There’s an old guy sitting on his walking frame, no not next to me and no he’s not making love to a tonic and gin, although to be honest I can’t speak to what’s in his flask, anyway he’s sitting on the Arthur W Stickland triangle and he’s feeding the pigeons. Looks like he could use a decent meal himself. Wonder what Art did to get himself a garden triangle? The cafe I’m in is playing 1920’s jazz, and the living is easy… sorry I may run out of lyric puns eventually, or maybe not. I’m sitting here with an Argentinian Malbec watching the world go by, waiting for my soul to find me. She’s lost between the moon and New York city, I know it’s crazy, but it’s true. Oh god I’m tragic.
I should confess I’ve demolished a pastrami Reuben on rye, which was magic. And seemed very New York. Note to self, I need to find proper New York bagels to try.
I think I’m in Greenwich village, a little different to the Greenwich of two days ago with its empty silences filled alternately by waves, or the sound of the wind in the poplars. I wish you could have heard the sound of the wind in the poplars, it was unearthly but so centring. Vibrating on some harmony common to all life. Here my ears are full of Billy Holiday, conversations, the kitchen clatter, laughter, horns & traffic. So different, but also so alive and pulsing. Happy. I think, or maybe I shouldn’t think too much. Continue reading “New York… is it me?”
Wendy's Out of Station 