Hospitable.

I'm scared, she said, crying into a borrowed shirt with the hospital logo on it. If I close my eyes to sleep, I won't ever wake up again. I sat and held her, for hours on end, these fragile hands so crumpled with time and I cried, too, it couldn't be helped. My whole life she has been there, she gave me that silly giggle we can't seem to silence, she gave me love for flowers, and gratitude for simple things. I read her that poem we both like so much, the one about two lovers condemned to live on opposite ends of the universe but who built a bridge of stars to reach one another; she knew the first few lines by heart, and I cried the whole way through.

Sometimes she looks like she sees the ghost of death on the ceiling, come to take her away and she is not ready to go. Most days she does not remember why she is there, and certainly not that I've been there to see her before. But how did you know where to find me?! she exclaims. Can you please take me home now? and it pains me every time I have to say no.

There was a moment, yesterday, after she had slept for a bit and we just sat there in silence. She looked me straight in the eyes and said thank you. When I told her I loved her, the words seemed to mean exactly everything they were supposed to, and we rested contentedly against one another, knowing that we had said what we needed.

Life ends in such ugly ways.

We must live
in poetry
while we can.

Rest

"Welcome home," the bus driver said as I fumbled to find the right transit card and drag my bag to a seat. It was all I could to do keep from crying into his kind face. Dawn slowly rose over Stockholm, as the heavy autumn fogs lifted from the trees, and I didn't know if I was happy to be there or sad. People looked the same, only with more clothing than before, their cheeks flushed with the cold season. I sank into the comforts of people I know and love. They will carry me through every dreaded step of this journey. My phone rang in the noisy bar (the one in the building I used to call home; it was such a strange scene to be there), and she said Don't be surprised if she doesn't make it. We don't want her to feel any more pain. I just wanted you to be prepared. 

Thirty-six hours pass with no sleep. I am so tired I no longer make sense. But when the lights are finally out, the room is finally quiet, I do not drift away. I cannot. 

Whatever will come now, will come. I lean against the outstretched arms around me. Trust in the space where I may fall. 

Redeye

"We need you to come home."

New York disappears in a blur behind me, miles of tunnel and we are unearthed in a gray New Jersey landscape, fitting the mood. It rains.

The airport looks as it always does, the tense vibrating air over people's heads, the way smoke lingers curbside. How many times have I stood on these polished floors, tingling in anticipation, calm in its familiarity? Today my nerves wrought the air out of my lungs; I couldn't see the peace for all the darkness that lay ahead. 

I make plans for arrival. Invite myself to beds and couches of those who love me. Their open arms bring tears to my eyes, but it might just be the trip. The airplane lights turn off. New York disappears under billowing clouds. 

I will not sleep. 

I need me to go home. 

Free. Falling.

Hours while away in useless catatonia, as I lie staring at the trees turn yellow in the courtyard. I know the to-do list runs long; I know the weekends are short. My stomach grumbles, the ache deep within won't ease up, and I have resigned myself to carrying it where I go. I create monsters and ghouls in my mind, they whisper their ugly stories in my ears and scream at my senses until I pass out again. 

When I wake, the sun has set over the chilly courtyard on Morton Street. My room is still a mess. But I feel something align itself along the base of my spine, a deep tingle making its way to my fingertips: the makings of Words. As I sit down at the typewriter, they begin to bubble in me, they race like a rash along my skin before bursting out onto the white pages in splatters of insight and clarity. I catch glimpses of a person I had nearly forgotten, of a purpose I've long been too tired to dare remember having. I fill the French press when I should be having dinner, turn up the music until it drowns out everything else, and type so fast it makes the machine smell of burning dust and warm ink. 

For the first time in a long time, I recognize my reflection in the window. It may not be pretty, disheveled from neglect as it is, but it is more me than I have felt in ages. It is as I have always known. 

The Word will set us free. 

The Word will render us

invincible.

In Vain

(...I will close the door now, lock it firmly and convince myself I am better off imprisoned within my own solitary walls than standing outside a house on fire. 

The homeless have such a cold time of it, during winter)

Tumble

The great darkness descends upon me.

It seems too soon. It is only September. It is still warm in the afternoon, I still have a tan line on my hips, did I not swim laps in their backyard pool today, it is too soon. Perhaps it was your voice in my ears; I should have known better than to listen to it, it vibrates through my insides, I am reminded of deceit and the uncertainty of the footing beneath us. The hour is late but I want to never sleep. I want to make large pots of coffee and scream across the typewriter keys. The floor is covered in debris already, I can barely make it across the room to get out. Tomorrow looms like a threat on the horizon. Days to come, and days to follow, one after another. Do not be fooled. Our only redemption is art.

I felt such an immense comfort tonight, crossing the George Washington Bridge again, landing safely on island ground and coasting down the West Side Highway toward the cluster of skyscrapers in the south. I rode the southbound one train through its innards, felt the warm air of the metropolis sift slowly through my lungs. I thought to myself I never want to leave, and I knew in my heart it was true.

Your voice can't reach me here. It can't hurt me, like it did.

This city will drown you out,
too.

Vale

We leave the city with the sunset. New Jersey turns peach-colored across the water, as the Empire State Building shrinks in the distance. My little city. It looks so frail from afar, and it doesn't add up with the towering force I know it to be up close. 

Palisades parkway lies dark at the other edge of the bridge, as night spreads a heavy blanket across the suburban land. Your phone loses reception, the air is thick with cricket song. The chill in the air seems appropriate; you forget it was ever summer. Their house smells like America. You know you'll sleep like you were home. 

