It's still the same old me from yesterday you wind up with tomorrow.
(Kate, French Kiss)
Run run run as fast as you can. You can't catch me, I'm.. oh wait.
I don't know who it is that the City was trying to impress today, but I'm sure it worked. Awoke to a beautiful, sunny day of clear skies and mild temperature. The Hudson River Park a seemingly endless stream of runners; the high line packed with slow strollers and cameras. Everywhere the sun gleaming, off the cast iron bars, off the high rise windows, off the sparkling waters around the pier. And somewhere in there, me; a collapsed star slowly gathering more blackness, a ball of darkness, stoically keeping out the beauty and the brightness of the social saturday.
Some days, I stand at the precipice of the downward spiral and simply walk away. But today, I was completely unable. I walked through the City in search of a lifeline, but it was powerless to help. The fire escapes offered no consolation. The water, the random glimpses of the Empire State between buildings. To cure my solitude, I forced myself to squeeze into the Union Square Farmer's Market madness, but I was as if in a cocoon. Softly feeling ripe tomatoes and picking through unshucked corn eased my troubled soul slightly, but my mouth still tasted of cotton. When surrounded by so many thousands of people, how is it possible to feel so alone? Like all the other people melt together into one collective experience of Manhattan, and I remain, the singular black pearl of resistance, the hard shell.
Walking home down West 4th softened me a little; the stoops, the lush canopy overhead, the cobble stoned calm. So glad to return to the Village. But I crawled right back into my little room and thought, it's you and me. The City cannot save you from yourself. It probably won't even bother trying. Or, as you always do, you wouldn't let it, if it tried.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Safe Haven
The sun set over the tall buildings. The day had turned beautiful just when you'd given up under the rainy clouds, and now Washington Square park was full of mumbles, a guitar solo, old men reading newspapers. I pushed through the college kid crowds and walked up Broadway in its noisy traffic bustle, to slip through the doors of the silent sea of the Strand.
From the craziness, it's a whole other world. It can be crowded and still so calm. Mazes of books, that old hardback smell. I ran my fingers along the used copies. Upstairs there was a reading, people drinking something bubbly in plastic glasses and nibbling on pretzels and pretense. I roamed around the ground floor and in an obscure corner found a biography on Hunter S. Thompson; I leaned against an ancient radiator and sank into the foreword. For a moment, I was all alone in that bookstore; I saw no one, heard no one, it was many twists and turns before I was out in the open space of the store again.
Slowly I trickled downstairs, where even fewer people milled about in the review copies. The basement of the Strand is like a cavern, a catacomb under the notre dame, that underground scent in the lighting. Fans instead of ventilation. I followed the old philosophers to the far wall and ended up in the A:s of Psychology. Remembering dear feelings for a W, I repeated my ABCs silently in my head, following row after row of books. By the time I got to the end of the alphabet, I was in the tiniest corner of the store, with barely room to move around. No fans got here, and it was still, the air warm and soft. As I stood there, one of the green trains ran by on the other side of the wall (below? nearby? there was no way of telling) and made the floor, the books, tremble slightly.
And at that moment, I was softly washed over by such a feeling of comfort and serenity. In this small, tight space, so humbly lit and protected from everything, rocked by the lullaby of underground railroads, I felt at peace. I thought, this is the magic, of the Strand. Firmly holding on to Sylvia Plath, I stepped out into the Manhattan night, and smiled.
From the craziness, it's a whole other world. It can be crowded and still so calm. Mazes of books, that old hardback smell. I ran my fingers along the used copies. Upstairs there was a reading, people drinking something bubbly in plastic glasses and nibbling on pretzels and pretense. I roamed around the ground floor and in an obscure corner found a biography on Hunter S. Thompson; I leaned against an ancient radiator and sank into the foreword. For a moment, I was all alone in that bookstore; I saw no one, heard no one, it was many twists and turns before I was out in the open space of the store again.
Slowly I trickled downstairs, where even fewer people milled about in the review copies. The basement of the Strand is like a cavern, a catacomb under the notre dame, that underground scent in the lighting. Fans instead of ventilation. I followed the old philosophers to the far wall and ended up in the A:s of Psychology. Remembering dear feelings for a W, I repeated my ABCs silently in my head, following row after row of books. By the time I got to the end of the alphabet, I was in the tiniest corner of the store, with barely room to move around. No fans got here, and it was still, the air warm and soft. As I stood there, one of the green trains ran by on the other side of the wall (below? nearby? there was no way of telling) and made the floor, the books, tremble slightly.
And at that moment, I was softly washed over by such a feeling of comfort and serenity. In this small, tight space, so humbly lit and protected from everything, rocked by the lullaby of underground railroads, I felt at peace. I thought, this is the magic, of the Strand. Firmly holding on to Sylvia Plath, I stepped out into the Manhattan night, and smiled.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
When the Universe Speaks
You must listen.
