i have as yet to meet the love of my life. has that ever happened to anyone else but me? well, if this were a movie and due to my lack of funds and my traversing the causeways of NY i should be ripe for a romantic and sustaining moment.
i'm waiting.
i look wistful whenever i can and the lighting is right, preferably when the sun is setting and there's a slight breeze. i make eye contact and look despondantly away at all the appropriate people. i sit fervently writing at cafes, restaurants, central park, on a bench, near a wall, hoping to peak the interest of romantic-lead-passerbys. i walk defiantly and magnetically through steam (which is rising up volumounously through grates), my scarf trailing behind me, and my coat flap opening just slightly...
who's that girl?
i also read intelligently crafted books on trains. i go into places called "untitled" and "once upon a tart"... i look interested in everything, whenever i have to, and disinterested and focused whenever i have to look internally thoughtful or driven...
i'm waiting.
perhaps i'm not alone enough. the din of the crowd in all those causeways, the central stations, the 34th avenues of the world. perhaps i haven't suffered enough. i'm only irritated on the surface about designer dogs and their urination on all sidewalks, slightly amused by the grafetti, i think the trash is part of the set. i have only cried bcs of the cold wind in my eyes. i'm embracing credit card debt so i can't be the lone girl with a coffee habit and no nickels to spare. i don't dodge the subway turnstiles bcs i can't afford it. i don't have an up and coming corporate job of anykind. i don't have a drug habit or an alcoholic boyfriend to escape. my dream of artistry is not in the galleries of New York. it, is in los angeles. but perhaps it could be here. perhaps my life could take a different direction in these small idyllic moments. i'm waiting. but,
i am transient. i am a tourist.
i am waiting.
the storms pass, the fine weather continues charming. i wrap my scarf tightly and my jacket just so. i change film. i take notes. i am too aware.
i buy coffee. i never call for a cab. there is only so long i can wait by the water before i have to go back inside. so i walk. foot-sore and long in the face. i check my watch. i watch the city slide away into the night. the moon is a sliver. red and yellow leaves flurry across my path. i cross the street at a break in traffic. i watch the shops and all the lives. i climb the 4 flights up.
i am waiting.
7 comments:
Love your writing. Good that all that education isn't going to waste. It is a good thing not to meet the love of your life in New York unless he was going to relocate to L.A. or perhaps if he was a tourist or a L.A. gallery owner on an art buying trip to the Big Apple. Why do they call it the Big Apple: Seems to me I knew once, but no longer. Find out will you please?
Don't forget to eat your vegetables and keep warm.
This was your best entry ever. Very, very good. I'm sure there's a more befitting word than good to declare this tasty post, but your mom put you through school and not me. So good will have to do, from me.
Hey, tell me the identity of Alan Smithee. Their recent comment was brilliant, and I think you know who they are. In fact, there is a part of me that feels Mendacious (that's you) and Alan (that's ?) are one in the same. I hereby demand that you offer irrefutable evidence, to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that you (Mendacious) are in fact a separate entity of the other (that being Alan Smithee). You have twenty-four hours. After that, I'm blowing the cover on this composition of chicanery, this editorial extortion, this manuscripted masquerade. You know I can, you know I will. 24 hours.
New York was dubbed the "Big Apple" in 1927 by guys in the horse racing set in New Orleans- a newsreporter penned their phrase in reference to NY being what every thoroughbred aspired to in terms of their careers- chasing the big apple... an "amateur" historian actually found this out- not those certified real historian bastards. i found it out in the lonely planet guide to NY.
ALSO: 24 hours! I'm going to Coney Island to eat a hot dog. How can I possibly respond to that in 24 hours. Except to say I have no idea... why don't you ask Penelope? I'll try to think of something more audacious to say later.
penelope demands until saturday. this alan smithee fellow is elusive!
Why Saturday, 'Penelope'? Will that be the earliest you might have all your bags unpacked and be settled in from your 'trip' to New York?
I have documents.
There is still a chance to settle out of blog.
Karen, I didn't want to have to do all this. Really.
now now let's not name call.
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