heathervescent

Reflections on the Concrete Jungle

New York got to me. 

 

In past trips, she coaxed me with beckoning caresses, this trip she dug in her nails. Biting cold, wind whipping through the urban canyons. I opened my coat and let that cold wind pierce my heart, remembering cold January's in the early 90s. I found no solace in people. None in work. I felt I had lost my path with heart. And in heathervescent land, there's only one thing to do when that happens...

Returning to Los Angeles, brisk wind blowing through her, I was thankful for my new found NY clothing. At first moment, I took Lady Vescent on a long embrace. I was interested if I had grown rusty with almost two weeks of subway traveling. But I was sharp as a knife. Threading the needle at 90 through city streets and favorite freeways. The speed, she heals my soul. 

I needed to push my boundaries. I wanted to kiss the edge, go beyond it, etch a remembrance of my tires in the pavement. I went to the wildest place close to Los Angeles: not Latigo, Piuma or the Malibu hills "racetrack", but the raw mountains of San Gabriel, Big Tujunga and Mt Wilson. 

Lost, and found.

Lady V and I weave out of Hollywood, through the San Fernando Valley and I finally hit the triple digits on the 2 north of Glendale. Racing up a mountain, top down, wind blowing, white knuckle riding, conversing with my city. I decelerate quickly, pause at the stop sign and head north into the mountains. The stop is as critical as the acceleration. There can be no speeding without being stuck behind the slow car, no acceleration without the stop. 

I feast my eyes on the scenery as I pass the 2000, 3000, 4000, 5000 elevation markers. It's getting colder, I'm glad for my heated seats. The road is moist, rockfall peppers the pavement. We're above the clouds, a road twisting between the mountains. 

I reach the top, view shrouded in fog. There is no Los Angeles overlook today. But that's ok, because I know what my city looks like. I didn't come for the views today, I came for the roads. And off we are again. Painting the double yellow through a burned forest. 

Sharing the road with a few sightseers, motorcyclists and locals. I came to the roadhouse, a row of motorcycles parked outside. Lunch stop perfection. Body refued before pressing forward. With the intention of getting lost in the mountains. Easier with no cell reception. I sped again on roads, tracked and backtracked, turned off and turned off again. The mountains eventually changing, until I realized I was entering the desert. 

Such was my delight! Lost in the mountains only to find the desert. Look at those wide open spaces! 

The afternoon waned and I felt responsibilities calling. My heart rejuvenated, I returned to the mountain roads, pushing faster spurred on with favorite songs, winding my way onto the freeway system: 210, 118, 5, 170 into there's no place like Hollywood Home. 

Home again, home again. 

The Spike Returns

I'm walking a couple down Amsterdam in the UL /unlicensed district. Except in this reality, it's the upper west side not Triton. I'm wearing a fur shug, no gold eyebrow. I have been chatting with my new companions  over guava and a glass of wine. I've found a great connection with these two. We continue our conversation on the city streets, until I turn to stand in front of a familiar red door. (Familiar from my childhood.) My demeanor changes. I am no longer chatty. The show begins, the door opens and we step inside.

The building reminds me of Victorian remodels from the Midwest. Plaster and lathe ceilings, peeling paint, a worn buffet, dusty floors. I am tempted to explore, but do not. I know more faces from last time. We are all much warmer.

There are performers, there is an audience, I am a guide. Through rooms, up stairs and down, for listening, observing, interacting. A journey, an experience, a commentary of man and nature deep in the mechanical beast of Manhattan. Finalie culminates, led down the aisle. I whisper a few words, unlatch the door and the show is over. 

I take a momentary pause, then return to my place. The show plays again.

Note: this post is about a real microtheatre performance in NYC. I take the name Microtheatre from Samuel Delaney's book, Trouble on Triton, wherein, his character, The Spike, writes, coregraphics and performs (with her troupe) microtheatre or theatrical experiences in the street for an audience of one.

Trust Strongly

I walk up to the doorman, say my name, am ushered in, despite the line. "I'm the cacophonist." The dark inside is not so different from that outside, except it's soft darkness, all encompassing, no neon, no filter light. Darkness that hides.

I am handed the 7 of clubs. Stripped of my outer layers, I enter the space, walking up the stairs, slowly, slowly. This is the transition. Leaving the reality of this New York world, of earth, of humanity, behind. Entering, an unknown world. I want to savor it. I want to experience the transition alone. Anticipating.

