Evening rain pattering against my tall window, soothing me with natural beat rendering indoor life cozy, earlier it was sunny and warm with fresh aromas of spring. Rhythms of rain send me deep into reveries, make me smile to think of love, rich and resonant, bestowed upon me in such mysterious manner, safe harbor, port in a storm, ah.
Dark wood vanity with royal blue velvet powderpuff ottoman and three-way mirror, sounds of a light cold early spring rain outside, streaking down a dim-lit window, mixed with scratchy rendition of Billie singing the blues from an old Victrola, clear glass tumbler halfway filled with dark amber liquid, scent of cigarettes, perfume, whiskey and face powder, ah, a dim shaded tassled lamp casting warm yellow glow, always of an evening, demarcation of day into dark shadows of passion and rue, mysteries and long yearnings, setting the stage, ruby velvet curtains with golden braided ties, ah yes.
Sure, I could float above it all, get philosophical, dwell in the air of who cares, it wouldn't be a lie, I possess all the powers of flight in the realm of the mind, it wouldn't be false, no.
Sure, I could sink into the heartbreak of the vanquished woman, wail the anguish of loneliness, snarl and rage, hang my head and eat at the trough of grief, dead eyed, it wouldn't be a lie, I possess all the powers of penetration into the pains of existence, it wouldn't be false, no. It is not the truth I am seeking, though that is a worthy goal, nor redemption, acceptance, deliverance, ah, while life courses through me I grow tired of seeking, reacting, expecting. I am a deep pool of water, a cold and icy spring, meandering, a cloud racing across blue skies, approaching the summit, the high places, where words fall away, heart and mind join in the simple act of apprehending what is there.
Oh spring is springing in Auld Manhattoe, mindless rages and tight buds on tree branches not yet showing green. I was walking through the gallerias on my way to 52nd Street and I see a buncha guys repainting the giant round terracotta orange planters that grace the fine weather outdoor dining area of the adjoining restaurant and one of the fellows just burst out in expletives about some boss or other, oh I had to laugh as he bellowed "fuck that fucking fuck!" and they saw me laughing and they laughed too, but oh the edginess, we all are hit with it.
Me, I got a gripe of my own, those damned new N trains with their obscene fake almost musical sound as they move, it's enough to drive a person mad, almost music, almost rhythm, but neither, just mindless awful sound, the seats aren't deep enough, they're a putrid pastel blue that has already become scuffed, the automated woman's voice that announces the stops is hideously cheerful and when she announces "Broadway," you'd think she was getting a lascivious slurpy lick or two from some mad louche lover.
For this is New York after all, we got real live folks on the trains who sound like the rest of us and they ought to be announcing the stops, not this creepy automated voice. Ah, yikes, rages forming, foaming, flailing, and spring is on the way, oh yikes.
Looking out my window, I saw a woman walking down 27th Street, all in black, coat, hat, gloves, skirt, boots, except for a long pure white scarf.
And today, it was so cold, bitter cold, icicles hanging from the ceiling of the 57th Street subway station, saw the light of an oncoming train, praying it was an N and not an R, but no, it was the R train, the doors opened and I stepped forward to get a bit of warmth and there was a young fellow in a green jacket and blue stocking hat playing Mozart beautifully on nice looking old violin, he finished the tune just as the doors closed and I saw him bow to the folks in the car.
Right after that I heard one of the new N trains on the other side of the platform, going downtown, they make the strangest sound when they move, synthetic violin-voice playing eerie tune in full notes, up and down, one, two (minor), three, hold then one, two three going down in register, off rhythm, can't get used to it, and inside, the cars speak up in canned announcer voices with no distinctive New York accent telling the station, telling the time, so new and modern.
March in Auld Manhattoe, too cold but sun sets later, spring is coming.
Ah, busy folks say laziness is serene and calm but it ain't so, no, just thin veil over deep anxiety, wake up, no matter how early, feel rushing time roaring, like mad monster truck bearing down upon you on desolate midnight highway, can't catch up, can't move, plans are stymied, sunk, minutes and hours clack by with nothing done while time passes, passes, in nightmare noise, ah, you try to grab a minute and it slips away, gibbering.
I dream of a kinder sort of time, apart from the ones and twos of the marching masses, a graceful time that is friend, not enemy. I call it swan o'clock, gliding in harmony with human heart, seeking and finding level of least resistance, gliding like swan on lotus covered lake, a friend giving you a lift up, an arm to lean upon as the day is bestowed like a cheerful gift, night is warmly received like soft wool blanket, ah, swan o'clock, that's the time for me.
