I'd driven by hundreds of times since growing up and moving out, but somehow to drive is to go at warp speed; too fast and sheltered to feel and smell and see what's become of what used to be home. The artifacts that emerge from memoric haze are only momentarily revived beyond a car window. You can turn away and find something in the present to distract you within. That's not an option when you walk.
I park blocks away. The parking in Chinatown's always been disastrous (my father's words echoing through my brain) so I pull into a space across the decaying brown tenements I spent my first years in. This is the New York that's etched into my DNA, a jagged canyon of brick and iron; gray as the sky; hard and tough and cold. It looks nothing like the New York of myth - faux bright lights and arts events on every corner. No. I do not know that place: the haunt of trust fund babies and ivy school graduates mimicking their way into bohemia. I've never known that place.
It strikes me as I inhale the ghastly, poisoned chill air that home is a scattered thing. A dead thing. As life stretches out in front of us, pieces of it fall across the vast landscape of our experience. We revisit with excitement, eager to see what's changed; what's new. I'm struck by the sameness of the scene. The stasis of a place fortold as the forefront of the dynamic world.
My grandparents, still hunkered down in their studio apartment as they've been for decades, just got a laptop. My visit is a surprise and they beam with pride upon my smiling entrance. I take them across the universe; their first visit to this internet thing. I tell them enthusiastically: "this will change your life! You can connect with everyone...everything...you can connect with the world."
They feign wonder.
I feel silly; my technocratic optimism is exposed for the charade it's always been. I've been crouched in the backseat of a car all along. They've been far more connected than me.
The street is viscerally colder when I emerge again. I notice the tackiness of 90's archetechture for the first time. I notice the purple paint that went over street art. I notice the street art that went over the purple paint. I notice still, ancient faces in windows that have increased only in creases.
I get in the car and speed onto the highway.
My heart is heavy.
For More, visit Rants, Raves and Rethoughts
I park blocks away. The parking in Chinatown's always been disastrous (my father's words echoing through my brain) so I pull into a space across the decaying brown tenements I spent my first years in. This is the New York that's etched into my DNA, a jagged canyon of brick and iron; gray as the sky; hard and tough and cold. It looks nothing like the New York of myth - faux bright lights and arts events on every corner. No. I do not know that place: the haunt of trust fund babies and ivy school graduates mimicking their way into bohemia. I've never known that place.
It strikes me as I inhale the ghastly, poisoned chill air that home is a scattered thing. A dead thing. As life stretches out in front of us, pieces of it fall across the vast landscape of our experience. We revisit with excitement, eager to see what's changed; what's new. I'm struck by the sameness of the scene. The stasis of a place fortold as the forefront of the dynamic world.
My grandparents, still hunkered down in their studio apartment as they've been for decades, just got a laptop. My visit is a surprise and they beam with pride upon my smiling entrance. I take them across the universe; their first visit to this internet thing. I tell them enthusiastically: "this will change your life! You can connect with everyone...everything...you can connect with the world."
They feign wonder.
I feel silly; my technocratic optimism is exposed for the charade it's always been. I've been crouched in the backseat of a car all along. They've been far more connected than me.
The street is viscerally colder when I emerge again. I notice the tackiness of 90's archetechture for the first time. I notice the purple paint that went over street art. I notice the street art that went over the purple paint. I notice still, ancient faces in windows that have increased only in creases.
I get in the car and speed onto the highway.
My heart is heavy.
For More, visit Rants, Raves and Rethoughts
4 comments:
.....you can never go back...well, you can but, you'll feel old, very old...i know, i did it too....just look forward.
This is one of the most beautiful things I've read on these pages, yet... the heart's expression. And that is what we need, in order to change the world... heart's expressing, other heart's listening. I try to remember that home is where the heart is, as the time draws nigh when my family's home will be sold and sent down the market, out of reach of my hand... and strengthen my heart, so that it might feel safe and warm. If the memory there is not safe and warm, then we have to create our own warm place, out of what scraps we might find. You might be surprised at the scraps you might find, worth hanging onto, in creating your new home.
..."trust fund babies and ivy school graduates mimicking their way into bohemia" ... mimicking their way into bohemia... nice observation, nice expression...
Peace & Love...
I moved from NYC 6 years ago (to live in Maryland, if you can believe it; but that's another story) after living there most of my life--over 40 years. I could no longer withstand the crowds, the garbage, the smell. And yet it is continues to be a part of me. I still compare it to other places and find them lacking. I wonder when it comes to NYC...can one ever really leave? My search for "home" continues.
Sounds to me as if much remains to remind you of your past. Seems to me as if your city retains much of its flavor , even if painted over several times.
Frankly, I think that you are lucky.
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