drawn by me, circa 1997-1998

I remember sitting at the edge of the fountain at Lincoln Center…people milling all around me. I remember wishing I was part of it…wishing I knew someone. Wishing I had a reason to be there…somewhere to go. But another part of me enjoyed being unto myself. At that time it was safe for me, being alone and unencumbered. Nobody expected anything of me. Nobody knew who I was. There was great freedom in this, and sometimes the freedom in this allowed the great strain I felt within me to be lifted. Sometimes wonderful things would happen, like the time a man walked up to me and asked if I’d like a ticket to go inside and watch the ballet. He wasn’t going to use it, and he wondered if I would. Now, ballet is not my favorite. Perhaps it is too cultural for me. Or too slow. I’m the type who likes to watch tap dancing — or modern jazz — that’s the stuff that makes me feel alive in my soul. But I walked into that theater, with my newly acquired ticket…dressed in jeans and carrying my leftover meatball sandwich from Subway…and I remember that I enjoyed every second of that performance. It was truly something special, and living proof that the city was as magical as I suspected.

I also remember a large rock that jutted into a lake in Central Park. It was big enough for me to walk out and sit on and I would take a pen and paper with me and I would perch myself on its tip and look out over the water and write. It was such a quiet place…so overwhelmingly peaceful. There were few noises that infested that spot. It was magical in its serenity. I sometimes wonder if I went back now if I would be able to find the same rock…if I would be able to recognize it. I visited it so many times during the time that I lived there, part of me thinks I would easily find it…and another part of me thinks that maybe I would happen upon another rock that looks enough like it to believe that it’s the same rock instead.

It’s been maybe 12 years since I’ve been back, but I still remember the energy of the city. I still remember the amazing way it made me feel. I still remember the smell…I loved the smell…especially when rain was heavy in the air and mixed with the scents of concrete and hot dogs and dirt. The city was so alive, it made me feel alive. At a time I so desperately needed to feel alive, it awoke my senses. It was like an architectural, geographical upper. I belonged there. I had no real purpose for being there and I had no place I had to be. Nobody was waiting for me around the corner. Nobody expected me to be anywhere at 5pm. Nobody who was there really knew I was there, too. But, I belonged. It was a feeling I got when I walked down the streets and through the buildings and when I rode under the ground. The energy of the city coursed through my veins and awoke my senses…made me feel necessary…made me feel whole. If I went back today, I know the city would still hold the same familiarity it did when I exited the doors of the Port Authority the very first time in 1996. I instantly knew the city. It held open its arms for me and embraced me like its beloved child. I understood it. And what is more, it knew and understood me. Mutual love and understanding from something that wouldn’t hurt me back. The city never let me down. It never promised to be anything it wasn’t. It just was what it was and always would be.