Okay, we really are both going to be late. I have to get a cab, he said as we stumbled out of the bar into the still soft light of spring twilight. April. The crowds were just beginning to look for dinner tables or opening drinks, and here we were, already too many in. A cab came, we forgot to say goodbye, he jumped into the car and I disappeared into the underground, late for the dinner date in Brooklyn. I dizzily climbed aboard the F train, and as the door closed I processed the voice that said the next stop was Spring street and the train was running on the A line. Damn construction. The doors popped open for a second and I jumped out, made my way to the uptown trains and the 14th street L train instead. Slowly the last of the giddy drink seeped into my system and put my head on the floor. By the time the train had reached Union Square, my world was spinning and my forehead was clammy. So many stairs to get out of that deep, dark tunnel before reaching the crisp air up above. I tripped down University Place, attempting to text excuses and direct questioning tourists, but mostly trying to put one foot in front of the other, before finally, finally collapsing in the apartment and having to reveal to my roommate and her dinner guests what I was doing home so early.
$2.25 to ride the subway around the block and get nowhere, but slowly. Five years later, and I suppose that's where we still stand. Same story, every time. I end up dizzy on the streets of New York, but I always come back for more.
Showing posts with label friends. Show all posts
Showing posts with label friends. Show all posts
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Seven Years Later
Time passes. Edges that once were so sharp are softened. Memories fade, the pain and the tears subside.
It does not mean you are forgotten.
It does not mean you are forgotten.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Tax Season
By the time I reached the Meatpacking District, it began to snow. Hesitant, cautious snowflakes, seemingly confused as to their own existance at this time of year, this time of geography. They fluttered aimlessly towards the ground and transformed into raindrops before they even hit the pavement. Spring is ever the manic depressive. I forgive it.
We can't afford to live like this, she says, as her daughter plays hide-and-seek in a cardboard box, oblivious to their troubles. But then, who can? We were raised in years of little money, but all the social safety nets one could dream. Our childhoods were green grass between bare toes and taking life for granted. Her daughter is all concrete and loud sounds and maybe next month you can go to the zoo with the other kids. Still, her sunshine beats its way into my heart, and we giggle together.
It occurs to me that year has passed since that night on the fire escape on Charles Street. How young we were then, how blue our eyes. This city sinks its teeth into all of us.
For better or worse. No one comes out unscathed.
We can't afford to live like this, she says, as her daughter plays hide-and-seek in a cardboard box, oblivious to their troubles. But then, who can? We were raised in years of little money, but all the social safety nets one could dream. Our childhoods were green grass between bare toes and taking life for granted. Her daughter is all concrete and loud sounds and maybe next month you can go to the zoo with the other kids. Still, her sunshine beats its way into my heart, and we giggle together.
It occurs to me that year has passed since that night on the fire escape on Charles Street. How young we were then, how blue our eyes. This city sinks its teeth into all of us.
For better or worse. No one comes out unscathed.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Cumulonimbus
I took a late train home from Marcy Ave on Friday, and we were a beat collection of strays in the harsh light on the J. Standing on Delancey, waiting for my connection, I stared down the long tunnel into the dark, unexplored entrails of Manhattan. It is the part of the city I have least explored, but that I most desire to see. How easy it would be, I thought, to simply follow that narrow strip from the platform and away, along the tracks, along the regularly dispersed lights, into the eternal night of the underground. . .
As I gazed at the little ledge, I noticed a pile of what I had previously assumed was garbage move. A homeless man rolled in his sleep, precariously close to the edge, undisturbed by passing trains as they shook the walls and pushed the wind. When I looked again, he was jerking off. Life is sad. The point didn't need to be rubbed in. My train came, I averted my eyes, went home in the freezing night.
It could just be the hangover, I said over my coffee in a crowded West Village café the next day. Perhaps it'll pass and I won't know why I overreacted so. The knot in my stomach was coming and going. We were trying to catch up on months apart and still mostly all we talked about was the future. How being back in the City tickled him, how the dream of buying More Time on its streets still gleamed like a treasure in his eyes. How I feared it was an impermanent residence, that soon my time would be up.
Just look at it as an adventure. As running off into the world and trying something different. You can always come home again.
I knew he was right. I love a good adventure.
(And yet knot did not pass, with the hangover.)
As I gazed at the little ledge, I noticed a pile of what I had previously assumed was garbage move. A homeless man rolled in his sleep, precariously close to the edge, undisturbed by passing trains as they shook the walls and pushed the wind. When I looked again, he was jerking off. Life is sad. The point didn't need to be rubbed in. My train came, I averted my eyes, went home in the freezing night.
It could just be the hangover, I said over my coffee in a crowded West Village café the next day. Perhaps it'll pass and I won't know why I overreacted so. The knot in my stomach was coming and going. We were trying to catch up on months apart and still mostly all we talked about was the future. How being back in the City tickled him, how the dream of buying More Time on its streets still gleamed like a treasure in his eyes. How I feared it was an impermanent residence, that soon my time would be up.
