WHY ARE WE HERE?

 [ LOVE LETTERS & HATE MAIL

addressed TO NEW YORK CITY ]

TO LOVE: SHIH TZU ON THE SQUARE

spring morning. raybans (hand-me-downs). 

showtunes (what else). 

washington square. 

just getting to the good part of "on my own," eponine pleading with the misty river. giving it my best shot; morning, so a bit rusty, need a few minutes to warm up in the shower. audible, theatrics, i am julie andrews in these glasses. 

"...and i know it's only in my mind..." 

sense of awareness kicks in, hate to see it happen, as i come dangerously close to tripping. eyes scale down, far from the silvery streets in france. a shih tzu. gray and white watercolor. split ponytail on forehead. 

"...i'm talking to myself and not to him..." 

human feet (maybe birkenstocks, but can't be sure), sweatpants to its right. eyes wander up, regaining bearings. 

"so sorry!" 

and "although i know that he is blind" 

and eye contact 

and "still i say" 

and double take, because we know each other 

and "there's a way for us" 

but how? a college friend's dad? a middle school teacher? 

"i love him" and it dawns on me 

"i love him" (it dawns on eponine) 

"i love him" 

so sorry ("but only on my own"), alec baldwin, for tripping on your shih tzu. 

TO HATE: DINNER ON THE 1

laser beams shooting from eyeballs, hoping the doors of the local might clip shut before the express pulled in. too many creatures in the car already. (there are no humans below the sidewalk at rush hour.) for the local train to pull away from the platform. late, as always.

because the 123 is my strongest spiritual adviser (you are not in control), the doors did not clip shut. osmosis: express to platform to local. onslaught of creatures. at spring, i had nestled into that great spot, doors to my left (no westward neighbor), one lone seat and a shiny metal wall to my right. i moved all seventeen bags (because that's how we travel here) off the eastern seat and onto my lap, willing my existence narrower. 

mother and son enter with the lava (hot and result of eruption and potentially fatal and most definitely very sticky) and make house. before i could offer my seat to boy (big boy), standing to my left, he dives into dinner with this date, sitting to my right. mother and son share a heaping helping of old country buffet. fried chicken, mashed potatoes, creamed corn in styrofoam china passed up and over seventeen bags as we go uptown, uptown, uptown.

to address a few faq: utensils not appreciated. napkins not in laps. did not chew each bite twenty times (best digestion). did not stir my appetite. 

TO LOVE: NIGHTWATCH

i walk south on university place most mornings. early. early for normal creatures and especially early for college-aged creatures. (only oddballs schedule class before noon.) there's a cvs on the west side of the street with a big vent that lets out warm, pharmacy smelly air. febreze and face wash and scented toilet paper in gusts. most mornings, there's a lady curled up outside the vent. a heap of filthy blankets and too-small mary-janes and supersize mcdonalds cups and matted hair, sometimes with scrunchies, and slivers of skin sometimes. sometimes, too, there's a beautiful man with espresso skin and too-big jeans, hem tattered half-covering shoes with holes in the big toes. he stands with his back against the vent. he sways with half-sleep. the lady beside him. he jerks upright when his eyes will themselves shut for a moment or two. keep watch, dear lord.

TO HATE: NEWARK AT CHRISTMAS

i had plans to go south just before christmas, which is no wise plan at christmastime. the plan was to take the subway to the train (penn station; i'll get to you later) to the airtran to the airport to the plane to the car, in continuum. i spent the previous evening cross-legged on my apartment floor (diagonally wedged in that sweet spot, perfect angle, two square feet between the couch and the door) with a roll of duane reade wrapping paper. tic tacs, jack daniels minis, fast food gift cards, chapstick, snickers, socks, magnets, gummies, coffee grounds, wasabi peas. bundled individually and shoved in a red velvet stocking. then the housewarming: teacups all the way from japan and the birthday: two paperbacks from barnes & noble. i missed the train at penn, too many bags for hustle. anxious for the next one, twenty minutes. ticket, on, then off, then ticket, on, then off. security snaked down the stairs into baggage claim, bags and bags and bags. front of the line with twelve minutes to spare. a minute is sixty whole seconds. the bag gets flagged, inevitable. my friend on the belt (might've had a tramp stamp) is railing on and on about how joey won't text her back (joey, who are you, and can you please text her back?) with no apparent concern for the hundreds of travellers stuck, stagnant or urgency to check my suspicious package. when she gets around to it, i am fidgeting. she finds the velvet stocking. dumps it out. hastily begins unwrapping every idiotic, suspicious dust collector. finding nothing remarkable, she gives me the okay, long talons for nails, rhinestones on the pointer. i remember learning in driver's ed: never cry to cops. 

