I love vintage. I love the idea that anything had a life before me. I love the G train that runs from Court Square to Clinton Hill because I can count the number of minutes it will take me to get there. It depends on my mood if I’ll swipe my Metrocard or swing through the fire exit doors as if to say ‘You cannot catch me.’ I love that weed will be sold and smoked in cafes soon. Not because I love to get high, but because the smell reminds me of growing up in kitchens with my Dad. I love that everyone says they work in production and asks if I make videos. I don’t, but I like to watch them. I love the live music on every street corner and the friends who ask me to join them at Fred Again shows. Underground or above ground, I can hear the saxophone, reminding me of my nephew who loved to play when he was a kid. Who at 13 says “Auntie, I want to make music.” Which to me says, “Auntie, I want to be alive.” I love that in a lifetime, I could never read every book in this city. I love that this city never stops making good verse or poetry. And maybe that’s to say, in this city I find solace. I love that record shops still sell CDs and that Queen Latifah performed at the Grammy’s this year. I love that New York Nico posts old-school Italians who occupied this city long before I arrived. Their thick accents bring me back to sitting on my great grandfather’s lap as a kid, learning cuss words before the basics like “hello” and “how are you.” I love the elderly who tell me to be careful. As if to say, you never know what could happen today, two million of us live in filing cabinets at the cost of our entire wage. I love that I’m just a number here. I love that the attention could never solely be on me because, in the glimpse of a second, it has ten other places to be.
4 Comments
2 more comments...No posts
Nice all the pleasure taken in anonymity. You are a vintage gal, just like my son who lives in New York City.
Now I want to go to NYC. It's been a few years.