Wednesday, January 27, 2010

My Dazzling City

I am a rather eccentric person. The nature of my avocations for the last 20 years has brought me to the capital of nostalgia. I found my voice on a long crowded island called Manhattan. If I bargain a job in this depressed society, I plan to die here. Bury my soul in the overpopulated cemetery in Queens. I want curly bamboo sticks on my grave. Please don't mourn over my headstone with fresh-cut or artificial flowers that lack originality. Because this city is all about having character.

It took a long time to get to New York. The eternity of the ride into the city is where I met my irrational love for the place. New York is a city of perpetual filth, occasional hatred, daily tests of individuality, and a daring amount of energy to fully appreciate its dollops of charm. It's mysterious allure is epidemic, like love. I came to this soaring madhouse to discover love. Not just a well-wished romantic companion, but to marry my passion. This compacted and beautiful segment of America is my muse, my feel good, my gem. Waking up on Third Avenue is a daily indulgence, like sex. My proclaimed affair I have a metropolis is real. I consider myself a native newlywed.

The interval between my fourth-floor address, create contrast, and so much more. The direction of my window commands attention to the curiosities of humankind. I romanticize the unobstructed view of neighbors from my desk chair. I accidentally eavesdrop on drunk weekenders from the uncarpeted interior of a red-bricked mini skyscraper.
"Dude, I can't tell if she's hot or not. She's wearing too many clothes," a city character once said, crookedly passing over the gum-spotted and worn sidewalk, marching to the 4 a.m. beat of the village. This city is tolerant.

My Manhattan has been my health and my allergy, my battlefield and playground, my bruise and my band-aid, my sweet lemon with salt on it, my fetish and my nuisance. It feels like there's no other place in this world that penetrates my creativity as a writer. All else is uninteresting.

And just beyond my glassed pane is an enlivened bus stop. The M101 is my night light. It has the kind of digitized, exterior advertising that would gloss your eyes in Times Square. Fourty-second street is infidelity. It's the face of New York, but not my source of adoration or comfort. My dazzling city is a diagnosed spastic. I support every symptom of eccentricity. It's most tranquil moments are hard to decide. It requires no prescribed lens to reveal the lurking commotion. I'm most comfortable in the gritty East Village where suburb-starved artists wear suspenders and Elvis Costello glasses, clinging hands, creating a portrait of Cupid's graces, anxiously searching for golden inspiration. I find restful peace in the rush of a yellow cab's wheels intersecting with street vents. The homemade cheese store across the street, that lacks all commercialized showiness, is poetic enthusiasm. I have learned to dream in a restless environment. When the sun sneaks into my city's overcrowded infrastructure, I wake up craving more, ready to embrace every beautiful moment of coexistence.

By winter, I still have the butterflies, even when all six trees on my block have been amputated of their springtime bio. They appear starved and shivered by the erratic falls of February's snow. My love grows through seasons, through every tear of rain, burst of sunshine, and gentle drop of snow. New Yorkers don't know how to appreciate everything. By mid-day, important business people their scriveners have trampled over every last piece of preserved flurry, leaving the scraps to the latecomers and call girls. January, February and sometimes chunks of March are winters that burn your skin, color your nose cherry red, erect your arm hairs, and seem partially miserable. But, I'm here until death do us part.

Monday, January 11, 2010

Oh America!

I'm officially back on American soil. I anticipated being jet-lagged, shocked and resistant to orthodoxy. There was no reverse cultural shock. There was no urgency to raid the pantry for hearty U.S. snacks. There was no speech stuttering or lingual confusion. There was no allegiance to religion. Instantly, I fit right back into the American way.

The first thing I did when I arrived home was take a bath in a bathroom that was built by an American worker who probably doesn't have state-given benefits. It felt just right. I arrived on New Year's Eve, but had no desire to socialize with the masses that evening. Most of my relationships with friends that I deliberately chose to not keep in contact with, changed. For the first few days, I was closely examining how things Changed since I had been gone. I know that I felt different, but if you were to ask me how different I am, I wouldn't be able to describe it. Everyones' life had gone on (imagine that), and I was completely out of the loop on pop-culture. It seemed for the past four months that I was acting out a dream and everyone else was in reality. I didn't get pregnant, pay taxes, or fail miserably at anything. Life gave me nothing but lemons these past four months.

Reality check inserted here.

Now that I'm reconnected with my Blackberry; impeccable Hi-Speed Internet; recordable HD T.V; a multi-functional washer/dryer; daily encounters with the SUN; the devalued American dollar; dishes that don't wash themselves; a dog that doesn't follow you leash-lessly; a non-recycling family; a career choice that doesn't show up on your doorstep; a few bad memories from the past; and all of my overdue relationships have ended. These are the publishable parts of my reality.

I'm off to New York City tomorrow to face the rest! I have dearly missed my dazzling city. Even though I haven't ever experienced love, I KNOW that I'm absolutely infatuated with my city.

Good-bye. The American way.