks on the door, so many loved ones trickling in; they fill the room with laughter and chatter. For a moment, we can pretend this is not where we are. For a moment, we are in anybody's living room, making jokes and catching up. But I look over and see the sadness in your eyes, and it breaks my heart.

A return ticket came and went last night while I was driving through the canyon. New York is a world away. Reality is a world away. I cannot contemplate anything beyond this here, this now. You blew me a kiss when I left today. I don't want to leave you at all.

Day 3

Reality catches up with us. We begin to tire, to remember there were bills to pay, errands to run. Still, my world remains very small. A few houses, my parents' home, the ICU hospital room, and the endless miles of highway linking the three. Everything else remains a vague recollection in the back of my mind. New York, upcoming moves, futures and work, they all seem an intangible reality beyond my grasp, and I don't even try to reach them. Every moment of the day is spent in tired anxiety, except for the hours spent next to that hospital bed. We look at pictures of trips and family, she laughs and remembers, says thank you and I hope. I tell her I will see her babies tonight and she smiles.

Every step not backwards, is a step in the right direction. Every moment that is good, is good.

Life is made, of babysteps.

Babysteps

The best part
of this day
was when you were given your first solid food
since coming in
and they served you peas
and you said
Eeeeewwww.

You hate peas.
That eeww was all you.

That is all that matters.

In the Morning After

Family is more than who is in your blood.

It is who is in your heart.

Hearts will weather this storm, as well.

Struck

A strange moon shines over the mountains, over snow-capped peaks and spring grass below. There was such a wind in the valley tonight, it looked like a desert sand storm and cast an eerie glow over the freeway as we raced down the left lane.

I saw your babies today. Your beautiful, happy babies. I know you wanted to be there to introduce me to them, but I was happy just to hold them. The little one looks so much like your sister. The big one smiled in his sleep and looked like he meant it. Holding them tight was a concrete task in a helpless wait. Like a piece of you when you were beyond our reach.

We stood by your hospital bed tonight, but you weren't awake to hear us. I was glad to have him near, because we didn't have the words we'd need for anyone else. I got to hold your hand later, when you were awake. Your heart broke, your words had disappeared, but when we showed you pictures of your babies, you caressed the phone as only a mother could. They miss you, you know. They need you to stick around. We need you to stick around.

You squeezed our hands so hard at last. And broken hearts can mend. They have to.

For Destruction

A million times on that bridge, a million times with that skyline stretching into infinity and my breaths a little deeper at the sight. We swirl the wine in our glasses and talk of terrorism and animal rights, television and cooking. For a moment, it is as though nothing has changed, as though this is just one in a million nights in the pasta factory and our lives in New York are neverending. For a moment, my headache eases, my laughter is clear.

How priceless, a night such as this.

Monday Mourning

I awoke again with the sun streaming on my face, expecting the hour to be late but finding it early. Remembering my state upon falling asleep, realizing I was still in it. Never go to bed angry. I'm not angry. I've just been made aware.

The hours pass; I struggle to find the motivation to shower, dress, sort through emails and structure to-do lists. Orphan Puppy falls asleep along my leg. My roommate speaks and I do not hear, my head wrapped in cotton, my heart, my soul, my mind. I have bubble-wrapped myself in preparation for impact. We've been down this road before. Routine will pack your bags, routine will soften your blow.

Scars grow thicker with every gash. I forgot how to feel, a long time ago.

Sleepless

Too many
words
not enough
tired

tossing
back
and forth
in such
a
narrow bed

It all seems
so
rose-colored
zen
but you mustn't
believe
everything you
read
I am
much
more lost
and dizzy

than I let on.

Hung Over

I walked that same meandering walk through the Lower East Side back home to Morton Street, a reassuring voice in my ear and an evening full of cocktails in my veins. The New York night so familiar, so comfortable. I forget to stop and smell the magic.

There are so many things to say. To digest, to reword, to regurgitate. Make sense of the madness and make note, for future use. But I do not. The words escape my paper and float effortlessly away in the breeze. I will be left dumbfounded, one day when I need their ink in my eyes. I'll be surprised, and have no one to blame but myself.

Time flies too quick. I run too slow. We will be caught up, much too soon.

Clean Sweep

And so it begins. The excrutiating, liberating cleaning out of the closets, the drawers, the piles of Life that amassed in the last few years. My cuts are brutal, weighing attachment to that skirt against the precious space in my suitcase, the future that lies ahead. Here it is again, the chance to shed skin, renew, reinvent. What lies in that suitcase when it rolls onto the carousel will represent my life in the coming however-long, will be the paint on my blank canvas in whatever lies around the corner. Who do you want to be? This is the time to pick your person.

We are who we always were. I run off into brighter futures, always running, always forward, always believing the next turn will be better, will be an adventure worth whatever I leave behind. I don't look back to see what I lost in the race.

My heart is too frail, to know.

In the Beginning

journal excerpt
July 10, 2009

Dinner on the rooftop w/my 2 roomies, looking at the Manhattan skyline, and a bottle of wine. Talking and realizing again why you moved here, and that you are, in fact, here.

That the restlessness in peoples' dissatisfaction stirs little in you. Because coming to New York was the goal, the one true thing that made your heart ache, and now you are here.

Everything is Possible, now.

On Youth

I arrange my computer on the table in that corner window, spend my day staring into the neighbors' townhouse. Work streams out of the screen, I feel my eyes turn inside out as I forget to get up, forget to eat, forget to break. Youtube unwinds its playlist, and I lose myself in lyrical twists and turns, as I translate complicated geological statements about lava composition.

Later, I sort through the days progress, I find a document that was not there before. In the midst of interpreting someone else's words, somehow my own had snuck in to the soup.

What good is my life, if I do not put words to it? What use was all the anguish, if nothing more came out of it than this complacent heap? How do I get my cookie, eat it, and purge its evils out of my gut? What good, is my life, without words?

Lately

If you walk out on me
I'm walking after

You've got to promise
not to stop
when I say
When.