The honesty game doesn’t show, when your head is somewhere else. You blame it on the stories that draw fragments of shadow when a certain amount of unidentifiable pain has you depressed. But that’s never the reason, and the reason is but an answer to a question, you’ll never be able to answer yourself.
I’m up and alive and New York has me in its jaw, just like all those writers said it would. Sometimes too though, I forget about being social, and hide at the library, researching things for that novel I keep telling myself that I’ve got warped in skin and bone. In fact, it’s something I scream for and it’s something I make my purpose. It’s all a rather swayed existence. Sometimes I kill all the pain and slide away, only to laugh up details that feel fictional but aren’t. Everything I channel and pen on paper, is some heated mystery that stems to something more. Actions are taken and efforts are absorbed.
I’ve been running back and forth between roles of striking difference. At night with friends, I’m the low-key slacker that talks about recording albums and end up drinking beers until I’m slightly buzzed. During the waking hours when the sun is melting all it decides to touch, I’m there, taking care of two kids I’ve grown to love. I sit with them and marvel at their imagination and cradle those dreams I’ve always been so quick to think of. It’s a magic that just heals.
Today marked much excitement, being that Arlo had his ballet recital. I picked up Ansel from school and there was a rain storm that had us huddled together under a broken umbrella. Running down Broadway, we stopped at a flower stand and got some pink daisies. We were proud of this. We were giggly too.
Mimi met us there at the front entrance of Arlo’s elementary school. We arrived early, so I stood around taking pictures of the hallway art leading up to the auditorium. It reminded me vaguely of the Tate Museum in London, but I thought the kid’s art was more inspiring. There was nothing fake about any of it. It was innocent and reminded me of second grade art class. I used to know a pretty girl with long white hair and thought she was a gypsy. She would sit in back of the art room and draw pictures of horses and naked ladies. I’ve always wondered what happened to her. I’m sure she’s living a good life now.
The ballet recital was just as moving. I mostly just remember looking across on stage at that beautiful little boy I love and thinking rather fleetingly, “He’s everything I adore and he’s so much more. He’s taught me so many things.”