On the train you see the truth of who you are. What do you want to do? Write, read, throw tarot, observe, think, zone out, listen to music, browse your phone?
I want to be philosopher, muse, lover, explorer, preacher. Do I want sometimes to get lost, to have fantasies, to find and make my own way, be heard, shout, ask the world to love me. Observe, give something that looks like something, course correct.
This too is Sunday.
In New York, I’ve had those moments, saying and doing dumb things, smart things, feeling myself expand, the thoughts grow--of ports and rivers, of black neighborhoods destroyed or being taken over, of countrymen separated and united, of neuroses that threaten to undo or create me, of trying to be a better person, yet reveling in my badness, of wondering where I’m trying to go in the attempt to escape, soak into the world, of not being able to take another second of this city, but wanting months more, of wafting smells that invoke vices and desires, of couples leaning into each other in a way that I’ve forgotten. Of too much litter, construction, parks, water, black people everywhere, people from everywhere. Art and access and culture and food and customs and spirituality and inspiration absolutely everywhere. Until the experiment of Atlanta obviously can not be that of New York, and I’m left wondering. What in the world will this one be? New Orleans is next, but part of me longs to know about New York. In the summertime, babies saying mi gente, block parties, afropunks, soul sessions, Bedstuy, colador, stores selling shea butter by the vats, beautiful brown people from everywhere, Spanish spoken like English, passing through Little Senegal, the loss of greenspace and it feeling...right.