“To be wild is to make honesty primal, to not edit out the smell of spit and smoke and the street fruit. To be wild is to let my body levitate when you look at me the right way, when you hit me hard on the street, to be my mouth or my fists, or both—probably both. The wild don’t build fences; we let the worms and ivy and rats and love in.” ……..Thomas Page McBee
Dear New York City,
So…..I am giving up on my silent treatment. I think we should talk. I think we should take a walk around Prospect Park and see if this relationship can be saved. Remember that time I collapsed against your sidewalk in Brooklyn and you stole my chapstick. And you took some of my blood and you shattered my chin, New York. And that beautiful woman took me to the hospital and nursed away my wounds. New York, it was all your noise which brought on my hysteria. And why is everything here so expensive and small?
Hold my hand. Let’s remember that time you led me into that sweet nap as I rested on thick tree trunk, collapsed onto grass. And when I woke, you surprised me with three turtles basking in the water beside me. You were trying to hint that you can be a hippie too.
I don’t mean to be so mad at you all the time. It’s just that sometimes your smells are less romantic and the fumes of urine and waste carve their way into me. It is difficult to escape.
You hate eye contact, New York, which I have a difficult time with. I want you to hold my gaze. Can you do that just this once?
New York, I am going to try not to think of other cities when I am with you. It’s unfair and doesn’t allow me to be present. I can’t truly be yours if I am longing for another.
Your rats will always frighten me. But your graffiti reminds me to be unafraid to look up and around. Art is everywhere. And you never cease to amaze.
Don’t let go of my hand, OK? Let’s give this another round.