Why I Love New York

I'm not sure I've spent much time thinking about reasons why I either hate or love New York on any given day at any given moment. I know they can change in an instant, though, as I walk in isolated bliss along the outskirts of Union Square Park with Benny Goodman's "Sing, Sing, Sing" playing.

Seconds later I can be interrupted by an impatient taxi driver who inches closer and closer to the intersection with every step I take. In that moment I am seething, hoping to catch a glimpse of the driver whose life would not benefit from my walking any fucking faster. But then I make it to the other side just in time for Goodman's syncopated beats and have, by then, forgotten the driver.

There are also times when a situation will arise that I simply endure. But never before yesterday morning have I considered them "New York moments." I've been writing a lot lately. During the last week or so, I will admit that I have slowed down, hampered by my perceived inability to develop a character or write believable dialogue. Nevertheless, I've been writing. My space of choice now is the train.

Every morning upon taking my seat, I whip out my handy little blue notebook and pull my beloved green and yellow pen off my shirt. The train offers a good hour per day, at least, to get some stuff out. I've written about 56 pages up to now by hand and I finally feel whole. Sounds crazy, perhaps, but I'm pretty sure that's what it is. It's me. Yesterday morning was no different. The train wasn't that crowded when I got on. I took a couple of minutes to look around like I do, checking out the familiar commuter faces and picking out new ones. There was someone sitting next to me, but he moved at the next stop when another, apparently more attractive, seat became available.

Shortly after that, a man who had been sitting about fifteen feet away from me got up and took the now-vacant seat. I thought for a second it was weird but he must have had his reasons. He had a small frame and looked to be about in his early-to-mid thirties. I think his Roca Wear jacket was bigger than he was. He covered his head in a skull cap, so I don't know whether or not he was bald. It only took a few minutes for me to take all of this in. I was on a roll and I quickly returned to it, forgetting about the small-framed man who was now sitting next to me.

A couple of minutes later, though, I was interrupted with a tap on my right arm. I looked over at him and took off my headphones. "You're a writer," he said, pointing at my notebook. I nodded slowly and looked away for a split second, thinking about what he had just called me, letting it sink in. "What are you writing? Songs?" I smiled. "No, not songs. I can't do that. I'm writing a book," I said, looking at my pen. His eyes widened in surprise and he leaned in. "A book? You're writing all of that? In there?" "Yeah." "By hand?" "Yeah. It works." "What kind of a book?" "Autobiography." He looked away for a little bit, and I suddenly felt weird. Pretentious. Who writes books?

Everyone, I had thought, but me. "Yeah, I saw you," he said. "Your head's down in there, moving to music." He enacted his words as he said them. "And you look up and think, and then get back down in it." He nodded again as if he was approving me. "It's cool..." looking away ... "yeah." "You're a writer," I said, returning the compliment.

He nodded and looked away. I imagine he took that moment, as I did, to contemplate the significance of the label "writer." Everything it means, everything that provides the impetus for expression and the desire to do so can be overwhelming. I will never forget the struggle I went through to accept everything that writing entails; to have overcome discouragement and insecurity was a feat. What was clear between the both of us was, yes we are writers. And in that moment, though we are writers, there were no words to describe the significance of writing in our lives.

I smiled at him as he turned back to me. We both got it. "Do you write songs?" Another nod. He talked about copywriting his stuff. He asked me if I had a publisher. I laughed, though it's not entirely unheard of, because I got a similar question earlier in the week. A friend asked if I had considered approaching a publisher to maybe get an advance.

It seems as though that's another hurdle I have to jump. Confidence enough to let go of what I've done so far. I know it's not ready. "No matter what happens, even if you don't get published, the fact that it's coming out is what's important. That's what I want to tell my kids. To express themselves however they can and that they can do it however they want." "Artists," I said. And there were no more words available. There was just understanding locked up in the space between us. When we got to Jay St., he stuck his hand out as he stood up. "Good luck." "You, too." Thank you.

Inspiration comes when I least expect it. That's how it should be, I suppose. Like finding love. At times this week, I have found it after work waiting for the light to change on the corner. I looked up and noticed the color of the cloudless sky. It was the sweetest blue, just before the sun was done for the day. It was in sharp contrast to the lights of the building at Park and 32nd. Or it comes in the form of a stranger who pursued contact with a peer on a train. The ten or so minutes he and I spent together were valuable ones that will always be with me. He pushed me in his own way to never stop, and I will forever be grateful for that.

In other random (TV) news, the "Gilmore Girls" verbed "Netflix" just like I verbed "verb." Lorelai said, "I Netflixed." Nice. My therapist looks like Amy Brenneman. Talk about nice. And what the hell is up with "Extreme Makeover"? I watched it last night on accident. I was taking care of some business at my computer and was flipping channels. I saw this woman talking about being a hopeless romantic, but she doesn't blah blah blah. Then I got sucked in.

Of course I had to see how she turned out. So I stayed tuned. When it was all said and done, after she received liposuction, porcelain veneers, fat injections in her lips, an eye lift or something, ear work, a haircut and die job, she walked down the stairs of a spot in Boca Raton for her "reveal." She was met by cheers and applause, tears of joy. Finally, the television audience got to see what the result was.

Frankly, she looked like a drag queen. She talked about being ready to get out there and meet men. What was most disturbing was the part when they describe medically what they had done. As if she were a robot having just been programmed. I have many thoughts on this strange show. I don't know where to start. Maybe with the notion of changing in order to fit in rather than challenging the very thing that calls for the change. And it's not until you undergo drastic changes can you be deemed worthy of belonging. Like maybe if I grow locks, I'll fit in with the black community. Or maybe if I grow out my hair and wear long enough earrings I'll avoid being called "sir." I will be accepted as a "real" woman.

I'm glad I got over all that stuff. This show smacks of this bullshit. It's just strange. Fascinating, though. I may have to watch it again to get a better grasp of my point. I have to sleep.