Just look at it as an adventure. As running off into the world and trying something different. You can always come home again.
I knew he was right. I love a good adventure.
(And yet knot did not pass, with the hangover.)
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Vacancy
We clean. We sneeze through dust clouds and wade through the years of trinkets piled into this tiny Greenwich village apartment. The big interior design site wants to come by to photograph our home, and it doesn't take long to realize how much grime remains in corners unseen. She frets, I delight in the open windows, the higher ceilings. Daylight savings tricks me into thinking the day is young, and I adore forgetting dinner, weariness, while my hands smell of softsoap and clean.
She erases every trace of me in the bedroom, and I let her. How proud she is of her home. We joke of the madness of the house, squirrels on the fire escape and santa clause salt shakers in March. In the end it's an apartment 25 years in the making; we are who we are, with all our eccentricities. I go into her apartment and I think how much potential it has, if only... she says of the neighbor, and perhaps that's how we all feel. How much easier to find flaws in others, to say why don't they just..?, and how hard to do the same for oneself.
I roll silently in my self-righteousness before I try to shake it off, again. In the end, it's too lovely an opportunity to revel in the clear windows and polished porcelain, to waste time making yours what is not.
She erases every trace of me in the bedroom, and I let her. How proud she is of her home. We joke of the madness of the house, squirrels on the fire escape and santa clause salt shakers in March. In the end it's an apartment 25 years in the making; we are who we are, with all our eccentricities. I go into her apartment and I think how much potential it has, if only... she says of the neighbor, and perhaps that's how we all feel. How much easier to find flaws in others, to say why don't they just..?, and how hard to do the same for oneself.
I roll silently in my self-righteousness before I try to shake it off, again. In the end, it's too lovely an opportunity to revel in the clear windows and polished porcelain, to waste time making yours what is not.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
New(s)
I wake up with the lingering feeling of a delicious dream on my skin. Something about spring, about simple joys and open eyes. I rise slowly, make my coffee just as strong as I want, because it is, after all Saturday. I pace around my telephone, check again so that I didn't miss a beep. And then, at last, there it is.
They were born at 10:30 last night.
And while the world is busy bursting forth with new leaves, new flowers, new songs and new hope, two little lives join in the madness. Two boys so many years longed for, so eagerly awaited, were born one Friday night in spring.
Life is magic. It's a beautiful thing.
They were born at 10:30 last night.
And while the world is busy bursting forth with new leaves, new flowers, new songs and new hope, two little lives join in the madness. Two boys so many years longed for, so eagerly awaited, were born one Friday night in spring.
Life is magic. It's a beautiful thing.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
March On.
Today the sun shone brightly on the Hudson River. Jackets opened, faces softened, hope sprang to life. The sweetest soul brought armfuls of tulips, pastel bright lights to our dank house of gloom. We spoke of changing seasons and emerging from hibernation, our sickly bodies stretching in the fresh air. Everyone is speaking of that, lately. Another year comes full circle, and we near the light at the end of the tunnel.
Only, in this case, reaching the light doesn't mean we're dead.
It means we made it out alive.
Only, in this case, reaching the light doesn't mean we're dead.
It means we made it out alive.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Abridged
It was cold, too cold, there'd be other opportunities for a stroll and the trains run so frequently on weekdays. But before I knew it, I'd reached the Bedford Avenue entrance and was slowly making my way onto the Williamsburg Bridge.
Perhaps the wine helped, kept my legs warm. Perhaps it was the sweet remnants of invaluable friendship, still coursing through my veins and reminding me what an amazing thing that is. Here we are, in the City, all together, how blessed are we?, and I couldn't help but smile. As I climbed to the peak, my ears filled with Axl Rose in his youth and my step kept his quick beat. I felt like an animal released to pasture in the spring, I stretched my tired muscles and sang along.
The Williamsburg bridge, all steel beam prison and glimpses of the world, the city beyond, was nearly empty; lone bikers rode home in the opposite directions. The J train passed below, countless cars, but mostly I felt as though it were all mine, and, with it, so was the city. For that brief moment, how high I was. Literally, too. At the descent on the other end, I looked up and saw nothing but the night sky, and was again reminded how unusual that is. I was lowered past people's 12th story windows, saw the skyscrapers I know as friends disappear behind rising buildings. Considered that if I jumped from here it would still be an awfully long way to go.
And then, suddenly, deposited on Delancey Street as though the whole thing were a mirage. Crossing the Lower East Side streets, my Manhattan streets, as though Brooklyn weren't a world away and hadn't I been here all along? Turn a corner and there is Morton Street. You may act surprised, but in fact it is nothing unusual.
All roads lead to home, if you let them.
