dear janet,
how are you, little plum? i left off, in my last letter to you, at the point when i went to the holiday market in Union Square and drifted off to Berry Park later, on the collar of Williamsburg in Brooklyn, only to be depressed at the sight of shrewd circus-goers vandalizing a car, a porch and a by-lane. i got on the L, hurriedly, came to Manhattan shortly after, and took the 6 back up to the Upper East Side. safe in the clasp of my neighborhood, i went to bed feeling absolutely naked; deprived, somehow, of the energy to revolt. i am a wuss, perhaps, but i felt terrible inside of me.
i am curious what you are doing right now, as i sit on my bed, by a column of lights, listening to my table fan mumbling by the door. maybe you are singing, or writing some poetry, or dancing on ice or having an orgasm. or thinking about cock, about being a hoochie, about Darla's appendicitis or Warby Parker. maybe you are showering, or wringing your thongs, or sewing your socks, or pinching your nipples, or yawning or burping or drinking coffee. i can only keep guessing, but i really want to know. i have to find a way, perhaps, to peek into your daily life and keep myself restrained, like a prisoner of reality, in a carton of milk. but i need to be sensitive, considerate and aptly articulate as your ex-affiliate of sorts, drawn by the strings of etiquette, conscience and logic. if i over-step, or if i go too far, i hope that you will bring that to my immediate attention.
come to think of it, i have been here for almost 2 years now. almost 2 years. i guess it is not considered, by most people, a very long stretch of time, but it feels almost like a century has gone by. maybe because my city has a curiously high rate of turnover, with flopping businesses and flailing commerce, moments simply whiz by. memories parachute from the present to the past in a matter of days, or even hours, leaving me wondering about the subtleties of transactions, advertising and marketing. it is as if the city molts, every trimester, like a cicada in despair, or a mischievous snake, and dons a brand new look. reasonably fresh, temptingly smooth, and passively electric; soulful and blue, tingling and cool, prickly and prim, like that muslin feel of fresh-out-of-water. ready to begin, to re-ignite and to re-inflame a second throe of adventure.
it is winter time, little plum, and so far it has been quite severe. Hercules and Janus, the polar storms of January, have swept away a lot of lives, of trees and humans alike. my heart folds in pieces, like pleats of a skirt, when i hear the beggars roar in pain, and chatter their teeth, violently and uncontrollably, to generate body warmth and vigor. one 47 year old, the other day, was standing at the corner of 96th Street and Broadway, and seizing almost, was pulsating and yowling with every thrust of wind. it pinned on to him, like a wave of needles, like a hurricane of claws, like a symphony of blades, burrowing through his eyes, his ears, feet and thighs. i ran up to him, gave him my knit hat, and asked, are you okay? in the dimness of the streetlight, i saw his eyes roll, several times, after which he flung it away. why would you want to help a man, like me, live on like this? i did not know what he meant by that. i was trying to be nice, to be compassionate, but i felt completely and utterly dismissed. are you sure, you don't need it? i asked, hoping he'd reconsider. he shook his head, lifelessly and aimlessly, and squeezed the words out of his lips, repeating it twice. this city has defeated me, completely.
it snowed that night after i got back home, untied my shoes and doffed my coat. a warm aroma of spice lingered in the air, where pie had been baked an hour before. i poured myself a glass of wine, clipped my nails and sat by the window with a book in hand. it was sizzling inside, intensely overheated, to a point where i could almost hear layers of my skin crackle and crunch in the immensity of heat. i re-set the thermostat to 70 degrees, turned on a podcast on relaxation meditation and passed out in a matter of 7 minutes. before i slept, alone in bed, i thought about the homeless man again. where is this man? what is he possibly doing right now? did the police find him a shelter? give him some food to eat? may be they did, may be they didn't. it is possible that i will never know. he has escaped, perhaps, the embarrassment of defeat. a well-deserving man, greater than a disposable.
the next morning, around 7, i jolted out of bed and walked to the park to catch a glimpse of a still, January dawn. and what can i say, little plum? it was, indeed, the wonderland of my childhood fantasies. brilliantly white, dazzling and shimmering in the soft rays of the morning sun. my erotic city, my New York, lay curtained and shrouded in a veil of snow. so energized, so rejuvenated, i could cling on to the flecks of water, kiss the lips of dreaming cones, and play with birds by the reservoir with the passion of the maestros, the old geniuses of art, the linearity of babies, forever. the frozen lake, so delicately slick, lay bubbling and cradling in the temperate winds. a soft thrumming of marathon runners rose and fell, like doppler beads, in an abrupt emptiness. the trees in the colonnade, terse and glib, held hands, and kissed, and swayed to the winding melodies of La Boheme, wriggling and fiddling through vibraphones from the one solitary physicians home, snarling in wonderment at The Eldorado in the Upper West Side. i felt so enriched, i felt so full, i felt so emotional that i needed to pace myself, to make sure i was breathing. i was living, as if, in the interior of a snow globe, at once in vacuum as in winds, watching a race of twinkling gems, falling and fighting, ripping the brains of anti-gravity and dancing with the centers of a billion galaxies.
