Live – Lightning Crashes (unplugged) at 31:37
The last time I was in New York was a long time ago…I don’t know what year, but the band Live was hot on the sidewalk and I found the cassette tape and listened to nothing else in the world in the back seat on long van rides from Manhattan back to Connecticut with my arm over the fabric and car lights passing like the stars west of never. Calvin Klein opened a store with one of everything on white concrete shelves and herringbone blazers at the Polo Mansion were the next thing to becoming a god next to the darkest grey wool Armani flannel I found for the trip east . 1990 something and I already hated Generation X and why should I read a book about youth today – then – written by someone who grew up 10 years before I did?
“Do you want to get out of here?”
Words are sometimes lost of their poetry when there is only so much to say.
I sat on the beach and stared out in the darkness past the rows of white sails waiting for a better day. There is a photo somewhere…not digital…and I wondered with no idea how to find this place on the map how far it was to Boston, Nantucket, anywhere but right here right now.
In the dream her eyes are, ‘pale blue come alives’, like in the song, like the little steps down the hall that circle the foot of my bed before I open my eyes and fall in love again, but in New York they’re a mirage of hazel and grey, bricks and steel, as the lights pass by.
In the dream that was my borrowed home, the twin towers are standing, the doorman at Tiffany’s is wearing a hat, there is a girl waiting at the Empire State Building, the Rockefeller Center and the people of New York are blessed with a giant Diego Rivera that wasn’t smashed and dumped in the trash, the gangs are white kids with tight pants and Puerto Rican’s who can all dance, and the old Jewish waitress off Madison yelling, “Who ordered a Snapple?” walked to the bus after work that day like she did every other day for 27 years.
I stepped off the curb and didn’t take a picture of the patrons in the sunshine in the painting in the open windows of the sidewalk cafe or the garbage swept from the streets each morning heading in to work far too early…and when I look up from my desk I see Fifth Ave. and the Flatiron Building in a wall of black and white canvas and think, sometimes, it takes a step backward to step forward again.
Peace, love and Godspeed New York.
My mom was driving east through the Rockies with no idea, my sister – who lives in Boston – was working at the Pentagon (she was at her hotel across the street when the plane hit) and two days later I broke my back in two places.