Poet In New York

The two elements the traveler first captures in the big city are extra human architecture and furious rhythm. Geometry and anguish. At first glance, the rhythm may be confused with gaiety, but when you look more closely at the mechanism of social life and the painful slavery of both men and machines, you see that it is nothing but a kind of typical, empty anguish that makes even crime and gangs forgivable means of escape. - Federico Garcia Lorca

You know, they've recently pardoned Lorca. How kind, right?

So, I'm quite sure that I did nothing whatever to keep my postings updated while I was in San Francisco; my only excuse can be that this is a city that is my adopted home, and there's nothing to keep you few who are reading this interested while I am, essentially, at home. Besides, you all, with the exception of a few of you, live at home. Go visit San Francisco. It's amazing. And if you do, ask me for advice, and I'll provide the best itineradry imaginable for either my queer friends, my straight friends, people who are related to me, people who have never travelled to California before, and ... well, I think that actually about covers it. I don't think any of my readers run any further down the gamut.

So, on to the East Coast.

You guys, I know this sounds ridiculous. I feel like I'm about to write something along the lines of "I just found God, and boy, is He great." And many of you know how mercilessly and relentlessly I have mocked those forsaken people who "move to New York." Let me explain this philosophy, before any of you dare to me. (Those who live in glass trailer parks ... be warned ...) See, I think that there is this certain group of young people, people who don't seem to recognize that absolutely *everyone* who is our age lacks definition and therefore feels like s/he is marooned on Isla del Ennui, or else lost in the Straits of I-Have-A-Degree-Or-Maybe-Two-But-I-Still-Don't-Feel-Like-Working. One solution that more people than is necessarily prudent opt for is the Rampantly Balls To The Wall Move To New York. Okay, fine. But my issue with this is that it's a blatant blind eye to the genuine character of the city. New York is not a place to give you definition if you don't have it already, unless your idea of definition is I-Haven't-Eaten-In-Three-Weeks (unless you count the free coffee at the YWCA, the cigarettes you bummed off the one "friend you have in New York," and everyone has that person, bless them, like the St. Christopher of ex grad students, or the crackers you stole from a salad bar in Jersey) And-The-Rats-In-My-Grotty-Apartment-Weigh-More-Than-I-Do. Don't move to the mountain, Mohammed. Let it move to you.

But oh, god. I absolutely love New York. Fortunately for me ... well, there are two things that are fortunate for me. 1) There's still acres of time in which I and those who love me can talk me out of Moving To Manhattan. 2) I DO actually have several things that would bring me there and sustain me if I did decide it was the right thing to do. Plus, the third and hidden reason is that I'm too chinchy, too proud, and (hopefully) have too much common sense to do something that might end in any sortof tail-between-the-legs situation. There's only a couple of things I'll tolerate between my legs, and trust me, they don't (generally) involve a tail.

I had an insanely fantastic time, though. Those of you who know me well know this already, and those of you who know me slightly ought to know this, too: I appreciate the Beatles, but I love John Lennon more than I love any man except my father. And in New York, as absurdly corny as it sounds, I felt like I walked around with John Lennon holding my hand. I walked through Central Park, past the Dakota and through Strawberry Fields to the Imagine mosaic, and when I stood in front of it I felt like I could feel John righ there with me, glad that I had finally made it to a place where I could feel like home.

There are so many moments on this trip, guys, where I feel at once so totally at home and so completely like ... I wonder where I'll ever find my place. Not because I feel lost; not that at all. But because I feel like I belong in every city that I visit.

I was in Philly a few days ago, and I absolutely felt like I belonged. I did all the touristy stuff, like Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell, and Betsey Ross's house, Ben Franklin's grave. I went to the Edgar Allan Poe National Historic Site, but I couldn't go in because they're closed on Monday and Tuesday. I took a photograph of a mural of the man himself, which was posted on the side of a building in what can be called nothing at all except the projects. An incredible juxtaposition. I can't explain it; perhaps there's something in brick and wrought iron that satisfies a bleak and Northeastern portion of my soul. But I loved it. And then I went to New York City, and knew that I'd met the love of my life. But you see, just like any of my Boulder undergrads, I seem to feel that way each time I meet a new one. A new love of my life.

I dunno, though - I sort of feel like Manhattan was different. Something shook my heart in Central Park, and this r(R)omantic writer will never be the same again. I love the soot on buildings that ought to be white. I love the lights. I love the buildings and the people and the smell of bodies on the subway. I love the impatient angry waiting for everything. I love the energy.

And really - how many of you have I called at 4 AM? Where better for this wide-awake girl to live than in the city that never sleeps?