new yorkers

At last, the sun finally decided to show its face in Brooklyn. There I am on the hot, gum-stained pavement: flat white in hand, headphones on, the new Bon Iver album leaking out the sides, trying and failing to blend in with the jaded New Yorkers. My neck craned too far back, jaw too wide. Almost-but-not-quite-strutting to the drums of ‘Theres A Rhythmn’ (I’m not yet brave enough to commit to the full no fucks strut. Tragically. I once returned a pair of loafers because the heavy heel made too loud of a *clack* on impact, the attention was too much). Every window frames a movie scene here and I’ve made a good habit of holding my gaze long enough that the views are committed to memory, knowing I’ll come looking for them some day soon. April was a long time coming.

Tomorrow is my last day at Sugar Mountain, the studio where I’ve been recording with Phil (Weinrobe) and Mike (Haldeman) for the past seven days. Seven days of strong coffee and laughter. I feel relieved. That’s how it is for me, I think the reason I make anything is to find relief. I know that sounds pretentious but it’s true! I love what we made together and I’ve got a big dumb smile to show for it (though it’s hard to make out with all these newly formed freckles).

Somehow I’ve managed to go this whole trip without catching a glimpse of the Manhattan skyline. What a shame to come all this way and not pay a visit? So I dander in the general direction of what I assume is north with a warm chocolate chip cookie for company, begging a pathetic tote bag to befriend my narrow shoulder. Stopping every few blocks to admire the fire escapes and smile at somebody’s dog through a baseball cage, defying gravity to catch a neon frisbee. I watch bearded men in suits of armour play-fight on the grass and fashionable couples fight for real. The amber dusk blends me and all the other twenty-somethings in denim (with sturdier tote bags) into the same guy. Like a hater on the internet, I’m completely anonymous, James Bond undercover agent style. It’s confidence-building. And that’s why I’m up to fifth gear, racing down the avenue at maximum speed, a single bead of sweat trickling down my temple. Not at all matching the elegance or grace of the power walking locals. I love that they look like they’re on a mission and I’m so curious to know where they’re headed.

At Transmitter Park the sun finally sets and I nod in approval of the blazing finale. “Touché, sun”, I salute. The Empire State looks just as impressive as it did the first time we met, ten years ago. “Not to blow smoke up Manhattans already famous ass but do New Yorkers ever miss the stars?” I wondered for all of sixty seconds when my new nemesis came to mind; the humongous, brighter than the moon, light-up cross outside my window in Queens. Forever screaming “My turn, look at me!” all night long. When the melancholy subsides, I come to my senses and decide that nothing could outshine the stars. Still, I stick around for a good fifteen minutes and take a picture of myself with the twinkling backdrop, like someone’s dad on a business trip.

On the park bench I think about the future, my future and how having one doesn’t sound so bad anymore. I think about Mary Oliver and her poem The World I live In -

I have refused to live
locked in the orderly house of
reasons and proofs.
The world I live in and believe in
is wider than that. And anyway,
what’s wrong with Maybe?

You wouldn’t believe what once or
twice I have seen. I’ll just
tell you this:
only if there are angels in your head will you
ever, possibly, see one.

How brave it is to have hope (especially in this climate) and what a relief it is to realise it was in the people all along. Even me.

B

‘almost-strut’ soundtrack -

Bon Iver - There’s A Rhythmn

Japanese Breakfast - Winter in LA

Adrianne Lenker - Out of your mind