Mild Weather Days

The puppy always gets scared and hides when it rains; that's how you can tell the weather without even looking outside. Tonight I hear it drip drip dripping on my air conditioner. I would be muddled about it, but my only thought was that if it rains, it must be warm. If it rains, it does not snow.

Too many days I have spent indoors, immobile, allowing my muscles atrophy and my mind to grow mossy. The air is so dry, the light so artificial.

A dear friend plans her unexpected, and rapidly approaching, move to the City. Hearing her speak of it, I am reminded what a treat it is to move here. To imagine oneself on these streets, to peruse apartment listings and fret happily over practicalities that will make the dream true. I looked out over the water towers from the office today and realized that I have lost that feeling, where everything in the city sparkles, where every detail smiles at you. I am grateful that she comes to the city now, that I can see New York through her eyes, and maybe recapture some of the magic.

These last few days, my body has completely somaticized my February feel into an endless array of physical symptoms. But the thing is, they don't bother me one bit. I feel as though the buildup was worse, this is the volcano that clears the air, that eases the pressure. Once I walk out of this fog, it will be March. Once I walk out of this fog, I will be ready for a brand new day. The Word, the Madness, the City. I know they will have waited for me. I know I will be back to hold them dearly, soon again.

Dream a Little Dream

In one of my fevered dreams, I rode down the west side of Manhattan in a cab with my mother, watching the Brooklyn and Manhattan bridges span the wide, glittering Hudson to Jersey, as we drove through the industrial spaghetti bowl of roads that lay around them. Nevermind the utter lack of geographical reality in the dream, here somewhere lay my West Village, here somewhere was my home. My mother looked at me and said, "This is where you live now, how lucky you are." I looked across the wide bridge and remembered fondly days spent here in this neighborhood of steel beams. I was glad she reminded me. Heading northwards once again, the cab had become a convertible, and next to me in the driver's seat was Miss Regina, her suddenly golden hair blowing giddily in the wind and her bright smile beaming at me as we rode along. We sang some silly song, sped across Manhattan, we were carefree.

Spring grows slowly; at first you cannot see it. But deep in my belly, a little sprout has begun to tickle my nerves. Frozen bodies thaw, too.

Oh Please Don't Change a Thing

A quiet bug nestled its way into my unassuming body, made a home for itself, and caused me to keep my half-conscious head close to the toilet bowl for a long, weary night. Three days without appetite later, I begin to emerge from the clouded cognisance that has been my mind, and my limbs slowly stretch in recollection. Despite the lost time, money, work that needed to be done, despite opportunities missed and so many days having passed, I am glad. As though I not only step out of the heavy quicksand of illness, but that I shed whatever emotional weights were bearing me down as well. Purged, pure, ready to be filled anew with sunshine, excitement, adventure.

I just need to be able to walk more than 500 feet without tiring.



I, too, take the C train uptown. I, too, get off at 42nd street and walk through those same turnstiles into Port Authority Bus Terminal. I, too, get out on the street that leads to glittery Times Square. How gratifying to see it through somebody else's eyes. How reaffirming in the Greatness, of such a small event. Those turnstiles, those steps, they are part of my every day life now. Taking New York for granted, is worth a purging, sometimes.

And Everything's Not Lost

When I counted up my demons
Saw there was one for every day
With the good ones on my shoulders
I drove the other ones away

Another day of sleet and snow. Of trudging through God's message, loud and clear, that spring is not near, that the light at the end of the tunnel is far away yet. I sat at the office with baby food on my sweater and newly acquired germs in my skin, staring out at tenth avenue and wondering how I will possibly get through this. An invite sifted through the room; I tried to shy away, scurry into my dark corner and pretend it was not out there. My mind dreamed of sweatpants and early nights tucked into quiet pockets of ignorance, but there was no excuse, so my face mouthed a yes, reluctantly.

And now here I am. Tipsy on a Tuesday. Full of fancy hors d'oeuvres and celebrity schmoozing. With silly stories traipsing through my mind and a slight beat in my heart for 5th avenue after dark. I pull out a note from my pocket, the bartender's number on it.

New York, my darling. You give me that last strand of hope to which I can hold on. And I do. One day, New York, I will be someone who deserves you.

Where the Heart Is

I suspect this is the infamous bottom rock. Where the body is a dark steady ball of lead. Where silence is painful but concrete. I stay still, in a state of inertia from which I am not sure I want to be changed.

I crawled out on the fire escape and watched the smoke slowly curl from my cigarette. Amazed that New York can be so quiet. That a hundred year old ladder can be so sturdy and hold me, regardless. Hungry to the point of nausea, I have been unable to make myself food all day. The apartment empty enough that I could spend most of it at the piano. Something about song that opens my heart and lets me bleed all over those ivory keys. I was relieved I still could.

I slowly climb back inside. Did the apartment get even more still while I was away? My steps are so slow. I pass a mirror and remember that I have not showered for days. I wear clothes that needed to be washed several baby feedings ago. I know I went out looking like this this morning, that is surely no good sign.

And still, I am somehow comforted in this day. In reclining in the comfort of this feeling. Recognizing myself in the middle of it. Words swim around in my head; I am grateful for their company, for their tireless return. My heart beats steady, awaiting Spring with unabandoned innocence. New York, honey, holding your hand I know I am safe. That is all we need, in the end.

59th Street Bridge

New Yorkers relocate. 13 years in Chelsea and now somewhere new, entirely. I don't like these streets. I don't think we belong here. When you are tired and want to go home, you remember that there is no such place. It has been packed up and transported. In the old house, history in the chimneys. Here, a clean slate.

Outside the window, the Roosevelt Island tram gathers strays and sends them across the water. The sun sets, and the bridge disappears into a steady stream of Saturday evening traffic. We drink our beers and fill cupboards with plates and bags of flour. The baby is restless, confused. She expresses so well what her parents can only sense in the back of their hearts.

Exhausted, I walk to the subway along fancy streets of closed furniture stores, while Bloomingdales sparkles in the night. How quiet this neighborhood, sterile. When I emerge from the W 4th stop and see the streets milling with people, hear the sounds of my New York trickling down the Greenwich Village fire escapes, I smile. This is home.

What a good day for curing a hangover. Metaphorically, too.