Reminders

But here's the point I'm trying to make, New York, however ineloquently, and it is that I love you. It is that no matter the day, or year, or weather, I am happier with you than I ever have been without. That no matter the money in my pocket or the success on my papers, ever day I live here I have won. That I can look back fondly on the violent sorrow of every time I've left, a sadness that tore the organs from within my body and drained the light from my eyes, because they seem now a maudlin recollection of a time when we did not know better, of a threat that will not reappear. And however lonely, or mismatched, or confused I may find myself, simply walking your streets will make sense of the world again and make the pieces fall into place. I sleep sounder in your crazy cacophony than ever I did in the quiet darkness that is everywhere else. You make me a better person, you make my life unequivocally worth living, and I will spend the rest of my days attempting to deserve you.

Pretender

The heart breaks
and breaks
and breaks
I think of leaving New York and wonder if I'm just trying to cut gashes in my flesh larger than those cut without my consent, that the pain in my gut be only my own doing. We smile and laugh in all the right places, the sun shines over Brooklyn; for a short moment I thought I could make it out of this alive, but I lay down in Fort Greene Park later and cried into the mild summer evening, so it seems nothing has changed. I have cried over this in every borough of New York now, is there a trophy for the feat?

He looks at your sunglasses and whispers poker face, but your skin feels like cellophane, the math doesn't add up. The blood within you vibrates, your eyes squint, for a short moment your life was easy and you should have known it wouldn't last. She writes from across the ocean convinced the pain will kill her, and every time you think of what you lost you understand the feeling. Unknown shores and adventured potential line up on your horizon, but you would trade them all for the things we burned. It isn't up to you.

A mint green typewriter stands in your window sill. It waits, and waits, it doesn't leave your side even as you rage. It occurs to me I made a deal with the devil, and maybe now is when he comes to cash in.

Maybe now is when you claim the reward you earned.

Chinaski

On the screen, a bumbling idiot bathes in liquor and bad decisions; I revel in his bad role modeling and think how sweet to give into the appeal. It's just around the corner, it's almost harder not to. Last night on Avenue D, a hoard of rodents scurried out from under the garbage. A large rat ran right into the leg of the man approaching me: I saw its head whip around in surprise before bouncing off in another direction. A woman behind him squealed; the man didn't so much as flinch. 

The city has a twisted sense of humor, but it'll toss you a laugh when you need it. 

It's up to you to be here to take it. 

either fire or fire

I sat by the river, dark rainy Wednesday night and still I had run faster than in ages, with a smile on my face no less, don't ask me to explain it because I can't. I spoke to the water, to the stormy sky; I laid out my shortcomings and my convictions and made no excuses. Perhaps I am naive, I whispered, but I believe enough in magic to believe also in this. The waves grew wild for an instant, but the heart in my chest was calm. Peace is a gift I give myself: that is all.

They painted our apartment, at last, a decade of whimsy colors erased by a pure whiteness: cold, quiet. My room is a shambles, the bed oddly placed in the middle and no space around. It feels not so much a clean slate as a space without a soul. Like I already packed up and left. Do you ever fear you are only running away, that you are not so much gallivanting around on adventures as you are fleeing the demons that lurk in your inertia? No, certainly it is only me.

Lightning danced across the boroughs. The water turned black, chattering. Life is complicated and simple all at once, that is the secret. Believe in the magic, and you'll work the rest out in time.

Paints

I went out to the ocean today. I woke up stumbling and a quiet voice said the ocean heals, what choice did I have but to go? The sea was tumultuous, waves crashing in every direction, relentless, full of debris; it looked like my insides on display. I sat at the edge of the water and stared at the waves, whispering at the sea for guidance. The water lapped my feet, my shoulders browned in the afternoon sun. Sometimes I feel so close to the answer that if I just sit very, very still, it'll land on my outstretched fingertips.

It's not a clear path, but I am walking it. The puzzle pieces scatter in a jumble around me, but they are here. I will dig where I stand and begin to piece them together. Bear with me, the waves are high but I can swim enough for the both of us. Hold on a little longer, I will row this boat to shore.

Past Lives

Maybe you are just at the beginning of it now, she says from her deadline on the West Coast. Maybe you are just now seeing the pieces more clearly so that you can begin to put them together and create the life you want to have. You stand precariously perched on a chair and a windowsill, stripping walls of shelves and curtains to prepare for the pristine white coats of paint to come. Wonder what you will put back up when all is said and done. I wish I'd known ten years ago what I know now, you hear yourself ramble, knowing full well that's not how any of this works. Dig where you stand, she says, you only have what you have. You count chickens until you lose track.