The fog has lifted from my indifferent eyes. The fort of paperwork and office chairs I hid myself behind to avoid the questions I didn't want to see still existed, has crumbled. The questions do not scare me, and I should've trusted myself to know that all along.
I was tired; I'd stayed too late; and hungry. I just popped my head in to the other office to say good night when the older, wise man who sits there began to regale his tales, the way people do when they have amassed mounds of experience. And they are always interesting, so I listen and smile, but I really was aching to go.
I guess sometimes the Universe just has to slap me upside the head to get my attention.
He told me of learning about Zen Buddhism in Los Angeles in the late 40's. Of taking that knowledge with him to school in Oregon and sharing it with another student, who had never heard of it before but was thus introduced. Turns out, the student went on to become a Zen Buddhist monk himself, and this the man told me humbly and as just another bit of the story. And as I stand there, in the doorway, poised and ready to go, completely unprepared, he asks me if I know of Jack Kerouac. Because this young kid sitting next to him in the college classrom, this budding mad man, was none other than Gary Snyder, in my world more commonly known by Kerouac's moniker for him: Japhy Ryder, zen poet, the original Dharma Bum.
Shivers ran up and down my entire body, my feet went numb, tears welled up in my eyes. It sounds silly now, but that was my reaction. It was just so Big. I had reread the Dharma Bums just weeks ago and been reminded of its beauty, of Japhy's sweet love for the world, of the Bigness and Simpleness of it all.
Jack is the reason I am in this City in the first place. And here I was, talking to a man who was to this day a good friend of a person Jack admired so. It was too big, it was too untouchable. I rambled home through the village and giggled madly inside. On this day when I seemed to lean into the downward spiral, when I was ready to ask what hell I was doing, the Universe reminded me. We get so few chances to live our dreams. I have been allowed to come this far; there is no reason for me not to dive head first into the flames. My heart smiles, I go gladly.
...as I was hiking down the mountain with my pack I turned and knelt on the trail and said "Thank you, shack." Then I added "Blah," with a little grin, because I knew that shack and that mountain would understand what that meant, and turned and went on down the trail back to this world.
The fog has lifted from my indifferent eyes. The fort of paperwork and office chairs I hid myself behind to avoid the questions I didn't want to see still existed, has crumbled. The questions do not scare me, and I should've trusted myself to know that all along.
I was tired; I'd stayed too late; and hungry. I just popped my head in to the other office to say good night when the older, wise man who sits there began to regale his tales, the way people do when they have amassed mounds of experience. And they are always interesting, so I listen and smile, but I really was aching to go.
I guess sometimes the Universe just has to slap me upside the head to get my attention.
He told me of learning about Zen Buddhism in Los Angeles in the late 40's. Of taking that knowledge with him to school in Oregon and sharing it with another student, who had never heard of it before but was thus introduced. Turns out, the student went on to become a Zen Buddhist monk himself, and this the man told me humbly and as just another bit of the story. And as I stand there, in the doorway, poised and ready to go, completely unprepared, he asks me if I know of Jack Kerouac. Because this young kid sitting next to him in the college classrom, this budding mad man, was none other than Gary Snyder, in my world more commonly known by Kerouac's moniker for him: Japhy Ryder, zen poet, the original Dharma Bum.
Shivers ran up and down my entire body, my feet went numb, tears welled up in my eyes. It sounds silly now, but that was my reaction. It was just so Big. I had reread the Dharma Bums just weeks ago and been reminded of its beauty, of Japhy's sweet love for the world, of the Bigness and Simpleness of it all.
Jack is the reason I am in this City in the first place. And here I was, talking to a man who was to this day a good friend of a person Jack admired so. It was too big, it was too untouchable. I rambled home through the village and giggled madly inside. On this day when I seemed to lean into the downward spiral, when I was ready to ask what hell I was doing, the Universe reminded me. We get so few chances to live our dreams. I have been allowed to come this far; there is no reason for me not to dive head first into the flames. My heart smiles, I go gladly.
...as I was hiking down the mountain with my pack I turned and knelt on the trail and said "Thank you, shack." Then I added "Blah," with a little grin, because I knew that shack and that mountain would understand what that meant, and turned and went on down the trail back to this world.
Surreality
ça continue.
Today, Manhattan cool and gray, indifferent. White puffy clouds roll by in search of greener pastures; they can't even be bothered to stick around and amass, turn to floods.
Peter says time slips by, not like sands in an hour glass but like rocks in a landslide. He is brilliant. Already it's veering towards late afternoon and all I've done so far is scour the electronic world for tales of other people's misery. I pretend it helps me feel better, when in reality it opens up entirely new words of heartache.
