different. I move without moving, to the "unmoved mover's" beat.
True New Yorkers don't sit at home. Growing up we spent idle time
playing on the street, whistling to girls from the stoop, there was
always a constant air of conspiration.
In doing nothing you did a lot. Talk, watch, shout, bouncing balls,
making deals, contemplating the universe from the depths of the
concrete maze. Watching Kitty Genovese get mugged.
There is no inherent vibrancy and life to this city. Every tree in
central park is planned, a constructed work of art. All of lower
Manhattan is granite. The spirit that moves through Washington Square
comes from the native burial ground underneath.
How difficult to be indifferent to the city of love and love lost.
I roamed the streets weeping in fits of mental anguish and unemployment.
Growing up is always difficult, no matter where you are though no place
makes you as conscious of the camera, the cinema, the symphony of it
all than this maddened, jumbled dream.
I know many have written and spoken of, alluded to what I write.
Though it will never be enough, I will never get my fill of hearing,
understanding and feeling the power of the place.
This is Shiva's city, of destruction and creation, life and death on a
daily basis. Where only illusion can set you free. Where you long to
leave and never come back, knowing each passing day and night makes it
more difficult to adjust anywhere else.
I only sleep well on trains now or if my window is open to the noise of
the street. Aeroplanes and taxis and the rumble of people, everyday I
see my lover, my killer, judas, sometimes I see my father again.
He is carrying a suitcase and his thermos. His trench coat is open,
his russian hat sits lightly on his head. He eats his tomatoe and
cheese sandwich while looking out into the crowd. Between sips of tea
he whistles and smiles. The New York times under his arm, rushing home
to catch Peter Jennings on the 7pm news. Eating dinner, contemplating
life on his favorite chair. 11pm Ted Koppell on Nightline and then
1130 Johnny Carson, just his monologue and then good night sweet dreams
to do it all over again.
Sometimes my parents would stay up late to watch Benny Hill. Thats
when I knew that they were in love, from the start.