I lost so much in the fire. I forget to see that I won the flames.

Seeping Through

The thing is, I know this face in the mirror. I know this girl, with her bags packed, with her absolute conviction in the magic of clean slates, how she floats into new horizons, how she smiles. There's a buzz in her chest, you feel it swell, her entire being is electric and it's contagious, everyone adores a bright future. Her brown feet and white curls speak of a new character for the gallery, a new lifestyle to absorb, and oh, how happy she is, fitting her puzzle piece just right into the sunny jigsaw; she is hard to resist, and she knows it.

I stand here staring at her with the itch just under my skin, wanting so much to run with her, to leap and not look back, to believe in the magic, pretend I am invincible and never cried, never bled, never feared. I want perpetual browned skin and excited eyes, I want to pretend I don't miss you and that I'm fine with what I made of my life, so much is mirrors and smoke these days, it's hard to know my own name when it calls me.

A mint green typewriter stands in the window. It is quiet, it does not smile, it does not make promises. But it stands there, every day, and waits until you are ready. You can run all you like, you can let yourself be seduced by the girl in the mirror. But the typewriter does not forget your name, does not stumble on your purpose. Did you put ink to paper today?

Good.

Ends

You see it begin to crumble, watch the edges burn around you and the flame draw closer. The fever rages around my belly and all I can think is let it burn. I dream of getting rid of it all, again, of new horizons and fresh clean pages. There’s a disease in that madness, surely, but there is life too, and you never quite know who’s to win your battles.

Images of sunshine stream before me, of palm trees and blue oceans, of strange languages and foreign foods. Of mad souls who may understand this fever, who will not try to temper it to fit the mold. I know this feeling, I know this person. Deadlines draw themselves on my calendar, the hurricane gathers strength. The answer is closer now than ever before.

Get ready to grab it.

of What You Could Do

You return home to curated air conditioned air and spill sand all over your clean room. Nothing looks the same, and you think perhaps your eyes have changed. I took a long shower to wash civilization back onto my skin but stepped out unsatisfied, dull. She writes from under a palm tree and you try to feel the waves in your muscles again but they have left you.

If the itch teased you through spring it has turned to a fullblown fever now, sweating your brow and haunting you at night. You think of California in the fall, of Bali in January and simple writers cabins in the mountains, you look around your room and see only things you can live without. You stayed so long in this sanctuary, slept so well and spoiled yourself rotten with security. But whose life have you been living?

A typewriter stands in my window, its portable case locked around it and the handle pulled out towards me. The word never needed a lease, it thrives on new horizons and magic, and I know that’s what it whispers to me in the night.

At some point you’ve started the getaway car.
That’s when it’s too late to get out.

Mamajuana

Do you want a mango? I’ll pick one for you, he says and leaps out of the car. Your childhood dreams of tropical islands swim before your eyes and take root in your spine, as rainforest mountains rise around you and you think how you need more time, always more time you are never sated. The mango tastes sweet, warm and unlike anything you know. He laughs at your joy, and that is all.

Every morning we rise at dawn, ride the dilapidated old van out to the swells, and make our way to the lineup. It is early, too early, and yet it is all perfect, you forget your tired eyes, your heavy muscles, your body browns and you forget to look in the mirror, it doesn’t matter. On my last morning, the waves beat and beat me, I never seem to make it anywhere. Anger rises is my chest, I yell at the ocean to give me a break, show me a kindness, but at last I relent and ride to shore, sitting on the cool sand and staring at the sea with a scowl. But as I sit, and watch each wave roll toward me, on and on again in a steady rhythm all its own, a calm comes over me. The ocean does not owe me anything. The ocean is there, steady, reliable, ever changing and yet perpetually the same. I owe it to myself to meet it, every day, as best I can, better even than I know how. Take the punches, earn the rides, let the current sink into my blood stream until we are one and the same. Tomorrow the sun will rise, the ocean will move, and I will too.

I do not get a beautiful last ride. I get a beat up body and a lesson in humility. I return to land. But I am not the same as I was before the wave. And that gift may be sweeter still.

