Heaven help the ones who know
What makes the world, go slow
I prepare for the arrival of a dear, dear friend, whom I have not seen since I, weak and pallid from a weekend of stomach flu last winter, leaned against my kitchen door and wished her a good escape to the ends of the Earth. By the time she returned from her exodus, I had embarked on mine, and while we never saw each other, many electronic hours were filled with words of separation, of how ungratifying it is to run away, and yet how impossible to resist.
Yesterday, as she tried to pack amid the recent rubble of her life, she said There is no geographical solution, and I shuddered to think she was right.
Because today, as I try to clean my room, that there may actually be space for another person to fit in my tiny Manhattan existance, I fondly remember my last move from Sweden, of throwing out years and years of stuff and of how clear my mind became, how light my heart. I longed, shortly, for another move, to be able to get rid of so much buildup, just six months in the making, to be able to start fresh.
Dark days, I dream of packing up and moving on. I think of organic farms in Australia that need somebody to come pick their macadamia nuts. I think of sunshine and oceans and owning no more than fits in a suitcase. I remember fondly last summer's excursion to Andalucia and living in tents with an outdoor kitchen and a shower that hung from the nearest oak tree, and of how wonderful my heart felt in this skin. I dream of selling all that I own (which is not much, I realize) and simply taking off, into the American night, and seeing whatever dawn greets me on the other end. On those days, even Manhattan doesn't have a firm grasp on me, cannot draw me in and hold me back properly. On those days, I see deep into my own soul, and I am entirely alone.
There is no geographical solution. It doesn't keep me from looking, for the answer.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
and the Inability to Focus
Ibland har jag kä nt att jag duger.
Whatever disease it was that manifested itself in my body these past days, it seems to be subsiding. I am merely left with scattered thoughts, an inability to focus and check off my to-do list. I suppose it could be worse.
I have seen many New York homes since I got here, and I am constantly amazed at the degree of decay in which people live. The sub-code heating systems, the layers of dust in the corners, the piles of messes that seem years in the making. How are people wading around in this refuse, day after day?, I've thought. It comes as no surprise, though, that now as I look around my room, I find countless scraps of paper, saved for no reason atop my dresser. I can never quite stretch out because the already limited floor space is cluttered with bags and Remains of the Day. I have fallen prey to the bug of the City; I suppose it is a telepathic current sent out by the cockroaches to make this world more liveable for them. Congratulations, you have succeeded.
But that is not what I wanted to say. I wanted to speak of love, of how distant and unattainable it is. My closest friend just handed over her entire heart, the Everything, on a platter, just to have it sent back. No thank you, not interested. After all that time and so much rose-colored Us-against-the-World Promise, to end up with No Thank You and the black hole that comes after. How is that allowed to happen? I wanted to speak of being called out on all my bullshit in the Park, being reminded that I was no different from those I objected against, that the fantasy world I paint would not be true, should the paint palette change, and how refreshing that was. I appreciated the candid honesty more than I knew how to convey.
All this I wanted to speak of, to not let the thoughts disappear before another dawn brought new smiles and erased the insight. But my limbs are so sore, and there is laundry yet to be folded. The words evaporate, with the dryer sheet fumes escaping along the brick wall into the night.
Whatever disease it was that manifested itself in my body these past days, it seems to be subsiding. I am merely left with scattered thoughts, an inability to focus and check off my to-do list. I suppose it could be worse.
I have seen many New York homes since I got here, and I am constantly amazed at the degree of decay in which people live. The sub-code heating systems, the layers of dust in the corners, the piles of messes that seem years in the making. How are people wading around in this refuse, day after day?, I've thought. It comes as no surprise, though, that now as I look around my room, I find countless scraps of paper, saved for no reason atop my dresser. I can never quite stretch out because the already limited floor space is cluttered with bags and Remains of the Day. I have fallen prey to the bug of the City; I suppose it is a telepathic current sent out by the cockroaches to make this world more liveable for them. Congratulations, you have succeeded.
But that is not what I wanted to say. I wanted to speak of love, of how distant and unattainable it is. My closest friend just handed over her entire heart, the Everything, on a platter, just to have it sent back. No thank you, not interested. After all that time and so much rose-colored Us-against-the-World Promise, to end up with No Thank You and the black hole that comes after. How is that allowed to happen? I wanted to speak of being called out on all my bullshit in the Park, being reminded that I was no different from those I objected against, that the fantasy world I paint would not be true, should the paint palette change, and how refreshing that was. I appreciated the candid honesty more than I knew how to convey.
