I have long thought of writing as another way of taking a picture…light and shadow portrayed via word choice…texture reflected in the syllables rubbing together…the invitation to enter offered in both the specificity and the expansiveness… I recently read a stunning example of this–the first section of Dylan Thomas’ radio play, Under Milk Wood--and then I found this recent snapshot of thought and wanted to post it–something like a cerebral selfie in the moment?
17 August, 2014
9 East 13th Street at Joe the Art of Coffee for a cappuccino before Xavier. Had a small coffee earlier but that didn’t quite cover the need for cobweb cleaning and clarity of thought.
As I rode down here on the M3, I read for a bit and also found myself simply looking out the window and breathing deeply, thinking–This is my City–City of my heart and familiar as the touch of someone who knows me well. There is room here. And, I fit. The ease of conversation with the woman getting her hair colored and set at Franco’s, the exchange with the woman at Agata’s when she heard me say “ciambella”– “Oh…does it taste as beautiful as it sounded when you said that??” The side conversation with the woman at the bus stop–weather, temperature, jacket or no jacket?, what will it all mean for winter?
I keep saying ‘Thank you’ for knowing of a place like this–for an experience of home that IS connected firmly to a place. The Flatiron appeared in the front window of the bus and all I could do was smile and think–‘There you are! It is good to see you…”
It does my being good to simply touch certain places here–as though reminding or reassuring myself of their presence, their steadfastness.