TO LOVE: TO GIVE

i once saw a beggar give his lunch to another. 

TO HATE: GALENTINE'S

there was a year when we were single, unapologetically cliche in this kind of story. and, unapologetically, we took the town down that february 14. eleven of us dressed up for each other and the waiters and the wine. we ate a lot and mocked awkward couples on west village dates. we stumbled home full of empowerment and limoncello (who actually enjoys that? serious question, not rhetorical.) self-love and feminism and burrata. that was the mountaintop. 

the next day i was texting with a gal, as i incessantly and unapologetically did. she'd gone home from work. rumbly tummy. not today, entry-level. heard secondhand another experienced her breakfast twice. then another who shit her pants on the 6 train and vomited in the trashcan on the corner of 19th and park. an army is only as good as its weakest soldier. mine hit on the 3 train, because all the toughest times in life happen in warm underground perturbed claustrophobia.

no i will not be attending that boxing class in chelsea tonight. thank you for the invite.

the norovirus was tough on the gals that week. i liken it to the hollywood-tinted heroine withdrawals i watched in movies as a preteen. (i can honestly report on only my experience, of course. and i did not shit my pants on the train.)

one of us, particularly incensed, took a break from the toilet to call the doomed wine bar. she provided unwanted detail about the situation of the gals, hoping for a credit or two. they politely declined, because it is new york. you pay for what you get. sometimes, you pay twice. it's a shame. the meatballs really were good. 

god, grant me a gatorade. and a boyfriend.

TO LOVE: THE SCIENCE GUY

i was on my tenth hour of drinking on a friend's rooftop in a weird part of midtown west. she lived in a sceney building on a scary block. at some point, we ran down to the lobby, electric blue fountain cascading down the side wall, to let another friend up. we ran back to the elevator as soon as she arrived, reascension. the door was dinging, "hold it!", tumbled in.

the man who held the door for us made room. he was wearing a fedora. "have a nice night, ladies" at the tenth floor. sort of creepy, but certainly not the worst we've heard.

we oozed into the space where he'd stood, elevator etiquette. 

you enjoy your night, too, bill nye. 

TO HATE: CRUTCHES

i sprained my ankle on my way home from second day of work, ever. this was also my third day living in new york city. i did it walking down the stairs into the canal street 6 stop. 

at the time, i was sleeping on an air mattress while i waited for a guy named eddie to build two walls in my living room, turning a one-bedroom into two. (despite this trickery, monthly rent would still make you nauseous.) i had to wait to get the bed in case a full-size didn’t fit. as an update, it did, but barely. 

on the off chance you’re thinking of trying this at home, don’t.

people of the street show no mercy. 

TO LOVE: TO GRIEVE

we planned a breakfast party at work for the morning after. donut and fruit parfait and champagne divide and conquer. the town was buzzing, ready to take down the bully and celebrate about it. we stayed up till a reasonable hour on an autumnal tuesday. 

then we put our phones down and dozed, confident. 

then donald trump won. 

then we woke up.

put politely, i'd call policy uncharted territory. (i began listening to the new york times’ daily podcast this year. it’s twenty minutes of political banter, which is about seventeen more than i can handle. i credit don’s lunacy with my commitment to this.) despite my disinterest or, better said, ignorance, november 7th deeply moved me.

who protects the women and the hispanics and the gays (yes they can marry) and the blacks and the immigrants and the muslims (no they are not terrorists) and the homeless? who protects compassion, humanity, generosity, inclusion, love? 

as always, i began my morning commute alone. then i realized i wasn’t. the morning was silent and slow, a vigil. i remember september 12, 2001 similarly. the town was full of sorrow and fear – mine plus millions. communal grief becomes love. the city grid held and hugged us. 

in the silence, the sidewalks are softer than they appear.