does it look dirty
that’s what you think of in the city
does it just seem dirty
that’s what you think of in the city
you don’t refuse to breathe do you
someone comes along with a very bad character
he seems attractive. is he really. yes very
he’s attractive as his character is bad. is it. yes
that’s what you think of in the city
run your finger along your no-moss mind
that’s not a thought that’s soot
and you take a lot of dirt off someone
is the character less bad. no. it improves constantly
you don’t refuse to breathe do you
Frank O’Hara
Our affair isn’t over yet. Through heartbreak and indecision; through dashed dreams and aspirations; through changes monumental and miniscule I continue to give my head and heart to a lover as capricious as a changeling, as stalwart as the Grand Canyon, never minding the shifting vagaries of a relationship that leaves me by turns hamstrung, confused or transcendent.
Heavy metaphors indeed, but plain language will not serve when the object of your affection is New York. October 15 marks the anniversary of my arrival on this island 29 years ago, a green kid from Cincinnati with little to offer except a shit eating grin, a few time steps and a desire to become a professional actor. Which I did, while dually laboring in the temp capital of the world, staying solvent on a diet of auditions, cheap beer and the kind of day-to-day stimuli that would give a lab-seasoned rhesus monkey pause.
As setbacks and triumphs steamrolled my way, the city was always there to hold me steady. The obstacles it presented came fast and furious (remember the No. 1 train, circa 1979?), but so did its gifts (the double feature at St. Marks Cinema on Sundays, the first floor of Bloomingdale’s, Nathan’s in Times Square). I worked at theaters that no longer exist (AMAS Repertory, The WPA, Chelsea Theater Center), honing my craft and meeting some of the best people along the way. Some of them of are still my friends, but many have gone the way of time and death. Others have moved away, or simply changed.
People—pals, lovers—come and go so quickly here, but the city hangs tough, and like a Sondheim lyric, each new encounter takes me deeper, teaches me more. Writing replaced my passion for the stage a while back, but prismatic New York enthralls me still; the streets I’ve walked hundreds, thousands of times continue to unfold like a new set of sheets, a crisp, just-the-facts impression awaiting the humble grime of life to temper each corner’s addled grandiosity. Maybe it’s this dichotomy that stokes my yearning whenever I’ve left for periods of work, vacations or to visit my mother back in Ohio. Maybe that’s what gets my pulse thumping upon return, and why I never mind that whatever restorative I’ve gained while away will flee the minute I step on a subway train. I’ve often thought it was the job of other people to mirror back one’s qualities, one’s character, one’s soul. But a city can do that too, like a lover in the dark. Don’t turn on the light—here with you, I am more myself than anywhere else in the world.
photo of the Hearst Building by Michael Ficeto
Not a beauty, really, but the best city in the world, my birthplace and hometown.