All this I wanted to speak of, to not let the thoughts disappear before another dawn brought new smiles and erased the insight. But my limbs are so sore, and there is laundry yet to be folded. The words evaporate, with the dryer sheet fumes escaping along the brick wall into the night.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Guilt and Devotion
How quickly days pass, and I haven't written for so long. And then as I was about to leave the you tube evening on Stanton, I was overcome with such a nausea that I crashed on the couch and came home today, all brunched out, and consequently passed out for the remainder of the day. My head is fuzzy, my limbs feverish, and I refuse to think it will not pass, because this is not the week for being sick.
In conclusion, there will be no wise words of Manhattan Madness tonight, no intricate analyses of what transpired in the streaming sunlight of the Central Park walk-and-talk yesterday. Hopefully, they will come tomorrow, as the fever dissipates and vocabulary and sentence structure reenter my mind. Thank god it's Sunday, and laying around in one's sweatpants is exactly what the day was designed for.
In conclusion, there will be no wise words of Manhattan Madness tonight, no intricate analyses of what transpired in the streaming sunlight of the Central Park walk-and-talk yesterday. Hopefully, they will come tomorrow, as the fever dissipates and vocabulary and sentence structure reenter my mind. Thank god it's Sunday, and laying around in one's sweatpants is exactly what the day was designed for.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Novelty
Who are you to write a story? Everything's been said, every stone turned and so much more eloquently described than your simple vocabulary can attain. Who are you to add to this mountain of literature, where every pebble is a jewel on its own?
It is nearly the weekend. Turn on. Tune in. Drop out.
And when it comes to that fantastic note where the rabbit bites its own head off, I want you to throw that fuckin' radio into the tub with me
It is nearly the weekend. Turn on. Tune in. Drop out.
And when it comes to that fantastic note where the rabbit bites its own head off, I want you to throw that fuckin' radio into the tub with me
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
No More to Roam
I'm only going home.
How much the mind can wander, when it is given free range. How easy the City makes it, to be reigned in again.
I stood on the corner of 77th and Broadway, slowly rocking a sleeping stroller and watching the city play out its theater in front of me. A homeless man searched through the garbage can, and it was obvious he had a method to it. A couple with suitcases and bags trying to get a cab got nixed three times by surly taxi drivers until they finally gave up, and I never heard where they were trying to go. People walked by all shapes and sizes: New Yorkers. And I thought to myself, this is what you are doing; this is why you are here.
When all is said and done, this is the place where my soul is happy. There are dreams and hopes and passions within me, decades in the making, that make sense here, that actually have a chance of making it if they are allowed to stay. I have gotten sidetracked, and I may get swayed yet, but in the end, there's a reason I worked so hard to get here. And perhaps it's reason enough to work so hard to stay.
I walked home down the daylight savings dark streets, and I breathed in the cool, clean air of Promise. The roller coaster life continues. Tickled pink, I hold on for the ride.
How much the mind can wander, when it is given free range. How easy the City makes it, to be reigned in again.
I stood on the corner of 77th and Broadway, slowly rocking a sleeping stroller and watching the city play out its theater in front of me. A homeless man searched through the garbage can, and it was obvious he had a method to it. A couple with suitcases and bags trying to get a cab got nixed three times by surly taxi drivers until they finally gave up, and I never heard where they were trying to go. People walked by all shapes and sizes: New Yorkers. And I thought to myself, this is what you are doing; this is why you are here.
When all is said and done, this is the place where my soul is happy. There are dreams and hopes and passions within me, decades in the making, that make sense here, that actually have a chance of making it if they are allowed to stay. I have gotten sidetracked, and I may get swayed yet, but in the end, there's a reason I worked so hard to get here. And perhaps it's reason enough to work so hard to stay.
I walked home down the daylight savings dark streets, and I breathed in the cool, clean air of Promise. The roller coaster life continues. Tickled pink, I hold on for the ride.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
From East to West
It's all in your mind.
Such short moments of sweet bliss, flying. Where no one can get you, no demands can pressure you, you are free. But then, flying low over glittering Manhattan, the rush houred one way streets strung across it like white and red christmas lights, and landing in a place you know as home, that isn't so bad either.
My weekend away afforded me wide open spaces and a place to breathe deeply, but in such silence, the mind is allowed to run wild, and I left more confused than I arrived.
