City of overflowing images is in a soporific mode, a solid frozen state of consciousness.
Probing crimson. The zone where day breaks the night but not enough to rid it of the sinewy murkiness. A few dull moments ago it appeared a pitch black room of profound desperation and adaptable echoes with an almost varicose tranquility to thrive in.
The Man watches his ghost walk down the emptiness that’s New York.Think of the vacant department stores, the bored mannequins, the muted architecture, the friendless surveillance cameras in sedated corporate boardrooms. Far away from the burgeoning financial district- the road ahead, sleeps in his eyes. Without the thousand spinning heads or liquid bodies. An Interrupted city, not sleeping not waking- the brimful life-the suppressed melancholia Music is the drug of choice, the bass rhythms dissolve words, they script their own elemental libretto of brilliant ricochets along the geometry of ever extending walls. The strength of being alive has never been quite so palpable as it is when everything is deadly silent. Welcome to my side, a short inconsequential distance between us. No isolation or objectivity. Sit back, Observe and savor every bite you take out of the Present. It will abscond. The fading of Time into cavernous enclaves of History. Strange nostalgia. stilted distances and experiential silences. You are outgrowing Time and you feel indestructible. The city offers unexplored, unhinged seduction by way of its rainshot streets, the multitude of cars, the whispering crowds.. the possibility of finding a love on those streets or inside those cars or within those crowds. Every season I ‘d reinterpret my Life, everything is restructured to avoid rigor mortis. The casual moseying along the tracks , the sadism of sex, the honest lies..You know the trend. I don’t want to fear God or Love or Silence before am done living. Of all the aphorisms…
I like all that I live…
The slightest taste of blood in my mouth, the thinnest cloud of smoke over my head. The blood callings, the entrapments, the machete-wielding ghosts of improbable angst are exorcized in a slow surreal manner. There is your book, your movie, your song-Its all right there. We could never abandon this city, we could never entirely dispose each other or conceal the battle scars. We are This- we carved our lives out of this city’s heart. Many neon moons later we discover our paradoxical state of existence. We are the city. And we are the slow iridescence of night lights along Harlem, that’s where I met Her. She is the venial sin, a rare indulgence , the perfect Jazz tune you’d ever hear. The Theatre of beauty-She and the city. The violence of Life and its consummate beauty lies in its impossibility. She and the city-Both Impossible as hell…