August 1, 2009
My tiny apartment, painted teal and lemon, sits three stories above Christopher Street at Bedford.
I use it more as a storage facility these days. I pop in, here and there, to grab clothing, a hat, a deodorant, a different set of shades. I might sit and write there too. I prefer to write more there than at Georgi's house, where I sleep. It must be the colors. And the noise from the street below. And the volumes upon volumes of books stacked throughout the studio. There is an energy in that little room.
Today I walked my typical walk from G's. Down 6th Avenue, across west 10th, left on Bleeker, and right on Christopher. I climbed the stairs and turned on the AC. Sat down for a second and then showered. Then back out. Total time: 10 minutes in the apt.
I walk to work along Bedford Street. Past Little Owl, Moustache, Casa. Milk and Cookies. Darting over 7th Avenue I heard a man say to his female companion "I need to find a place to store my personality." Made me chuckle. Past Blue Ribbon.
I smell trash and chicken within a block's passing. I see tour groups and old ladies and shopkeepers. And I hear a rhythm. A pulse. A beat.
And all New Yorkers feel this beat. Whether they've lived here their entire life. Whether, like myself, they're approaching five consecutive years (not counting my previous two flings). And it is moments like the one I had this morning, that bliss that only New Yorkers know, that keep me energized.
Sometimes when the weather and the lovers and the hook-ups and the parties and the dinners and the rent and subway and the taxis and honking and the talking and the hip-hop and the concrete and the neon and the rats and the dry cleaners and the runners and the bikers and homeless and the children and distractions of sight, sound, taste and touch fade away you're left there alone with the city.
Surrounded by eight million, but alone. All alone though within grabbing distance of strangers.. Feels like it's your city. Like everything, everything, was made, just for you. Just for you. New York has that way. It grabs, holds, and pushes you forward. Its pulse and its rhythm and its blood are yours too.
A New York moment. We've all had them. Some are lucky to have them on repeat.