Familiar tinkling of ice in glasses. I spy a favorite Italian bitter on the shelf. Look for a dark corner to relax a moment. I'm thinking of my screen play, I'm thinking of Los Angeles, I'm thinking of my unfinished science fiction story. This room, reminds me so of a particular scene. Samuel Delaney. The Spike. Her micro-theatre productions. More drinking from the same collective unconscious.

I've been given advice and I take it. I enter a dream space. A (last) dinner party. I want to stick to the back, hiding even more from the mask I wear. The party breaks, guests go their ways, most being followed by a pack of the masked. How discombobulating?! 

Eventually I learn. The action is with the actors. Weaving the threads, twining, untwining. We follow them from space to space, from action to action. There is no character down time. The time and space is immersive character experience. White masks  surround them, as if ghosts from another reality. And we are. As members of the audience, we are not of the same material as these epic archetypal characters. Housed in this created space, actors as vessels, channeling the expression.

I am conflicted, to watch as voyeur, to follow. And I think, how New York - this voyeur experience. This anonymous watching. 

The evening passes, I return to the bar, my red drink. Collect my coat, continue reflecting as I step out into the New York night. Full moon muted behind clouds. Leaving one stage and re-joining another.

Please note: This post is about the NYC Interactive Performance Theatrical, Sleep No More.

An Open Door

It is done. Past trips have scratched the surface, querying conversations found the edges; friends, family and ex-pat Californians have given hints on the location of the lock, key, handle. The city herself shares hints of Los Angeles - those perhaps only an Angelino could recognize. With patience, sweetness and ruthless abandon, I have cracked New York City. The door is open. I walk her city streets as tourist no longer. As traveler, adventurer, explorer, artist, creator.

--

Subway errands. My favorite fluevogs lost a heel the first day I arrived, but I didn't notice until yesterday morning. Instead of wearing them, I put them in a bag (along with my dry cleaning) as I walked out the door in the morning. Before the subway, I dropped of my dry cleaning (which will be delivered to my apartment!), after work, I subwayed to SoHo/Little Italy to fix my fluevogs. Picked up the heels from Fluevog, then hoofed it to the cobbler before he closed. Later, walking up 6th Avenue, passing a wine store, to another subway stop, catching a train home. The intertwined subway line webs. No backtracking necessary. 

 

New York Reflections

I'm watching her. From across the water. Late night. Finding myself alone. A rare moment of solitude amidst lapping waves. My new walking shoes jump from rock to rock. My black shadow moving closer to the water. Gazing up, I see towers of stone. Stone carved and stacked by men. I look at the metal gratings, listen to the transit waves. Hear the light clipped lapping of water waves. I see the lights across the water. A glittering skyline.

I breathe in the cool air. I'm enjoying this moment. I look to the sky, finding the moon, sliver growing larger over the past few days. And I'm surprised. Because I see stars. Old friend Orion is stretched across the sky. The coldness of the sky reminds me of the desert and for a moment I can imagine LoriLisaMojave and her cold star speckled sky. But the metaphor can't hold more than a minute. 

I return my gaze to the underside of Manhattan Bridge. Stone rising into metal grates. I listen to the subway train light it's way into the city. I'm beginning to understand. I have continued my questions of this city. I've almost cracked it.

--

Chelsea walking. Brownstones, parked cars, an unattended pickup full of split wood. With a note to "try some of the best wood in the city! Sure, take a piece and then call me to get more." Something I would not have expected here. I'm walking down this street when the thought unfolds in my mind. That I could live here. The revelation comes as a complete surprise to me. Or rather, I see _how_ I would live her. In the ordinary. Everyday. Living. A different person. New York is no longer extraordinary, the familiarization has begun. 

--

East Village Evening. Dinner with amazing women, the conversation turn to a subject I wrote a book about among many others. I am reminded of many things. Possible pathways open before my eyes. Life being lived. The tourist view has shattered. I've cracked it. But I don't necessarily like everything I see. My only question remains, which of these paths will I walk?

Caressing a City

It's freaking cold, probably only 50 degrees or so, but for someone who doesn't own a winter coat, that's cold enough. I'm bundled up, wearing layers, sweaters, gloves, hat, scarf. I'm walking around the East Village. I'm taking it in. Running a finger along the edge of this city. 

Over drinks, in passing conversations I question. I'm gathering research, experiences, impressions. Tapping out the studs while admiring the wallpaper. Some tell me I'll never crack the essence of NYC. The vibe, the experience. But I'm not shooting to understand all in 7 days; just identify the pathways to unfolding, walk a bit down them, caressing with my presence, awareness, observations. Identify the anchor points.

