It’s humid from last night’s summer rain and much earlier than I would normally be up on a Sunday. I’m incredulously eying an impressive network of cardboard scraps duct taped to the sidewalk in an effort to tamp down electrical cords for who-knows-what. It’s this place between inventiveness and absurdity that I love about New York.
It's not so different from screaming underwater, muffled and blunted by the film between sleep and waking. Screaming in a dream is like screaming in a phone booth made of warped plexi. The sound expels in visible waves, thuds clumsily in slow motion as it meets the walls, does an inelegant pirouette and rattles back again.
When I run south along the Hudson in the early evening the sinking summer sun blinds me just enough that it’s easier to close my eyes completely and let my feet snap beneath me in a silent vote of confidence. As each step catches in momentary suspension I trust my body to carry me to the next. They say all our suffering is self-created, and in the private dark behind my eyelids my mind turns over the same tired, beaten thoughts.
I feel heartbroken. But don’t you need love first for a heart to break? Is love some shellac that must be painted in thick strokes, hardened to a sheen, ripened to a patina to look like time and something shared? You need only as much as the back of a spoon, and a tiny tap at just the right spot to crack it wide open.