Whatever place/point/space I need to access within myself in order to decide on an image, decide with all my faculties (or at least enough to take action) and share a photo or an idea or point with you here, Dear Internet, I cannot get there tonight. I could not get there today. I looked at a lot of photographs, I had a handful of statements I wanted to make / questions I wanted to ask, but they failed me. They were whimsical, flighty, untrustworthy perhaps. Elusive certainly.
Now, I listen to John Martyn and stop crossing my i's, stop dotting my t's.
The reasons I want to spend time in New York -- the ones that have been around and have been heavy for about a year now -- are also the reasons NY is inappropriate for me. I get these obsessions (crushes, I call them), and they are both real and imaginary, a few occupying both roles. They are not (generally) based on people but on objects and atmospheres. It's like a lover, New York. I am with it, in it, not always getting along with it, and yet yet yet, what it's stirring in me is this accidental tension.
When I say I love anonymity, that I want to be left out (without asking), I mean it.
Sometimes I dream my life takes flight of me, leaves me behind as if stranded.
It's a dream that makes me happy.
It is not a dream at all.
 |
| Manhattan, Spring 2012 |
2 comments:
"We must hurry after him along the street, ere he lose his individuality, and melt into the great mass of London life." - From Hawthorne's "Wakefield"
"New York, concrete jungle where dreams are made of." - Alicia Keys
Post a Comment