Women who refuse to suppress what is most natural and necessary to be a whole person (seem to) go through the greatest trials with love.
This Coffee Pot place is sweet and full of energy, but it’s just a little vortex. Hells Kitchen, from Port Authority, to here, is filled with the dregs of New York City. Before noon today, I experienced the pleasure of walking next to a prostitute on 42nd Street — she was dressed in the latest style: tight bell-bottom jeans, camel colored high-heeled shoes, a white denim jacket with camel leather trim, a blue shirt with matching blue sunglasses. Between the dope in her system and the thinness of her heels, she wasn’t having the easiest time keeping her strut smooth. A few guys whistled at me when I got off the bus and I wondered if I looked like a prostitute, too. I passed a few crazies — I could tell by the skittish look in their eyes — how they have no inherent place to go yet some internal drive pushes them at all costs to get somewhere (anywhere but here). I saw a bunch of people like that; they looked frightened.
I’m thinking of my roommate now, who is a beautiful woman, and who at first glance seems perfectly together, even more together than most. Her hair is smooth, her lipstick carefully applied, and her clothing classy and graceful—yet she is so racked by anxiety that she can barely make a decision. She says sometimes she is so confused she does not know how to get on a bus. Now she is convinced that if she does not figure out why she exists at all she will become a crazy homeless person. In the future, I will feel the same way. I will feel that I dangle on a thread between genius and homelessness. I am not certain if she will become homeless, but maybe her soul will be homeless—or is homeless. Like mine.
© April 11, 2002
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