Sep 28, 2013

Writing Inside (And Outside)


Grad school has left little time or energy to write (/think / dream) for myself, in my own space and in my own way. Inspiration's been backed up, dried up, squished, smushed, almost forgotten. It hasn't been a good feeling.

But a recent exercise in something called "intracranial" journalism (another term for stream-of-consciousness writing) got things flowing (or, semi-flowing) again. It was like putting on a favorite nightie found at the back of the closet -an experience not altogether foreign, what with the huge move back this past August.

After some nice encouragement to continue exploring this genre, I wanted to share my first formal attempt with readers. I'm starting to re-think my place lately - in journalism, in arts, in social media, even in NYC -and seem to keep circling back to finding a spot where I can integrate all my passions. Maybe this is a first step? You decide.

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The green jewels of salad leaves, the ruby red of berries, oil gleaming and dancing with the salty-sweet balsamic river, extra sweater and out the door, whooshing down elevator and clomping across lino lobby, footsteps echoing off ancient tile. Small hands wrapped around hot tea in purple tin, quick broad steps down a drum-filled street, to more steps, NYPD peering down stairs, badges glinting against the orange-red setting sun. One more down, another set of stairs, another... and another. Grime, grub, a million days and a million sweating bodies, a million sad bored faces, tracing and trudging over cold concrete and still, hot air. Over right, over left. Take the M, don't take the M. Wait. And wait. Wait.

Headlights. Hope. A quick trip. Lower back yowl. Empty seat. Relief. Glum silence and squeaking brakes. Elbowing past ladies in heels and men in too-tight suits, the shiny shrieking harpies of neon beckoning, a shrine of Kodak and Samsung, of Annie and Once, of Big Macs and sunglasses. The land of the free, the home of the brave.

Follow the voices. Follow the music. Follow what your soul is telling you to do, where you're being pulled... by God? By light? By love? By nostalgia sentiment qua qua qua divinity in denim smirking at you from a vintage steering wheel in a stupid youth misspent and half-forgotten? Let's say it was magic, always the magic, the silent, loud, calm, chaotic wordless wonder of this... this grand Russian madness, this functioning chaos, this opera, of cars and buses and tourists and fans and lights, winking, beckoning...  and red chairs set up in rows, red carpets set up in rows, you're royalty, come sit down, come listen.

Tatiana's writing a letter, she's berating herself, she thinks she can convince him, she can change his mind... she can't change his mind of course, we all know what's coming, but the music... the sound, Tchaikovsky's wall of gorgeous vibrant sound washes over the assembled, the bypassers in suits frown and pause, looking up, around, then straight ahead, cocking head at that square with the singing bodies and the big dresses, the men with muttonchops and the fake falling snow. That grand, gorgeous sound.


There's a scramble for seats, mittened hands holding steaming cups of hot chocolate, it's so cold now, but it's so hot... the sound is coming like a gush of joy, of grief, of relief, of youth and hope and a full, fat embrace of life and all its painful gut-pulling glory... even Elmo stops, Cooke Monster stops, Spider Man stops, Batman stops, everything and everyone absolutely stops... and ... and... and... surges, gushing... moving, feeling, flowing, dancing, breathing, fucking, eating, drinking, waving, walking... walking away... but you're not.

You know why you're here, not even the cold could keep you away. Nothing will. Nothing could. Nothing else matters.