Ah, the City. She looks different to me now. At the same time, my City has been there with me through every change, every win, every downfall, and every rebound.
I have been here and lived here throughout the different stages of my life.
I love her.
My City.
It has been a while since I have played hooky, just to walk the streets of Manhattan. It’s been even longer since I ran around the streets at night or stayed out until the daylight showed me a smile.
None of the places I used to go to are still around anymore. The landscapes have changed, and people have changed.
Politics have changed as well, and let’s face it, politics is the new religion now.
Who or what God you pray to is less important than who or what side you voted for.
But this is not about that . . .
I am older, so the arguments of identity and whether there are two or more genders are not something that I involve myself with. Perhaps I decline my involvement because I know how it feels to be living in the wrong body or the wrong mind—but hey, that’s just me.
I don’t have the time to tell people who or what they are. At the same time, no one has the time or the right to tell me what I am. But again, this is why I don’t do politics.
I don’t do politics because I am neither on the right side nor the left. I choose to consider myself as part of the heart of this country. Therefore, as I see it, a bird needs both wings to fly straight and currently speaking, neither wing seems to be able to agree with the other — at least this is how I see it.
If you ask me, and since nobody is asking, I’d rather not say what I think about politics or the powers that be.
Besides, talking does nothing but turn words into wasted air or just useless gas, which is why I would rather act than talk.
I would rather do something to create and influence change than talk or wave my banners.
I’d rather be in the trenches and fight back against my disgust than point at a politician and ask, “Why aren’t you doing your job?”
But again, this isn’t about that.
Not at all.
The City as been here for me.
She has allowed me places to learn and places to think and feel. I have wept here. I have grown here. I experienced love here, and I have felt the pain of loss here.
I have gone through professional strains and survived bankruptcy in more ways than one.
I have walked all over the City. I have seen her pretty lights. I have been to her gardens in Harlem and seen beauty in places that I never thought beauty could exist.
I have sat with the greats and the homeless. I have lived different lives and all the while, my City always welcomed me. Good or bad. This is home to me.
I remember the first time I heard Jim Carroll’s poem when he said, “Ah, the City is on my side.”
Even at my worst and when I was down (but not out), the City never turned her back on me.
No, she never ceased to inspire me.
She always showed me signs and glimpses, as if to say, “hold on, son.”
“Don’ give up!”
“The best is yet to come”
There are things that I have not done yet. And there are things that I will wait to do. In all fairness, there are things that I have been too afraid to do, like reading my work to a crowd in one of the downtown spots.
I was here to admire the scene. I was here as a boy and looked up at the buildings. I was here to see great things and sad things. Sadly, I was here when The Towers went down.
I go back to the question about if you woke up on a certain day, like the day before—I think about what I would say or do.
I’d probably go to Mike because he would be the only one who’d believe me.
I’d tell him something terrible is about to happen. Something awful.
You can’t go down there, Mike.
You just can’t go.
But if you knew anything about Father Mike, then you’d know he’d tell me, “I’m sorry son. But I have to.”
Knowing him, he’d have gone down early to pray for everyone.
Father Mike was considered to be casualty 0001.
He died from fallen debris while giving someone their last rites.
All I can say is this:
I miss you, my friend.
I could use one of your prayers.
Or just a kind word.
You’re pick . . .
Either way, I’ll listen.
For the ears of St Mychal
pray for us . . .
I know, I know
You always do.
You always have
and you always will.
The Written Addiction 