was just read hypocritically, when youth-on-the-line spies a safety net of anonymity: he will bounce back. "I am an artist, so I have to leave," I said at some point last night.
Now I'm cleaning up this mess for a move at one o'clock. Clutter is a ghost that pokes, and it just wouldn't let me sleep; I'm dry-eyed, drained and averted-in-the-gut to things suggesting the same.
Sameness… though I’ve lived in six different neighborhoods throughout Brooklyn and Manhattan, it’s always been in cramped spaces, with roommates. In succession they've liked me increasingly, and I’ve feigned comfort accordingly. Humanely, I’ve long stopped leaving dishes in the sink. And I've never had guests: What you would see is not me. Early on, when I considered a floor a bed and a step-stool, shelving, I dreamt of sinking. “My roommate left the water on – again!” And those first months in Chelsea now clog my memory like hairs scumming a drain.
My point is far off but there’s no need to rope it in, because today is conclusive and the rest should stay free. There are moments… Usually while watching people perform on stage, when I become acutely aware of chronology: tonight, for instance, at the Metropolitan Opera’s performance of The Enchanted Island, I closed my eyes and committed the curtain-call to some other senses that were relating. I listened for two-step bows, felt Bravos.
Singers share in creating; I’ve always envied that. The social exchange of energy was my impossibility growing up. I compensated by rolling down hills and dancing in downpours. Alone I was touched, magnificently, and I shunned the external ‘amongness’ of people who seemed so regularly to unsteadily rise and fall. Mind you I’m from the East Coast, and I attribute the same rising and falling to our manic springs and autumns; and I would crash, colliding with cold damp dirt that seeped through skin to the bone… Did I actually embody hardness without turning into stone?
Things resilient shine and stay, and yet I swayed… Reasonably, “It’s just genetics,” but see there’s this home video of me postured like a natural-born yogi, spread-eagled and meditative at three. I guess my adapted crookedness (since adolescence then, in the context of historic tenseness), speaks to a dented self-sufficiency, or my never having trusted friends in that game of I-fall-back-and-you-catch. I fell a lot but I never made a noise so no one knew.
Well, at my new age (two Dragon years, today!) I get acupuncture for tension and rolfing for posture. Treatment of the symptom can subdue the cause. But I fear that it also anesthetizes sensitiveness.
I am leaving New York City.
Now I'm cleaning up this mess for a move at one o'clock. Clutter is a ghost that pokes, and it just wouldn't let me sleep; I'm dry-eyed, drained and averted-in-the-gut to things suggesting the same.
Sameness… though I’ve lived in six different neighborhoods throughout Brooklyn and Manhattan, it’s always been in cramped spaces, with roommates. In succession they've liked me increasingly, and I’ve feigned comfort accordingly. Humanely, I’ve long stopped leaving dishes in the sink. And I've never had guests: What you would see is not me. Early on, when I considered a floor a bed and a step-stool, shelving, I dreamt of sinking. “My roommate left the water on – again!” And those first months in Chelsea now clog my memory like hairs scumming a drain.
My point is far off but there’s no need to rope it in, because today is conclusive and the rest should stay free. There are moments… Usually while watching people perform on stage, when I become acutely aware of chronology: tonight, for instance, at the Metropolitan Opera’s performance of The Enchanted Island, I closed my eyes and committed the curtain-call to some other senses that were relating. I listened for two-step bows, felt Bravos.
Singers share in creating; I’ve always envied that. The social exchange of energy was my impossibility growing up. I compensated by rolling down hills and dancing in downpours. Alone I was touched, magnificently, and I shunned the external ‘amongness’ of people who seemed so regularly to unsteadily rise and fall. Mind you I’m from the East Coast, and I attribute the same rising and falling to our manic springs and autumns; and I would crash, colliding with cold damp dirt that seeped through skin to the bone… Did I actually embody hardness without turning into stone?
Things resilient shine and stay, and yet I swayed… Reasonably, “It’s just genetics,” but see there’s this home video of me postured like a natural-born yogi, spread-eagled and meditative at three. I guess my adapted crookedness (since adolescence then, in the context of historic tenseness), speaks to a dented self-sufficiency, or my never having trusted friends in that game of I-fall-back-and-you-catch. I fell a lot but I never made a noise so no one knew.
Well, at my new age (two Dragon years, today!) I get acupuncture for tension and rolfing for posture. Treatment of the symptom can subdue the cause. But I fear that it also anesthetizes sensitiveness.
I am leaving New York City.