Being Horatio, Looking Up At The Sky
Feb. 24th, 2009 @ 01:19 pm
I am wondering how hard I am stuck here, or whether I'm even stuck. I can visualize and even fetishize that future life, the one where I totter off to Ecuador for my first glass of fresh-squeezed naranjillo, and then come home to my velvet-sweet Californian donkey, that life, you know the one, where I make clothes and read and recite poetry and drink wine out of doors and spend my days thinking in a room with distressed large-plank hardwood that I will paint and re-paint. I have the details pat - the cloudshapes and indents and tracks and creases and holes.
Then there's the past life, the one where sitting in small rooms and debating about theory and theatre seemed elemental, but wasn't really; the one where I jawed a lot about having a place to stand, without actually standing on anything; the one where I constantly felt out of my depth, because the truth was maybe I didn't care. It felt like shame to say it.
It still does.
This here is an immortal city. That's why we come year after year, we bland vague pilgrims from every small town in the world, we come to be a part of something longer-lasting than feeble humanity. The people crush all around, the friends and the otherwise, and they prop you up and make you feel like it's something else, to just exist. To say I live in New York and really mean it: I live, I breathe this impossible air, I do the mundane shuffle to and from, to and from. And you believe them, don't you, you believe in the weight of the thing, of merely surviving in this other-countried madhouse, and you wear that like a badge of distinction, because not to do so would feel like cheating. I've been here for long enough that I've stopped, in certain ways, feeling startled, and I'm questioning whether this is such a good thing. The jury being out, the tide rolls. The city won't last forever. I make my little plans, I shuffle the cardboard cut-outs of future selves, would-be selves, thinking about tarot cards and the past. Trying to remember but not dwell. Trying not to hang myself out to dry.
The fortune is as it ever was: Be present. Be present in the day. To put it another way, "try to be true to me, for things are bad all over, etc. etc." To put it another way, life, in the end, might really turn out to be a never-ceasing march of getting stuck and getting stuck more.
Can I bake you an awesomesauce pie?
|Date:||February 24th, 2009 07:40 pm (UTC)|| |
I am of the opinion that you ought to move to the Midwest, and live with us among the cows and corn and fountains and such. It's a good place, here, with good people, and it might help you to determine if NYC is truly where you belong or if its time and purpose in your life has passed.
Then again, I could be slightly biased on all of that. ;)
That just might happen, actually.
From My Dinner With Andre
And when I was at Findhorn, I met this extraordinary English tree expert, who had devoted his life to saving trees. He just got back from Washington, lobbying to save the redwoods? He's eighty-four years old and he always travels with a back-pack 'cause he never knows where he's gonna be tomorrow! And when I met him at Findhorn he said to me: "Where are you from?" And I said: "New York." He said: "Ah, New York! Yes, that's a very interesting place. Do you know a lot of New Yorkers who keep talking about the fact that they want to leave but never do?" And I said: "Oh, yes!" And he said: "Why do you think they don't leave?" I gave him different banal theories. He said: "Oh, I don't think it's that way at all." He said: "I think that New York is the new model for the new concentration camp, where the camp has been built by the inmates themselves, and the inmates are the guards, and they have this pride in this thing they've built, they've built their own prison. And so they exist in a state of schizophrenia, where they are both guards and prisoners. And as a result they no longer have, having been lobotomized, the capacity to leave the prison they've made, or to even see it as a prison. And then he went into his pocket and he took out a seed for a tree, and he said: "This is a pine tree." He put it in my hand and he said: "Escape, before it's too late."
ha! very good! thanks Don.
Hmm... so much to think about. I'm worried about leaving and coming back to a place I don't know, and I'm worried about leaving and finding that everywhere else seems less-than. And, of course, worried about leaving the friendfamily.
I worry about all of these things as well...
For as much as I dislike how irritating New York is for getting places and how little I get to smell nature and humid air, this is where all the people I love are. And I just have these moments sometimes, when I'm chomping on tapas and drinking sangria in a tiny little Greenwich Village restaurant, when I just love the hell out of this stupid city.
Exactly. And no one who doesn't live here could possibly get that. The guy in the story, it's totally fine for him to say it's like a prison... he isn't madly in love with the view from my roof or the food at Devi or people venting about hellacious train karma.
I think this post may have sounded way more maudlin and city-disparaging than I actually feel. :)
|Date:||February 25th, 2009 04:05 am (UTC)|| |
What Don MEANT to say is that My Dinner With Andre was filmed in the Jefferson Hotel in Richmond and therefore he's saying to MOVE TO RICHMOND.
Ugh. That dude belongs in Asheville and I belong in NY!