6:12

Six a. m., wake before sunrise and shoo the cockroaches out of the bathroom before we’ve even opened our eyes. I climb up the rickety structure and sit down at the edge of the roof, palm trees and birdsong in every direction. As I close my eyes and begin to breathe, a quiet, soft sun rises and washes me in smiles. The air is still. When I open my eyes, I don’t know how much later, it seems I am floating, a heart beats in my chest:  it bleeds and it bleeds but only for all the love it must share before it is done, it bleeds and bleeds but never runs dry.

I stood in the sea one day and let it run me over, let it drain me and restore me all in the same breath. This water which moves us forward, which always changes but only ever remains the same, it is unmovable, unbreakable, and always returns to itself. We dream of being the wave, of moving everything forward. But I am not content to be the wave.

I want to be the whole fucking ocean.

Bodhi

The days continue, each one so like the next and yet completely different, you roll the island accent on your tongue and try its melody on for size but your ever whitening hair gives you away before your lips are parted. I wake early every morning, a soft breeze, a quiet sunrise, it’s a short respite before the tropics pummel our poor northern sensibilities. Every tumble off the board is a lesson in humility; every breath watching coconuts sway in the breeze is a lesson in mindfulness: I take careful notes and breathe without reminders. I think again a life on the sea would heal my every wound; how many times must the ocean tell me before I listen? We make plans for tattoos, and returns, before we’ve barely landed, such is the dream of escapes, you are a cliché, I forgive you.

I know it’s only the magic of vacation, but I am at peace. My heart is beaten and bruised, it weeps and bleeds still and I want it to. Such tenderness arises when we know how frail we are, how much we can love, I believe the soft people will win in the end and this is not a competition it’s a blessing, if you want a trophy take whatever comes out of my heart
it
is
yours.

Goofy

Wake in the middle of the night, a fan above the mosquito net beats a steady rhythm, the cicadas outside like a lullaby. When dawn comes, we drag heavy limbs through a quiet camp and stumble into the old van to catch the swell. Everything is palm trees and persistent dreams, the first time I stand on the beat up board and surf to shore, it feels like nothing else has ever existed, I am weightless and grounded all at once. Hours later, how many it’s impossible to tell, my muscles give in, I roll with the waves and smile despite myself, we buy fruit for pennies and eat them with sandy hands until sweet juice drips down our skin. There’s a breeze in the palm trees that never knew sorrow, there’s a life out there that never wanted to break you, only bring you to shore, you take every gift the Universe gives you.

My heart bleeds and bleeds.
I don’t regret a single thing.

And All That

Washington Square Park, sunny Tuesday afternoon in July, office workers dawdle over gossipy lunches, nannies fuss over ecstatic children, a quartet plays jazz in the shade. You think the world would be a beautiful place if not filtered through your dour lenses. How your highs have been so high but your lows so terribly dreary you’re not sure they’re worth it. A few blocks away in a messy pre-war walkup, a half packed suitcase stands waiting, patiently, you know it’s a drug like any other but pray for a moment’s respite, even if it’ll peel away with the suntan. A small candle sits in a liner pocket, it does not care where you run, it is loyal and patient. You carry it tenderly with you as you go. It is the weight of the world and yet no trouble at all, such is love. A small child nestled itself into my embrace one night and I thought here it is after all, an answer:

you are so much stronger than you ever thought, and life will give you the chance to prove it. 

at Most

It's funny
Years later
You book tickets
and they have the same magic power over you still
No age can defy it
no wisdom
I book the tickets, I forget who I was
I believe who I can be instead

It soars in you,
reminds you the world exists in you
and you in the world,
reminds you of mortality
and immortality at once

It's so like falling in love

Or maybe that's just what it is.

I sleep so well in its comfort.

Too Late

Two a.m., I wake in a start, the ceiling light bright above me. Before I have the chance to open my eyes, the room is dark again. A sliver of light remains by the door; the end of an arm reaches through it to retreat from the light switch before shutting the door with a creak. I jump out of bed to pursue my intruder, but no one remains in the hallway. My roommate comes out from her room in confusion, I stare bewildered and search the apartment before retreating to my bed and staring at the wall for an hour. Someone was there. The light was on. I saw them.

He told me once of a presence by his bed, how clear it was, how there. He wrote all the falsehoods of a life and let them burn on foreign sand, he invited the devil in, let fear rage through the room and turned the lights on.

I woke late in the morning, pondering the ghosts of my muddled conscious. I wonder what falsehoods  thrive in the corners, what I would burn if I could. A small voice whispers, I strain to hear the words I'm not sure I dare see: What if there is no there, there?

