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4 comments:
God I love that town. The park, martinis clear as tears in the basement of Grand Central, oysters sweating patiently. Or the Oak Bar in the Plaza, where my 20th century American writer pals drank too much, paid to little and spent too long dancing in the fountain. Zelda danced in that fountain. And so shall you. MOMA, the Guggenheim, the park.
But a woman like you, you should head to the Yale club. In the clean crisp air you pinch you cheeks flush, tell them Dick Chaney sent for you and then enjoy a smoke and a whiskey as the masters of the universe line up at your feet.
That city rises up in white heaps and sugar lumps.
Such appalling sentimentality, you're reminded of something-an elusive rhythm, a fragment of lost words, that you heard somewhere a long time ago. For a moment a phrase tries to take shape in you mouth but my lips part like a dumb man's, as though there was more struggling upon them than a wisp of startled air. But they made no sound, and what I had almost remembered was uncommunicable forever.
Rome, we should meet in Rome.
But alas, you knew that when you kissed this girl and wed your unutterable vision to her perishable breath your mind would never romp again like the mind of God.
Only in New York, looking out onto the river, as you turn your head back up th block do you realize that the blocks of the sidewalks really form a ladder that mount to a secret place above the trees-you can climb to it, if you climb alone, and once there you suck on the pap of life, gulp down the incomparable milk of wonder.
This city is beautiful but it chokes me in its smallness, the smallness of your privacy and the smallness of your space. I try to imagine it warm but the picture will not come. I can only feel the biting wind from the East River. This is a place to visit again and again - but alone? I do not think so. Sharing the space might make it seem bigger; then I can imagine possibilities that do not constrict my breath. Through your eyes it is a different city than what I experienced. I would like to believe it turns green in the summer.
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