Perhaps the wine helped, kept my legs warm. Perhaps it was the sweet remnants of invaluable friendship, still coursing through my veins and reminding me what an amazing thing that is. Here we are, in the City, all together, how blessed are we?, and I couldn't help but smile. As I climbed to the peak, my ears filled with Axl Rose in his youth and my step kept his quick beat. I felt like an animal released to pasture in the spring, I stretched my tired muscles and sang along.
The Williamsburg bridge, all steel beam prison and glimpses of the world, the city beyond, was nearly empty; lone bikers rode home in the opposite directions. The J train passed below, countless cars, but mostly I felt as though it were all mine, and, with it, so was the city. For that brief moment, how high I was. Literally, too. At the descent on the other end, I looked up and saw nothing but the night sky, and was again reminded how unusual that is. I was lowered past people's 12th story windows, saw the skyscrapers I know as friends disappear behind rising buildings. Considered that if I jumped from here it would still be an awfully long way to go.
And then, suddenly, deposited on Delancey Street as though the whole thing were a mirage. Crossing the Lower East Side streets, my Manhattan streets, as though Brooklyn weren't a world away and hadn't I been here all along? Turn a corner and there is Morton Street. You may act surprised, but in fact it is nothing unusual.
All roads lead to home, if you let them.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Saturday Light Naïve
St. Marks remains a pillar of comfort, of reliability.
Lives fall apart in the city, even after years and wedding bands and babies. What do I do now? she says, and I have nothing to say. Black and white is never as easy when his grays have nestled into your every pore. Your life is mine now, my life yours. If this ends here, who are we?
We walk west until St. Marks turns into 8th until it ends and we navigate the greenwich village maze. I cannot find my pyjamas and fall asleep in the button down shirt of a man who is not mine.
Shirt and man, both.
Lives fall apart in the city, even after years and wedding bands and babies. What do I do now? she says, and I have nothing to say. Black and white is never as easy when his grays have nestled into your every pore. Your life is mine now, my life yours. If this ends here, who are we?
We walk west until St. Marks turns into 8th until it ends and we navigate the greenwich village maze. I cannot find my pyjamas and fall asleep in the button down shirt of a man who is not mine.
Shirt and man, both.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Friday Nights
We are going to dance! she exlaims for a week, preparing for the weekend of her birthday. A motley crew trundles through Williamsburg to the narrow bar where lumber jack-wannabes crowd onto the nonexistant dance floor, and the DJ loses himself in 1980 and 1991.
Eventually, I walk home alone down glazed streets along a row of cat calls. New York City sleeps when no one is looking and only the garbage gets picked up. Orphan puppy is tumbling about in my week's worth of dirty laundry; when I go to bed she nestles in my armpit and putters happily while I sort through work emails that were lost in the excitement of Friday evening.
How simple the pleasures of life, sometimes.
Eventually, I walk home alone down glazed streets along a row of cat calls. New York City sleeps when no one is looking and only the garbage gets picked up. Orphan puppy is tumbling about in my week's worth of dirty laundry; when I go to bed she nestles in my armpit and putters happily while I sort through work emails that were lost in the excitement of Friday evening.
How simple the pleasures of life, sometimes.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Bright Lights, Big City
A soft rain crawls through the valley. The sea is warm but tempestuous; my swim is unusually short. I dive instead into the pile of books I brought. Already, too few remain to sustain me. I pretend to ration them, knowing full well I am bound to fail.
I read over my journal, instead, trying to make sense of the months and the year that have passed. I realize large parts of them were omitted. Heart-wrenching episodes ignored, and I hypothesize that, being left un-recorded, in time they will become untrue. Good riddance, perhaps, if it is that easy.
In my latest book, so many familiar street corners. The Village butcher still run by the same name. The bar unfazed by the years. New York is constantly changing, ever a tide of people and places eventually swept out to sea and replaced, but it is still, perpetually New York. I take more comfort in that fact than in any other constant in my life. There aren't that many to begin with.
Now I am here. Wasn't I just in Times Square? he asks from the other end of the earth. As the days turn to months and to another year, I wonder if he will begin to doubt, if his life here will become untrue. Years from now, New York will fade into a distant memory. Will he know it from a trick of the lights?
Good riddance, perhaps, if it is that easy.
I read over my journal, instead, trying to make sense of the months and the year that have passed. I realize large parts of them were omitted. Heart-wrenching episodes ignored, and I hypothesize that, being left un-recorded, in time they will become untrue. Good riddance, perhaps, if it is that easy.
In my latest book, so many familiar street corners. The Village butcher still run by the same name. The bar unfazed by the years. New York is constantly changing, ever a tide of people and places eventually swept out to sea and replaced, but it is still, perpetually New York. I take more comfort in that fact than in any other constant in my life. There aren't that many to begin with.
Now I am here. Wasn't I just in Times Square? he asks from the other end of the earth. As the days turn to months and to another year, I wonder if he will begin to doubt, if his life here will become untrue. Years from now, New York will fade into a distant memory. Will he know it from a trick of the lights?
Good riddance, perhaps, if it is that easy.
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