My treasured objects were mingled with the laundry. My work area was a jumble of manuscript pages, musty classics, broken toys, and talismans. I tacked pictures of Rimbaud, Bob Dylan, Lotte Lenya, Piaf, Genet, and John Lennon over a makeshift desk where I arranged my quills, my inkwell, and my notebooks - my monastic mess.
When I came to New York I had brought a few colored pencils and a wood slate to draw on. I had drawn a girl at a table before a spread of cards, a girl divining her fate. It was the only drawing I had to show Robert, which he liked very much. He wanted me to experience working with fine paper and pencils, and shared his materials with me. We would work side by side for hours, in a state of mutual concentration.
This quote is fromJust Kidsby Patti Smith. I am in the process of reading it, along with a novel a friend of mine wrote. Tonight I made myself the largest cup of tea you can imagine- filled it to the brim. I curled up on my bed with my laptop, sketchbook, Patti Smith, and decided it was time for me to return to this blog I created. Time for me to return to writing.
A couple weekends ago I went back to Pennsylvania for an Artist Retreat with my theater company. I returned to writing there.
A week ago I went to Portland, Oregon, for business and returned to writing aboard the plane back to New York.
I was clacking away on the laptop my work provided for me. Not the one I am typing upon at this moment. That keyboard was intensely louder than this one, and I kept waking the poor woman sleeping next to me each time a brilliant thought crossed my mind and I couldn’t help but type, type, type upon the keys with the utmost strength.
I am listening to fireworks below in the distance, and I can only assume they are for Fleet Week or Memorial Day.
I take a large sip of tea, which my roommate informed me is highly caffeinated, so it appears I will be up for several more hours.
Several more hours to type away, to read, to sing myself to sleep with the Joni Mitchell song stuck in my head. “Oh I could drink a case of you, oh darling.” That with the rock ‘n’ roll sound of the ACDC song I heard at a bar earlier on makes for a very strange mix.
I continue writing.
I continue thinking.
It’s been a strange couple of months here in the Big Apple. Soon my parents will be joining me and will be able to experience some of the highs and lows that this city throws at passers by. I pray that it will be kind to them, and that they will see the city as I see it. A home away from home. One of my many homes. Whether it be California, Connecticut, New York, or driving in my car along the I-5, I find home within myself and the words that echo in my head.
Is it odd to get words stuck in your head? Or I guess I should say phrases. I get phrases stuck in my head. A series of adjectives, nouns, and verbs that reverberate within my soul and beg to be released unto paper. Does that make me a writer? I have no answer.
I continue to write.
It’s humid already, and the rains have already began. People are unsure of what to wear, or how to carry umbrellas against the constant sidewalk traffic in midtown. Sometimes I go with no umbrella and ballet flat shoes. I prefer to feel the water upon my scalp and soak into my shoes. I don’t like raindrops upon my glasses though. That drives me crazy.
This tea is quite good. It’s called African Dew. I think of my uncle who is living in Africa at this moment, and I wonder what time it is for him there. I wonder what the air feels like in comparison to the humidity here. Someday I would like to travel to Africa, see the wide open spaces, the animals, the people, hear the sounds and the silence, instead of the horns honking and people screaming. Sometimes I would rather hear the buzzing of bees instead of the sound of a semi rolling along Amsterdam.
What I wouldn’t give to escape to a forest somewhere. To smell pine trees and hear the crackling of twigs breaking beneath my feet. To go back to Tahoe, where I partially grew up, and come face to face with nature.
The city is wonderful. The city is home. The city can make you or break you, and right now it’s combination of both. I know I belong here, at least for this time in my life, but how long will it be until I run away? Until I flee the states and start a new life as a Bohemian in Prague or Paris or Turkey?
Maybe Patti Smith is getting to me. Maybe I was born in the wrong era. Meant to be a hippie child roaming New York in the sixties. Maybe I’m just searching for something I haven’t found yet. Maybe it’s a version of myself I am touching upon, just getting to know.
Who’s to say, but it’s part of the journey, and all I can do is continue to write.