all of this made me miss you so much. i really wanted to, needed to, share my joy with someone at that moment. at that very moment. anyone, would do. anyone. but no one was around. and that made me sad. it made me think of the time when you visited me. in my second-floor apartment at the heart of the West Village. and how we trundled down Jane Street, by the Lilac Chocolatiers, by the wine shop on 43, swiveling with chirps and fluffy giggles of new-age couples holding hands. remember that time on Hudson Street? when you spotted Aaron Liebowitz, your high school crush, kissing a tranny in front of Pet Portraits? and how you laughed for ten minutes, your face turning red the same shade as in stop signs, puffing like strawberries, swelling, uncontrollably, like dough on a humid day? and then we walked to Minerva, saw Earp Dunnington and Cayla Epstein, drank three bottles of wine, ate olives and artichokes and talked about life? in the silence of mid-day my city slept like a baby, while we trekked through lanes and by-lanes of the historic neighborhood. we waved and smiled at Hawthorns and Ginkgoes, nestling to the sides of expansive homes, and ran home, chasing bikes and squirrels at the pinch of afternoon. with a cherry wine sky, at the cusp of dusk, we made love by the pane of the Western glass, pushed against the softness of my aluminum windows. rattling and tittering, squealing and moaning, we came at the end, together, our hearts united, our minds spinning with the dizziness of violent orgasm. we got dinner after, at Extra Virgin, on the east side of West 4th Street, and relaxed in the evening, as night came spinning down. bringing along a tea-gown of fresh, awakening stars, tinkling and glittering against the spire of the Empire State.
i am in love, janet. in love with a city that dreams with me, holds my eyes and breathes with me. cries with me and sings for me at times of loss, and sadness. while he is away, studying to be a doctor, and my heart seethes with clumps of ringing memories, my city brings me joy, leads me forward and gives me a chance to reinvent myself.
i hope you are well, janet. send Harry my wishes. i love you both.
T
the next morning, around 7, i jolted out of bed and walked to the park to catch a glimpse of a still, January dawn. and what can i say, little plum? it was, indeed, the wonderland of my childhood fantasies. brilliantly white, dazzling and shimmering in the soft rays of the morning sun. my erotic city, my New York, lay curtained and shrouded in a veil of snow. so energized, so rejuvenated, i could cling on to the flecks of water, kiss the lips of dreaming cones, and play with birds by the reservoir with the passion of the maestros, the old geniuses of art, the linearity of babies, forever. the frozen lake, so delicately slick, lay bubbling and cradling in the temperate winds. a soft thrumming of marathon runners rose and fell, like doppler beads, in an abrupt emptiness. the trees in the colonnade, terse and glib, held hands, and kissed, and swayed to the winding melodies of La Boheme, wriggling and fiddling through vibraphones from the one solitary physicians home, snarling in wonderment at The Eldorado in the Upper West Side. i felt so enriched, i felt so full, i felt so emotional that i needed to pace myself, to make sure i was breathing. i was living, as if, in the interior of a snow globe, at once in vacuum as in winds, watching a race of twinkling gems, falling and fighting, ripping the brains of anti-gravity and dancing with the centers of a billion galaxies.
all of this made me miss you so much. i really wanted to, needed to, share my joy with someone at that moment. at that very moment. anyone, would do. anyone. but no one was around. and that made me sad. it made me think of the time when you visited me. in my second-floor apartment at the heart of the West Village. and how we trundled down Jane Street, by the Lilac Chocolatiers, by the wine shop on 43, swiveling with chirps and fluffy giggles of new-age couples holding hands. remember that time on Hudson Street? when you spotted Aaron Liebowitz, your high school crush, kissing a tranny in front of Pet Portraits? and how you laughed for ten minutes, your face turning red the same shade as in stop signs, puffing like strawberries, swelling, uncontrollably, like dough on a humid day? and then we walked to Minerva, saw Earp Dunnington and Cayla Epstein, drank three bottles of wine, ate olives and artichokes and talked about life? in the silence of mid-day my city slept like a baby, while we trekked through lanes and by-lanes of the historic neighborhood. we waved and smiled at Hawthorns and Ginkgoes, nestling to the sides of expansive homes, and ran home, chasing bikes and squirrels at the pinch of afternoon. with a cherry wine sky, at the cusp of dusk, we made love by the pane of the Western glass, pushed against the softness of my aluminum windows. rattling and tittering, squealing and moaning, we came at the end, together, our hearts united, our minds spinning with the dizziness of violent orgasm. we got dinner after, at Extra Virgin, on the east side of West 4th Street, and relaxed in the evening, as night came spinning down. bringing along a tea-gown of fresh, awakening stars, tinkling and glittering against the spire of the Empire State.
i am in love, janet. in love with a city that dreams with me, holds my eyes and breathes with me. cries with me and sings for me at times of loss, and sadness. while he is away, studying to be a doctor, and my heart seethes with clumps of ringing memories, my city brings me joy, leads me forward and gives me a chance to reinvent myself.
i hope you are well, janet. send Harry my wishes. i love you both.
T
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