I write lists. They make me believe in the Potential of tomorrow. The truth, and I've learned this too many times to ignore it, is that it merely allows for procrastination. Again I feel like I sway at the fork in the road; it's becoming clear to me that this is where I stand, and have been standing for months. It explains why I feel like I am walking around in a dream, why I am invincible on these streets but also a little numb. I don't feel my usual masochism, my self-doubt and fears, and I thought New York was being my buffer. I realize now that perhaps it was because she is a Shadow, walking around and pretending to be me, while in reality I stand at that fork in limbo. You must commit, dear, if you want to live.
Human, human of the year and you've won.
Across the street in midtown, at the top floor of what looks like a hotel, with the facade so colorful and floor-to-ceiling windows, is a space that is being used for storage. Cardboard boxes, mattresses, dust. All I keep thinking is, god, the opulence of allowing stuff such a view. My fingers smell of nicotine and weariness.
Today, Manhattan cool and gray, indifferent. White puffy clouds roll by in search of greener pastures; they can't even be bothered to stick around and amass, turn to floods.
Peter says time slips by, not like sands in an hour glass but like rocks in a landslide. He is brilliant. Already it's veering towards late afternoon and all I've done so far is scour the electronic world for tales of other people's misery. I pretend it helps me feel better, when in reality it opens up entirely new words of heartache.
I write lists. They make me believe in the Potential of tomorrow. The truth, and I've learned this too many times to ignore it, is that it merely allows for procrastination. Again I feel like I sway at the fork in the road; it's becoming clear to me that this is where I stand, and have been standing for months. It explains why I feel like I am walking around in a dream, why I am invincible on these streets but also a little numb. I don't feel my usual masochism, my self-doubt and fears, and I thought New York was being my buffer. I realize now that perhaps it was because she is a Shadow, walking around and pretending to be me, while in reality I stand at that fork in limbo. You must commit, dear, if you want to live.
Human, human of the year and you've won.
Across the street in midtown, at the top floor of what looks like a hotel, with the facade so colorful and floor-to-ceiling windows, is a space that is being used for storage. Cardboard boxes, mattresses, dust. All I keep thinking is, god, the opulence of allowing stuff such a view. My fingers smell of nicotine and weariness.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Is That All There Is?
The days pass by. The sun rises sweetly over the water tanks and sets over Jersey. Lights come on and off and A/C units are neglected one by one as fall seeps in through the foliage. I, meanwhile, am none the wiser.
Most days it is enough to revel in the beauty of being here, the simple bliss of existing where your dreams wished for you to be. But in the moments where I stop to catch my breath, I inevitably falter. Some days, the concrete underneath me isn't as sturdy, isn't as safe.
Those are the days when I glance behind me and see ghosts of doubt in the corners of my eyes. They whisper all the unanswered questions I haven't cared to answer; they remind me of the impermanence of my current state. Who are you, and what is it you have come here to do? The straight and not-so-narrow needs you to commit yourself, to take your education and your skills into the 9-to-5 and be done with it. Get a grip. The crooked and less beaten path beckons, reminds you that you have come this far by throwing caution to the wind and wouldn't it be silly to give up now?
This is the moment when I must define myself. When I am no longer safely nestled in a university institution or a steady job. When none of the ties that held me together can guide me and give me purpose. This is the time when I must make my own choice, whatever that is, and go with it. Around me, people are getting married, having babies, setting up the next phase. They move effortlessly to jobs and new tax brackets, while I kick and scream and do anything to resist.
But if you choose not to follow one path, you must choose another. I stand at the fork in the road, longing desperately for a map, a flashlight, I hesitate. I was so sure, so long, and now I am letting the dark woods scare me. New York holds my hand reassuringly but I feel my grasp slip, I am undeserving.
On the uneven cobblestone street, she tripped on her high heel. Recovering, I take a deep breath and carry on.
Most days it is enough to revel in the beauty of being here, the simple bliss of existing where your dreams wished for you to be. But in the moments where I stop to catch my breath, I inevitably falter. Some days, the concrete underneath me isn't as sturdy, isn't as safe.
Those are the days when I glance behind me and see ghosts of doubt in the corners of my eyes. They whisper all the unanswered questions I haven't cared to answer; they remind me of the impermanence of my current state. Who are you, and what is it you have come here to do? The straight and not-so-narrow needs you to commit yourself, to take your education and your skills into the 9-to-5 and be done with it. Get a grip. The crooked and less beaten path beckons, reminds you that you have come this far by throwing caution to the wind and wouldn't it be silly to give up now?
This is the moment when I must define myself. When I am no longer safely nestled in a university institution or a steady job. When none of the ties that held me together can guide me and give me purpose. This is the time when I must make my own choice, whatever that is, and go with it. Around me, people are getting married, having babies, setting up the next phase. They move effortlessly to jobs and new tax brackets, while I kick and scream and do anything to resist.
