She Surprises

What I forgot in the last post, or forgot today - while waiting all day unshowered, furry-tongued and slightly-dazed for a team of Bengali plumbers sent by the landlord to replace old pipe, fix my radiator, fix a burst pipe in the basement that had left us without water (had to "wash" by rubbing my pits and parts with an antiseptic hand sanitiser from Duane Reade's pharmacy, which also sells milk, booze, cigarettes and myriad "candies")- what I forgot was that New York always has something else up her sleeve: just when you're ready to give up on her, she always surprises (In North African cultures, the moon is a young man, wearied and made more slender by morning, after trysts with an older, beautiful sensual woman, the sun - and so, New York could be a man, to some of you). After class, I sat in the Tree House bar on Greenwich ave with a class mate, an actor and poet, a new friend who lived in Galway for a year ten years ago, and discussed some of the peeves about the city mentioned in the last post (short attention spans, people giving each other short shrift, people passing on and passing you by, and over). He nodded, "I completely agree," and listened. Two Brooklyn Lagers and an hour later, we were ten topics from there, and I was at peace with the world.