New York has it's women. That and the delivery system. I mean, I haven't been here for six months but give 'em the ol' ring, ring and they're answering for me by name (pronouncing better than the whole of New York could ever get straight in the five years I some how managed to call this place my home) and showing up at my 'temporary' address without question in less than thirty minutes on a Sunday. I mean that, and the butt cheeks shifting side to side in those tight maroon corduroys in front of me, as I fake a half speed walk just to soak in the mesmerizing movements, blocking out the thin, bitter air smacking and tightening every pore in my chapped face for just a few moments. Those are the only things New York has going for it.
I need face Chapstick. Does that exist? I look like I'm sunburned when I get inside. That's too fucking cold. I'm sorry, fuck this place.
Do I find it weird that I turned with the maroon corduroys into the Starbucks? No, I had planned on getting Starbucks anyway, maybe not that soon, but what's the difference? I'm coming from a city, scratch that, an island, that resembles this manhattan in size but has 1 person for every 100,000 comparatively. I mean, I go hours walking around on that island and don't see a single person. I go walking around for weeks without seeing 1,000 unique faces. And I could go 3 months without seeing someone my age if I just avoided the gym and the Starbucks -- and even then, it's the same maybe 12 girls that I've learned to love. I have no other option. Much the same as your bunkmate's (almost) hairless ass might become (at least) a part of your dreams after three years in prison. I think. Kind of like that.
So, for the women I am grateful. For the easily obtainable (decently priced for it's selection, availability, and reliability) ganja, I am also grateful. But for everything else, I fucking hate this city, I really, really hate it.
The girl in the maroon corduroys, now in front of me in line at Starbucks, hits the register and I get more than a profile and well, there it goes, there she goes from being the cutest thing I've seen in god knows, to just a blah blonde crevassed in surface only deterrents. And isn't that a metaphor for my new look at this city. Since leaving. Since seeing something new.
When I was packing up to leave here 6 months ago. I was so mad at this place. I was done with it. I was blaming it for every problem I had and I couldn't get away from it fast enough. It had taken five years, but the city had finally crawled it's way entirely into me, every muscle moved because of it, every eye opening, eye closing, it was there inside of every atom. And I was drowning in it.
I've attributed a lot of changes in my life in the past year to mushrooms, to linking in, to those moments 'truly awake', asking myself questions my body was (for the first time) unable to lie to itself about. I knew when I was tripping in July, on my rooftop in Queens, that I was not where I wanted to be. I was looking out at the rooftops below me, stretching to the mecca of Manhattan, and like the isolation moments in A Beautiful Mind, the trees started to pop up in front of me. Shining brighter than everything else. I had looked at that same skyline for three years and I don't think I ever saw the trees that brought actual life to the scatter of breathless structures polluting the world around me. And I mean, once you've realized that, once you've processed it fully, understood it and believed it wholeheartedly, I promise, there's no turning back. I knew that I had to move on, stretch out. Find more trees, more earth, more life and--
I fear the lot of them would call me a hippie after hearing such garble. But whatever man, I've seen the other side.
It makes it harder to come back here with every second I have spent away. Six month on that island changed me. I know that I'll never come back here. I don't think or assume or wonder ... I know.
Without a home, without some small slice of this island to call yours. To cover in your shit, to scent in your liking, warm to your temperature, to truly feel comfortable in, this city can be and feel fucking awful, depressing, uncomfortable, and fucking cold. The saying "home is where you feel comfortable pooping" is the most truthful statement I have ever lived and understood. And I, ladies and gentleman, no longer feel comfortable pooping in this city.
I mean, last week I went 4 days without shitting. Me. I went 4 days. I can't remember when the last time I wasn't averaging 3 shits in a day. Fuck this city. I'm over it. And this weather. Fuck it too. 19 degrees and it's almost March. LA hasn't gone below 50 in 6 weeks, but we're all pretending this is normal and just part of it .... Part of what? The misery? You get to wake up inside your 450 sqft hole and pretend it's normal to layer up just to get out of bed. To maybe get hot water and enough time to eat before rushing through your ice storm commute, suitable for huskies and cunts with thousands of disposable dollars to spend on winter gear. Cram onto that speeding tin torpedo with 100 people that maybe washed their hands and maybe brushed their teeth. Mouth breathing mumblers. You hope the sun is above the buildings on either side of you so that for a freezing second of your journey, you could be brightened by its rays. I'm bitter. Fuck this place. I've seen the other side. Those maroon corduroys are daisy dukes where I'm headed, that's all I'm saying.
No comments:
Post a Comment