I came to live a dream. That was all, and that was simple. But it turns out, when you are free to do whatever you want, you actually need to know what that is. With no restrains, I bounce around the Hall of my emotions, and I am only grateful that the walls at least seem to be padded slightly. If only there were a rope, a partition, a guiding hand, perhaps I would not exhaust myself from all this running, perhaps I would instead arrive somewhere.
But just as likely, if someone did try to hold me down, get me a grip, I would merely break free and run off again. So the next realization comes: this may be Life, forever. I got on this roller coaster long ago, and I will ride it through to the end.
Weary, I stumble up the steps to my apartment. Right now, happy to be home. But in the back of my head, nervous tremblings say don't look beyond that moment, don't stir. You don't know what you may awaken, in the dust bowl.
Such short moments of sweet bliss, flying. Where no one can get you, no demands can pressure you, you are free. But then, flying low over glittering Manhattan, the rush houred one way streets strung across it like white and red christmas lights, and landing in a place you know as home, that isn't so bad either.
My weekend away afforded me wide open spaces and a place to breathe deeply, but in such silence, the mind is allowed to run wild, and I left more confused than I arrived.
I came to live a dream. That was all, and that was simple. But it turns out, when you are free to do whatever you want, you actually need to know what that is. With no restrains, I bounce around the Hall of my emotions, and I am only grateful that the walls at least seem to be padded slightly. If only there were a rope, a partition, a guiding hand, perhaps I would not exhaust myself from all this running, perhaps I would instead arrive somewhere.
But just as likely, if someone did try to hold me down, get me a grip, I would merely break free and run off again. So the next realization comes: this may be Life, forever. I got on this roller coaster long ago, and I will ride it through to the end.
Weary, I stumble up the steps to my apartment. Right now, happy to be home. But in the back of my head, nervous tremblings say don't look beyond that moment, don't stir. You don't know what you may awaken, in the dust bowl.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Marry me, Bury me
I'm not
running from you.
I took a weekend off and ran out West, where mountains replace skyscrapers and stars come out at night. There isn't much to say because such is life out here; it is calm, it is what it always was. You drive to places and try to find something meaningful to do when you arrive there. The young cities are neatly arranged on their grids, as the young, white families are neatly arranged on theirs. The sun shines relentlessly, and the desert land goes from winter to summer in the course of every day. It is reliable, dependable, home. Pleasant to be around, hardly impossible to leave. There is always a more Real Life in the wings, waiting patiently for you to come back and get back to what you were doing.
And still, suddenly I found myself driving home from a friend, through swerving canyons, across pitch black fields, guided by the steady blue light of a full moon, and confused. How far I was from the City. How little I could ascertain how that felt. So alone out on those back roads and feeling so safe, taken care of by the great expanses of Utah. The place you grew up, the nest where you were coddled, always feels like home. But home is a place to which you can never go back. There is no place for you here, the snow-tipped peaks whispered, as I rushed past, and I knew they were right.
It's just.. I don't know where else I should be going.
The more endless my possibilities, the less certain I am of which road to choose. I stumble along helplessly as the days amass. I plan trips and escape a little while longer. Never making promises I can't keep. Never making promises at all. It's the same old me from yesterday, you end up with tomorrow. In my heart, I am happy. Turns out, that doesn't mean one damned thing.
running from you.
I took a weekend off and ran out West, where mountains replace skyscrapers and stars come out at night. There isn't much to say because such is life out here; it is calm, it is what it always was. You drive to places and try to find something meaningful to do when you arrive there. The young cities are neatly arranged on their grids, as the young, white families are neatly arranged on theirs. The sun shines relentlessly, and the desert land goes from winter to summer in the course of every day. It is reliable, dependable, home. Pleasant to be around, hardly impossible to leave. There is always a more Real Life in the wings, waiting patiently for you to come back and get back to what you were doing.
And still, suddenly I found myself driving home from a friend, through swerving canyons, across pitch black fields, guided by the steady blue light of a full moon, and confused. How far I was from the City. How little I could ascertain how that felt. So alone out on those back roads and feeling so safe, taken care of by the great expanses of Utah. The place you grew up, the nest where you were coddled, always feels like home. But home is a place to which you can never go back. There is no place for you here, the snow-tipped peaks whispered, as I rushed past, and I knew they were right.
It's just.. I don't know where else I should be going.
The more endless my possibilities, the less certain I am of which road to choose. I stumble along helplessly as the days amass. I plan trips and escape a little while longer. Never making promises I can't keep. Never making promises at all. It's the same old me from yesterday, you end up with tomorrow. In my heart, I am happy. Turns out, that doesn't mean one damned thing.
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