We all grew up somewhere. Wherever we go after is just a symptom. 

You think I forget. 

I remember. 

Inside

I can show it to you, he says, but there is nothing out there except blackness. Still, he indulges you, and you join him for a cigarette on the balcony in a city whose name you cannot pronounce, in a land you will probably never visit. He calls later to say he cannot sleep, so you stay on the line until he does. They call from other time zones still, the sun bright in the West Coast afternoon, and you miss his laugh, the way his little hand fit around yours as you rode that G train up and down the Brooklyn tracks.

Life turns out to be more farewells sometimes than you can handle. You chose these globetrotters to be your most precious riches because they inspire you to be better than you are, but they are perpetually too far away, forever tugging at your heartstrings, and you wonder if there will ever be people you do not lose.

Who you do not leave behind,
when you run.

eleven

We sat by the river and watched the glowing, late-summer sun set over New Jersey beyond. It is so far uptown, I can't believe it's the same river, the same stroke of flood that passes Morton Street only eighty blocks down. The promenade was full of after-work runners, of a thousand dog owners and two children in pajamas. We drank our sangria and enjoyed the chill.

Later, I ran along the now-dark waters, the New Jersey skyline glittering beyond and sending menacing  lights into the low clouds. The water was high; it looked like one, flat, black carpet stretching to the other shore and one could easily step over the railing and run away. They had the memorial lights on when I came home from work, twin spires beating out into the vast emptiness above, but they were black again by the time I went out. The day comes every year. As it passes.

The city breathes,
perpetually.

and Give Me Some Time

Let's be done early, she says, and you can't believe the delight in cramming in with regular rush hour train riders. There's an ebb and flow to the station at Times' Square that soothes your soul as you ride the current; there's a certain hum to New York at its maddest that calms you to the core. You feel it, and know instantly you cannot breathe without it.

The host is all smiles as you arrive at the tiny restaurant; you've squeezed in many times before, you know it is worth the wait. There is a sparkle in your eye, you know he sees it, and the energy pulsates through your drinks, your laughter at the wooden bar, the way you look people in the eyes. It is not your own doing: New York breathes through you and makes every decision easy. You know he may ask a future of you one day, but it will not be yet. It will not be now.

Now, you are invincible.

Now, you are free.

Easy, Tiger.

She lies sleeping at the bottom of your bed, drawing deep breaths into the still night around you. The air is cold outside your window, the season's first chill and it seems early, however welcome. I sat a whole day and a whole night in front of that screen, forgetting to eat, forgetting to move, and my joints hurt. There is a gray haze that spreads across my face in the afternoon. I'm glad you cannot see it; I don't recognize myself in the haze. I spent so many years fighting against a quiet enemy I never knew. Now I punch in and out with the clock, spend my spare moments recovering, and I don't know how I succumbed after all. This is not in our cards, my dear, this momentary weakness will not trump our mad vagabond airs and dreams of creative freedom. We will find the road, yet, and we will not go gentle into that good night. We will run the road, we will rage.

But I'm fractured,
from the fall. 

(And I want to go home.)

Week's End.

He smiles in his sleep. Mouths unintelligible whispers into the dark room while the night lies apprehensively still around. Peace is a fickle companion, but you will take what you can get and at least they haven't cut the power, yet. Thunder rolls across the New York skyline. Perhaps tomorrow will be cooler. 

She brings the new man to the City for inspection. We drink margaritas and make jokes, traverse the city in difficult questions and silly banter, and I see in her eyes that he means something. Outside approval holds nothing to that. 

Your inner demons lie quiet, in the spaces between, stirring only slightly before returning to rest. Nobody has ever called me a walk in the park before, you hear yourself say. 

But someone has got to be the first. 

Lullabye

Summer lingers, even after its official end. New York takes on its normal air of impossibly thick humidity and damp skin in freezing subway cars. I ran along the river, late to avoid the beating sun but the promenade was full of people, and a jumbled breeze swept into the West Village streets. The Standard Hotel rooftop bar twinkled atop its heavyset, communist block of a building.

There was a moment today, as I stood at the 14th street station (sweat trickling  at the nape of my neck) waiting for the 1, when I looked at the slow-moving sludge between the rails, and heard the sounds of a mad man clapping along the platform, that I was reminded of the magic of this city so vividly. That even in the regular comings and goings of a Tuesday night, with nothing but chores to do, there can be a moment when the mere truth of one's being in this one space is enough to make the hairs on your arm stand on end, send a shiver past that spot behind your ear where everything important gathers.

You are my sweetest downfall. 
I loved you
first. 

August 31, 2006

Eight years ago, today, a stuffed Super Shuttle van drove past the David Letterman marquee in midtown and dropped off a group of tourists, before continuing east to the darker streets of the upper 50s. At the last stop, near 1st avenue, the van purged itself of five young kids with stars in their eyes, looking to start a new chapter of their lives in New York.

I still remember standing on the street with our bags. I remember going to the grocery store under the bridge for breakfast (I found it again years later and was amazed at its presence). I remember the mad scramble the next morning to find a new apartment and how quickly we decided it was ours when we found it. We had drinks on the terrace and New York City was an amazing adventure in the making. I had longed for so many years to be there, and suddenly I was, and it was as though there had never been a time before it.

It is eight years since I first set foot on Manhattan soil, eight years since I first moved here. And at the beginning was it not much infatuation and silly puppy love? Eight years later, it seems I love the city more than I ever knew I could. Have we not grown together, New York, through poverty, and loss, and pure elation? Have we not loved in magic?

The days passed so quickly.
I have loved every one,
because of you.