I learn, see, understand as I probe. Then it's enough and I go back into the city. Walking her streets, dark, gritty, dirty streets. Finding my way (easily) through mazes and tunnels. Trains. Watching people. As individuals. As mass. I'm them too. The wind blows (cold), chill with Autumn. I lift my head, open my nostrils and deeply inhale. Taking the cold scent into my lungs. The city gives me what I am looking for, embracing me back.

Urban Camping Exploration

With begrudging excitement I zipped through traffic on the 405. Shifting up and down the gears as I defragged the freeway, playing a game I call threading the needle. A final zip into the parking garage before the parking break and clip clop of fluevogs on pavement. I left my race driver persona along with my keys with the attendant. 

I'm embarking on an adventure I have been calling Urban Camping. 

Let me explain. While staying with some friends in San Francisco I was looking for some easy exercise. Rosie suggested I do some urban hiking, which was basically going on a hike in the city. My destination was Mt Davidson - the highest point in San Francisco - and I did some serious hill climbing to get up there. I decided to take the concept farther with my next New York trip.

New York is a weird place for an Angelino like me. I've traveled through the City often enough. I've had more than one SO hailing from the place. But I always thought of myself as from the wild west, riding my iron horse, big sky mountain range Mojave vistas. I turned my nose up to the Big City. It could offer me nothing my Queen of Angels couldn't provide in bounty. Besides, I wasn't convinced New York was a modern city. It was an old piece of machinery, well greased, but built and representing an old paradigm. 

Ok, so I had some baggage. 

And when I find baggage, I proceed to unpack it, assimilate it and/or throw it out. What better time to challenge my assumptions?

In my mind, I'm packing for the desert. I've got my camping gear, my hiking gear, warm weather clothes, serious footwear, my morning coffee ritual needing only boiling water, which for urban camping is an electric teakettle. My mind is open, I'm leaving judgements behind, the space for possibilities exists. Unknown possibilities. Wildcards in my mind.

Midnight arrival. I immediately feel the press of humanity. Discombobulated. Setting up camp at 1am is never much fun, especially if you haven't been to the campsite before. Fitful night of sleep. No coyote calls. No stars at night, but the lights are bright and brilliant far into the sky. Morning coffee calms, complete with my Vietnamese Cinnamon. I meditate on clothing selections for the upcoming hike: Times Square via Subway from Brooklyn.

I hesitate for a moment, take a breath, charge my metro card, then jump. There will be only a short time of new, fumbling, discovering. Eventually we will know each other. I ask the Queen of Angels to forgive my absence. I have never loved a city like I love her. But we haven't seen much of each other recently. New York calls, as does London, Brussels, San Francisco. Cities of past adventures, returning to the spotlight. What can I do but acquiesce? Explore possibilities. Cultivate curiousity.

I ride the subway. I walk. I take elevators. Everywhere people. I look at the view. I study maps. I start to understand the land, coated with humanity, our efforts. I watch balloons rise in the towers of air, between towers of steel and glass. I start to recognize. To familiarize. Things stop being new. I'm starting to unpeel the layers. To feel the pulse. To adapt. I hear the proto-words whispered, the proto-language of the city. I respond with affection, exploration, calm presence. We've got time to know each other. To enjoy the unfolding.

 

 

A Travel Poem

I'm translating the hours from three different zone.  An exercise in time travel, as I move backwards and forward in time. In my mind, I hold the vision of my home city. Is she wearing the Vanilla Sky or Neon Sparkles? I do not miss her. I am her beyond her boundaries.

I walk streets. I navigate people. I pretend to be a tourist. I pretend to be local. I meet with friends, old and new, eating way too many steaks and mushrooms and glasses of wine. I'm trying to understand. Understand this entity that is called a city. People. Humanity. We create I. I creates WE.

I'm from the frontier. Space. Wide fields. Open Mojave landscapes, naked mountains. I have been the single human within a 30 square mile radius. This city rising into the sky is strange to me. I set my strangeness aside. I decide to be comfortable. To drink deeply. To breath it in. I give my rational mind a vacation. The freedom to stop thinking about how to solve, do or understand logically - to feel. To feel with my body.

I'm enjoying the cool. A thunderstorm rolls across Manhattan, lightning strikes, rain falling on the rivers. Stray drops as I walk the streets. Later, to my delight, getting caught in a torrential downpour. The cold water soaks my non-raincoat. My leather fluevogs turn a darker shade of grey. A chill goes down my spine. There's nothing to do but enjoy. Enjoy - I do. After the thunder, the tension released, is always the sun; blazing bright on an empty Sunday motorway. The morning comes, the perspective is expanded. I move into the day in a different city, bringing with me, my memories, connections across the globe.