In NYC now with Yann, and very comfortable thanks to the endless hospitality of Ben, while Leslie and Mike are on the road somewhere between here and Ottawa. Nick has had to return home, but the tour has been going well, and we’re all enjoying our time together, and on the road.
The reason, I think, that so many people move here after visiting is that the city is so large that you can’t help but find a part of town that feels like home. No matter who you are, or what you do, there’s a group of people who are in the exact same place. There is a community present.
I haven’t found (nor am I looking for) a community here, but I’ve found places where they speak the same language that I do. Or at the very least, places where someone long ago spoke the same language, while designing parks, streets, and filling the city with meticulously rich Beaux-Arts architecture.
Central Park, especially. There’s something about seeing the tips of Impressionist and Art Deco spires over a wall of oaks. A green sea in the heart of the urban sprawl.
I feel sometimes as though the ground is shifting around me, and that the things which are personal and familiar are slowly being moved away. Intimacy becomes insulation, and contact turns to distance.
This was once a personal space. Now, it is so saturated with irrelevant meaning and interpreted implications that it is nearly useless for this purpose. I can write a line or two before something inside sends a warning, lest I give the wrong impression to the wrong people, or say something I shouldn’t.
I need to find sacred space again.