I know there’s a place for me. And it’s nice and it’s warm and maybe it’s a small town, like, say, near a beach. This would be my spot away from the world. I assume the roads are quiet and the city is farther than distant and so is the life and the hassles of every day, or busy living.
I remember hearing my Mother and Father talking about retirement and moving to someplace where the sun shines and the air is kind to everyone. I remember their goal, which was to pack up and move away from the life that they would leave behind.
No more work. No more business troubles. No more inner-city drama or commutes or silly hassles of overpopulated circumstances.
People smile in places like this. They say the craziest things, too, like “hello!”
I understand more about this now.
I want to be clear that while I was not born and raised in the City itself, and I emphasize the word City, as if to be capitalized to share a sense of belonging and sincere loyalty; nonetheless I am, and I will always be a New York City kid.
I will always have love for my streets and the dark spots or the bright spots and the busy places or the less-known Downtown spots. Yes, I will always regard the cobblestone memories and the Astor Place haircuts and the long walks from the Eastside to the Westside.
I claim this like a prince in vast castles, chaotic and smooth and wild and serene. So, I have gone from rooftops to sights of the Hudson, and from the mournful regard and loyal reverie at Ground Zero, the home of The Towers, which I knew of and yes, this was part of my City, destroyed and gone but alas, I was there on the day when The Twin Towers stood. I was here when The World Trade Center went down — I was at work, 8:48am, and that’s when the first plain hit, September, 11. 2001.
But I digress.
I have seen shows here and tasted food and lived and cried and walked along the avenues and streets and wondered and wished. I have passed through parks and wondered if some of my greats and favorites walked through the same parks or walked on the same corners—ah, Jim, yes you, Mr. Jim Carroll.
Thank you for your art and for allowing me to understand that it’s okay for “me” to be “ME”, and to you, Frank, as in you Mr. O’Hara—someday, my aim is to write something as wonderful as “Having a Coke with You.”
But again, I digress. . .
I don’t know when the dam will break or when the moment will arise or if the time is coming soon. I don’t know when luck strikes or the heat of opportunity is so hot that I’ll see it—and there it will be, my great escape or my chance to slip away and move from the man-made resistance or the fuzziness, like the black and white static from an old television, which was back during the use of antennas because, yes, my age allows me to reach back that far.
I am unsure . . .
I don’t know when the leaves will start to change color this year. And I say this as we move into the month of August and approach the downhill slope of summertime.
This proves to me that time is limited—but yes, I agree that while my time is finite and so are the seasons, my dreams are infinite.
My hopes are widespread and ongoing. Like a child awaiting their turn to play, my dreams are pure and true and alive without cruel intention.
Cruel intention . . .
No, that is something my ego tends to do because, equally, like a child afraid of being told
“no,” my ego throws temper tantrums because (again) I am like a child… I’m afraid that I’ll never get my way.
I have these dreams which can keep me alive when the world around me is toxic enough to kill the heart or destroy the dream of say, tall, sunflower fields or country-like roads that stretch off to nowhere.
I think of trees, like the weeping willow, or the slow-moving streams which, alas, make their way to the nearby sea.
I think about the call of seagulls and the comfort of salt air, and the smell of the beach and. of course, freedom from the burdens of self, or freedom from the bouts of anxious things and rotten ideas which slander ourselves into insecure versions of an inaccurate truth.
I think about the break or the grand exit or the time when I can say yes, now — now is the time to make a break for it. I think about little towns, like the one I drove through in New Mexico, alone and on a certain pilgrimage of my own which, of course, this fell short of my expectation—but at least I did it.
At least I took the trip, which is more than I can say when it comes to Mom and The Old Man.
They never had the chance to take the trips,
at least not too many of them. Sure, they lived a good life. They had love, which is more than most people can say. But life is short, and time is moving faster than we think.
I don’t know when things are “going to happen” or when the window of opportunity will open wide enough to allow me the time for a great escape.
I don’t know when my heart and head will turn around or when (or if) my dreams will unfold in such a way, and like an old doctor friend of mine used to say:
I want to go to a place where “The lights are bright and the music is sweet.”
I am not so far or so close and I am not hot or cold; but instead, I am where I am, and I will be where I’ll be (for now).
Still, I have the dream . . .
You know about this, right?
This is more than a drive in a red convertible. This is more than a small town that no one knows about and a place where you can literally get the best bowl of soup in the world.
This is better than finding a place with a little diner that serves a great peach cobbler or pecan pie and this is more than finding my home or the center of my circle, like, as if to say BULLSEYE!
I hit it big, and now I’m home.
I guess I am always home.
I guess the ideas of “when” this is happening are enough to make me wake up in the morning or to place my feet on the floor. I do this because I want to. But more, I do this because I have to.
Otherwise, I’d rather resign for the day and retire or hang up my gloves and give up the fight.
But I can’t . . .
I just can’t.
I can tell you this, wholeheartedly, there is nothing in the world more welcoming than a pure and honest smile. This kind of smile means the same thing in any language.
A smile is perfect.
Then again, so are you, which is beyond mind blowing to me in my own imperfect world. But I’ll take what I can get—even if what I get is only a shadow or a whisper—I’ll grab it because whatever it is you have, I want it.
Not just the smile.
Not just the chance to find that great slice of cobbler or pecan pie.
Not just the bowl of soup or the way two people share food and feed one another—
I want the dream.
I want the ability to sign my resignation from the problems that be, and to surrender, or “surrender to win,” and to equally be set free, and uncaring of who tries to impose or impede and no, I don’t know when the leaves will change this year.
But I am waiting to see the colors of autumn and to take the hopeful drive in an old red convertible, if possible.
I’m looking for a sunny day.
I’m looking for an exit of a long and lonesome highway.
I’m looking for an end of a rainbow, or perhaps if I were to open my eyes, maybe I would understand and have the wherewithal to see what I have, right now.
I know that world is a beautiful place.
I say it’s the ego that fucks up the purity of such things.
But don’t worry.
Your prince is imperfect and perhaps my royalty is fading as my bloodline runs thin—but alas, I am still a prince in vast castles and so, I dream. And one day, when the call comes, I’ll take my chances this time.
I promise.
The Written Addiction 