But if you choose not to follow one path, you must choose another. I stand at the fork in the road, longing desperately for a map, a flashlight, I hesitate. I was so sure, so long, and now I am letting the dark woods scare me. New York holds my hand reassuringly but I feel my grasp slip, I am undeserving.
On the uneven cobblestone street, she tripped on her high heel. Recovering, I take a deep breath and carry on.
Monday, September 14, 2009
First Day of School
When the alarm rang it was still dark out, despite summer barely having ended. Walking to the subway, it was still black, and only on the avenues were there any cars; residential Leroy Street was completely silent and everyone slept but the rats, who scurried to their corners as I snuck by. West 4th was quiet, the express train still running on the local track, and class showed up quickly when i was the only white person on the train until midtown. Leaving the subway station, there were a few more people. All men. Unloading vans, setting up food carts, and many that were harder to define and classify than during the day. Why would this guy be up? As I walked down a sleepy 52nd street I realized that I was all alone on a dark street and that maybe that wasn't so smart. I got tricked by my daytime attire.
At the apartment with big windows, dawn was approaching, the sleeping City at its most beautiful. Out of the inky void came little stars of office lights turning on. Great silhouettes of buildnings reaching for the skies emerged, and the backdrop turned purple, blue. I sat in awe and looked at it. By the time the little girl had woken up, the sun had burst through and made all the buildnings brown, the glittering lights of Times Square no longer distinguishable. She yawned and stretched like a kitten; when I asked what was special about this day, she said, "Today is the day for feeding the Frogs!" Not until later did she mention that it was her first day of school.
And so it was, that I, not her parents, took her to her first day of preschool. The closer we got, the tighter she held my hand. In the playground, her nervousness made her run around crazily but all the time coming back and nesting in my lap, when it got too scary. Once in the classroom, she held on tight when I tried to leave her on the carpet with her new teacher. But then, she got asked to sit at her new seat at the table, and she got to pick a paper to write her name on, and suddenly, she was in her new world. She wouldn't speak this strange language they spoke, but she knew what the teachers said and nodded diligently.
And I stood in the doorway, and couldn't leave. I felt my heart expanding in my chest and wanting so much to hold her hand, to tell her that everything would be okay and convince her that she'll make friends and learn so much and love every minute. But I can't tell her. She has to see it for herself, and I know she will. I had to be the patient one, the strong one, and walk away. I've no doubt she's having a great day now, that I am far out of her mind. But it became painfully clear that she now occupies a large part of my heart, and that I am glad she is there. I always was a sucker for children.
By nine o'clock, my work was already done. I trudged toward Columbus Circle and was nearly swept away by hoards of people going in the opposite direction. What's so great about 58th street, I thought, until i realized that all the office people were simply beginning their work day, when mine was done. It's like there are different universes going on in the City, and for brief moments they overlap. I clock out. You clock in. The City inhales and exhales without interruption.
At the apartment with big windows, dawn was approaching, the sleeping City at its most beautiful. Out of the inky void came little stars of office lights turning on. Great silhouettes of buildnings reaching for the skies emerged, and the backdrop turned purple, blue. I sat in awe and looked at it. By the time the little girl had woken up, the sun had burst through and made all the buildnings brown, the glittering lights of Times Square no longer distinguishable. She yawned and stretched like a kitten; when I asked what was special about this day, she said, "Today is the day for feeding the Frogs!" Not until later did she mention that it was her first day of school.
And so it was, that I, not her parents, took her to her first day of preschool. The closer we got, the tighter she held my hand. In the playground, her nervousness made her run around crazily but all the time coming back and nesting in my lap, when it got too scary. Once in the classroom, she held on tight when I tried to leave her on the carpet with her new teacher. But then, she got asked to sit at her new seat at the table, and she got to pick a paper to write her name on, and suddenly, she was in her new world. She wouldn't speak this strange language they spoke, but she knew what the teachers said and nodded diligently.
And I stood in the doorway, and couldn't leave. I felt my heart expanding in my chest and wanting so much to hold her hand, to tell her that everything would be okay and convince her that she'll make friends and learn so much and love every minute. But I can't tell her. She has to see it for herself, and I know she will. I had to be the patient one, the strong one, and walk away. I've no doubt she's having a great day now, that I am far out of her mind. But it became painfully clear that she now occupies a large part of my heart, and that I am glad she is there. I always was a sucker for children.
By nine o'clock, my work was already done. I trudged toward Columbus Circle and was nearly swept away by hoards of people going in the opposite direction. What's so great about 58th street, I thought, until i realized that all the office people were simply beginning their work day, when mine was done. It's like there are different universes going on in the City, and for brief moments they overlap. I clock out. You clock in. The City inhales and exhales without interruption.
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