Squished meat and imaginary weekends- or more thoughts on walking.
I went back to New York, just for a day and a walk. Long and measured by the full length of Manhattan. With frequent stops for:
1. A bagel from my favorite spot which wasn’t quite as good as I remember.
2. Coffee.
3. An appointment with the doctor who will clear me for my visa, which consisted of:
a. waiting
b. small talk
c. explaining myself
d. height, weight, vitals
e. discussions of the hospital I was born in. (an example: “No, I don’t think you delivered me, that doctor looked like Tom Selleck” “I know him!” and so on)
4. Coffee. (very expensive)
5. Juice. (At this point I realized you can’t escape any shop in the city without parting ways with at least $10)
6. Lunch into Dinner with my ex. He is still so beautiful.
I have been back to New York several times in the past few years. For a time it was one of *my* places, as it has always been a place for many a person with an idea of making it or whatever. But somehow this time was different. Maybe because I no longer have any emotional ties to the city, or the bad memories have faded and now there is just a pleasant wash of nostalgia on my old work commute and corner spot and the book store, and the other places I recognize not from a movie but from the internal cinema of my memories. The whole day had this gentleness to it.
I also didn’t bring a camera, which I think is very healthy when you go to New York. That whole damn city has been photographed to death, I fear there is simply nothing interesting left to look at through a viewfinder. Or maybe I have become uninteresting. This possibility thrills me.
And just as soon as I was there I was gone again, back into the habits of work and spending time with the elderly. I worry about the elder woman and what it means to be a woman. I chopped off half my hair in an act of subconscious protest. She loved it, and petted it gently. She cried when she told me of her poor mistreated sister. Mistreated by life and men. She nurses the elder man with exceptional care and little thanks. There is always food in the fridge for me. She is the kind of person who walks past you with such poise that even age couldn’t touch and you just sigh and think, “what a lady.” She wears an abundance of stripes.
And there is always something else to learn here. HERE, the place I am waiting. It occurred to me that waiting really is just some kind of faith. That the thing you’re waiting for will be worth it. That the friendships will survive you. That the learning won’t be wasted. And they won’t be. The brain can hold many things at once, and there is always need for at least one more cocktail recipe. They’re useful for impressing women.
Imagining future Sundays
There is no Sunday, sneaking up on silent shoes.
The burning ice, swirled and tempered by the glass.
The fast repeal of bodies, crushing at the door, let in, and left again
only a dirty napkin and a ring of condensation to let you know.
I never guessed how much of waiting involved *waiting*
you know? Or how strange it feels to introduce myself over and over
and always lying. Finding now it feels strange to tell the truth,
nakedly. In a bed that smells of cigarettes. To a man I trust will hurt me.
To a man I know wants to. And the agony of being a daughter.
Impossible child of the child – unlicensed to create.
Or how we wait for my father’s birthday,
planning the celebration of my mother’s – two years out.
How we celebrate the dead, with a party.
A drink, poured directly into an open mouth.
A coffee, a shared mourning.
And the weakness I diagnosed as strength
is only strength, afterall.
boshai 