There is a routine in the morning that I’ve built up into something quite fragile and disorderly. The problem is that I don’t know how to react to all those others that are involved, and I end up containing myself to the bubble I’ve let shield all else. This is how I fall back into the safety of the mind, this is how I play blindly in the pit of fire, this is how I let routine rule the way I speak.
The first thing I see when I wake up, is the melancholy of the bedroom window, what with its white drapery, and soothing light that drips like honey. There is a harsh amount of pain that hits the inners then, causing me to think of Keats, as well as those quick faeries he was always so able to imagine.
Yesterday was something of tumultuous design, and I started it off in the way it’s typical to. The two young boys opened the door on me naked while I was in the bathroom, and Arlo’s five year old gaze, settled down towards the nape of my neck, until it carried well to the breasts and that large bush that makes me female. It reminded me all very much of Owen, my biological father’s definite look-alike, that had walked in on me in a similar fashion, only to boast:
“You’re beautiful, Alyssa. But what is that puddle of red?”
Such things turn into that of the fleeting, however. They play with the dust that solidifies actuality. They parade around too, and offer something preliminary, before the storm of communication strangles the willingness to fly. It’s then that we choose to be alone. There is a map of this encoded in our teeth.
I went to the kitchen and made a cup of coffee. Thoughts of that flimsy boy with the crooked smile, were fresh in the pot of black. I always verbalize that which he used to, and carry the mess of our failure. I couldn’t sing in his presence. All I could do was just hum. He’d point this out later and poke fun.
On the train to 23rd, people burned holes in my sky. Their eyes were vicious and kept trailing back to the paisley material of my dress. What they didn’t seem to understand most, was the silly colonial boots I was wearing. These externalized chaps, were something that stemmed back to the farm life I was quick to adhere to, back in the wild at home. They were a part of my past.
Fear is an ugly thing. In fact, it serves as the opposite of love, and is the worst of evils, I think. Likewise, I felt it play in my head and destroy my sense of self-confidence. My courage was only re-gained when an old lady writing in a notebook, gave me an intense smile that made my insides sing extra special.
At Hotel Chelsea, I just mainly thought about Alex and what he had said about Patti Smith the night before. I had complained about not snatching a ticket to see her perform at the MET, and he said to hunt one down as soon as I possibly could. “She kind of saved your life and gave you a rebirth”, he whispered unknowingly. What was eery though, is that he just wasn’t right. I thought her someone beautiful yes, but it was more so the parallels of our life, that made me adore everything she had to offer. There was a strange layer of understanding, and I knew Alex was my Robert Mapplethorpe, just as much as I was his Patti. What we learned from that conversation, is that magic comes for those who make it exist. You can’t thirst for excitement all the time in order to see results. Sometimes you need to work for it. Talking and doing are two very separate things. You need to attempt to put your dreams into action.
Planting myself in front of the hotel, I took pictures of random strangers walking by. They gave me a speculative look of dismay, but never stopped to tell me of their ugly truths. Instead, they nodded me off and continued running to wherever it was that they were headed to. I liked this new feeling of urgency and felt dirty and naked, documenting the way the world looked, not only in the way it surrounded me, but as well, if not better, in the way I internalized it.
Walking towards East Village, I was stopped by a young boy that was sporting a GreenPeace t-shirt. He looked familiar, as if his nose was a chipped portion of a statuette, that I had seen in the face of someone else. He wanted a signature and he wanted money and he wanted a hug. I didn’t ignore him like those other individuals that knocked out some sort of secret agenda. Instead, I gave him the hug he deserved. He liked this and said my happiness was worth more than the greed of a dollar. There was no joking involved.
Closer to Union Square, a tall pillar of smoke, made its way towards the top of the buildings there. Something about this visual poetry, reminded me of that friend I have, that ended up in the hospital after taking too many anxiety medications all at once. The smoke represented something of her sorrow, and I felt tears circle my eyes. The buildings were similar to us, because like everything else, they kept contained, the deliverance of the blue sky. They sheltered out a complete light, and left shadows where they were needed. They were human, in that they were mechanical. They were vulnerable and sometimes grotesque. They were scary and sometimes a soft sort of beautiful.
In the center of the square, there was a middle-aged man in a blue overcoat, eating a sandwich. He had a brown bag sitting between both legs, and he’d look up periodically, as if inquiring over the silly attention I showed him.
His focus on the sandwich, is was what crystallized my love. He hunched down over the thing, while groping it from the bottom, as if kissing someone of great integrity. Then, he’d stop gnawing on the body of it all, and pick between the teeth with thin fingers that prattled around in a musically inclined fashion.
Nearby, a young feller was playing the piano, with his dog to keep him company. It was something of great attraction, but I found the man with the sandwich more appealing. He sat there then, with a cigarette next. The cigarette danced between bare appendages, with smoke drifting in the secret realm we crafted. He sat there spoiled, a flame growing between us.
The guy at the piano said:
“Oh, jazz is still around. Over in New Orleans, it seems to be dying. But you know, over here, there’s still that flavor. It still seems to exist.”
