You know when you have an egg, a newly bought, brown, organic egg, and you tenderly remove it from the container only to find that it has a splintered spider web of cracks encompassing it? There’s the feeling of, ‘Oh, well, it’s not broken through, it’s probably still good to eat…’ so you stare at it, turning it over in your hand, perhaps holding it to the light, and then you throw it away anyway. I think my life is that egg. I mean – I am desperate to not be tossed into the garbage. But, I am the yolk and white, the life-force, pressing its way through confines, searching for a destiny it knows not what and yet likely not ordained to survive this world – or perhaps I am the shell, clinging desperately to my inner self, trying to contain it, nurture it until the realization of what it is meant to be. Either one will do.
Somewhere along the balance beam of those two fates is where I rest. I live in New York City, a place where it is simultaneously possible to be surrounded by people, by their noise, their urban heartbeats, and yet to also to be more alone than if stranded in the Sahara, where fabled winds blow the skin off bones and the sun bleaches them white. Here, a crazy man’s comments about your private parts, made in passing on the street, barely invoke ire or laughter any more. Instead they serve to shove you deeper into your rabbit hole of isolation, as you quicken your step and try not to look back at him, although you know you will, and catch his distracted leer as he clumsily squeezes the front of his grey sweatpants. Which happened to me today, as a matter of fact.
You will remember this moment, as much as it is forgettable. You will wonder why you didn’t tell the loser to get a life. Maybe he has mental problems, and you’re a nice person, so you don’t want to be a bitch. Maybe you are a tiny bit flattered, because he can’t murmur salacious nonsense to every single woman on the street, right? This forgettable/unforgettable moment will almost cause you to cancel the impending visit of your dear friend-with-benefits, because although you’ve been feeling sensual and anticipatory all day, suddenly you can’t get the picture out of your head of a meaty fist squeezing grey sweat pant crotch because of you.
In my dreams, “adventure” is synonymous with dense forest jungles, far from the steel, concrete and glass of my urban environment. I find myself bushwhacking, or maybe I’m on a boat, traveling down some rainforest river. Names like Borneo, Madagascar, New Zealand, Crete and anything that sounds remotely African all hint at potential life paths I am missing. I feel chagrined, as if I am wasting time in my dreams, because I know they are dreams, and they are merely marking the hours until I wake up in my urban landscape. Where the only bushwhacking I will do is when I have packages that are awkward to get through the subway turnstiles. I’ve never gone through the emergency door. I know people do all the time, but for some reason, I just refuse to use the amazingly convenient New York City subway system if I have too bulky a load.
It is not as if I’ve forgotten the random wonderful experiences one can have with strangers here. I call them “New York Moments,” and relish, cherish and get incredible happiness from them. And most of them for sure happen on the sidewalk and on the subway, out there, outside of my cracked shell. And all of the gross crotch sweat pant encounters are usually outweighed by the other, more sublime moments shared with relatively normal people. And they are indeed unique and fleeting and wonderful. But are they enough to bolster a life, a life teetering on an uncertain edge? At this point, when I’m walking down the street, I love it when a cute guy looks at me, and doesn’t look away right off the bat. That modicum of potential will fuel a flame for a very long time. Even though the connection is merely a glimpse. How simple that is. How small. How huge.