Glade

Hudson River glittering, late afternoon sunlight like unending summer vacations of youth, I do not tire. What was it like a hundred years ago? Three hundred a thousand? Much the same you reckon. There’s a zen bubbling in your blood stream that isn’t easily riled, there’s a peace you’ve been searching all spring to find, here it lay waiting, you could not have guessed. Jack’s words sift through your silence, he speaks of mountains to climb and you think change is good, I woke this morning to birdsong and slept last night under the stars, I was not made to be stagnant, how did I forget? A train barrels down along the river, you return soon to your own madness but you are different now.

You are gathering your strength. Soon your storm will arrive.

Upstate

Yes but can you imagine living here? she says as you trudge the three blocks to the other end of town under a tropical sun. It amazes you the ways people choose to live their lives; or perhaps just as often how their lives are chosen for them. The old house creaks, at dusk the rabbits move into the backyard and the soles of your feet turn dirty with summer. Later, in a quiet room, two small bodies wrapped themselves around me at strange angles and demanded comfort; I sank into the safety we had created and thought I have never been broken. The heart heals and heals anew, I have comfort enough for a small army, you must understand I was born alone but fill my cup by carrying yours, this is the heart I was asked to own. It breaks and breaks but is not broken.

There’s a reason we whisper our lover’s name in the night.

Hudson

Ma’am this is Penn Station, your train leaves outta Grand Central, you better hurry. I groan, roll my eyes at myself, calculate transit times and run off east, a sweaty mess barreling into the cool vast waiting hall of the Terminal with surprisingly much time to spare as I fall into a window seat laughing. Soon, the sharp contours of Harlem brownstones give way to rusty iron bridges and lush creeping vines, before the wilderness of the north reveals itself in all its rural bliss. The land feels untouched, instantly, you imagine the view of early explorers or native inhabitants not far different from your view as you roll along the river to a sweet retreat, you breathe differently, it’s a gift and you’ll take it. A lifetime ago over two calendars you spotted overlapping travels and asked for mutual Touchdowns in the middle; now you don’t know what to do with the space you carved out, it sits there like a weight on your chest and makes it harder to breathe. The train passes Poughkeepsie and you remember a mad train ride with the dilapidated youth of yesteryear, how innocent, how sweet. Everything I love I leave, you told him, and it would be years before you were proven wrong, you loved to leave, you didn’t stop for anyone. Until you did.

My head swims in poetry lately, it cools my fevered brow, it softens the punch lines. I tried a turn of phrase on my tongue last night and it made me smile. We build our lives morsel by morsel, when the towers topple over we begin again. Select carefully which of the pieces we know will make it to the next.

Independence

The alarm clock rings earlier and earlier, as you try desperately to lace your sneakers before the tongue of the heat wave rolls across your promenade. Your roommates squeal as the mouse leaps across the room and leave you to stage the massacre; not two nights ago in the West Village, New Yorkers with far more years in pre-war walk-ups under their belts merely shrugged when a similarly long-tailed shadow brushed around the corner. Oh yeah, he's back, he says, but at least they haven't named it yet. You think there's a lesson in there about the unflappability of New Yorkers; it's comforting.

Here's the thing: I assumed that eventually I would hit rock bottom at the dead end of where I had steered my life and there would be nowhere to go but up. I assumed that when the time came for me to pull myself up by the bootstraps, or collar, or whatever it is one is supposed to pull oneself up by, I'd know, and I would. It seems instead I am skating along the rock bottom comfortably, round and round in this cul-de-sac, looking around at all the lives I could be living and choosing instead to refill the vodka in my glass and postpone any action to climb out of this hole yet another day.

I only ever knew change through packed suitcases and one-way tickets.

How do I even start to build a ladder where I stand?

Dog Days

The heat, when it hits, is overwhelming. I tumble over my own slow steps up Broadway, disoriented, and forget what I was there to do. The heaviness in my limbs matches the weight in my chest, they keep company all day and don't know quite what to do with each other. There is an emptiness next to them too loud, too there, they can't make up for it on their own. I begin to make bargains, but no one is listening: I have nothing to offer in the trade.

I sat on subway stop in the Bronx yesterday, drawing maps over unknown neighborhoods and coloring the fabric of my love for this city with new shades and riches, every street I get to know whispers a story that I long to tell. It is time for a change, I know it is, this suitcase has turned too heavy and my muscles too comfortable to grow.

(But you never felt like baggage. And I wasn't ready to let you go.)