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| https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pale_Blue_Dot |
Like a lot of native New Yorkers living outside of the country (or smack dab in the middle of it like I was), news of home and murder struck us deep at our core, and like many of my friends, we took it as a beacon of light in the fight against the dark that spreads through the human condition where we cannot see it, deep within our souls. I came home as soon as could, with a full grown Mal and man in tow, in a crazy road trip adventure that was fraught with many perils, but make it I did.
Of course, that man soon realized all those t.v. shows and movies depicted a reality about my home that he was not prepared to accept, but I accepted the return to the homeland of my birth as a necessary burning up upon re-entry. Ain't nobody gonna move me from this.
And so I set out to reconnect with my old network of former classmates, college pals, and work acquaintances, trying to pick up the thread of life in our big city once again. It was overwhelming: I was flat broke (typical for single women), had one of the highest rents in the country to make every month (alone), on a paycheck that did not include food, or clothing, or electricity, because no one in the city gives a fuck about you or your comfort. It's sad in a way, I suppose, but everybody is just trying to keep their heads above water, in the most vicious waters urban man has ever created. Population and competition do that to people, like Rhesus monkeys fighting for peanuts at the local zoo: people zone out, stepping over homeless humans like they're a discarded pizza box, but what can you do? That bum is schizo and he might knife you. Besides, you'll get fired from the job that keeps your head just above the poverty line, and you'll soon be homeless, too, if you don't hurry into work.
That's life in "The Big Apple". It's a near-constant Round Robin* game of crisis care, like an Emergency Room on any given night throughout Gotham: who lives, and who dies? We call it "The Rat Race" here for good reason, because sometimes the vermin outnumber the amount of humans who give a rat's ass about you, and that's on a relatively peaceful day. Know what I mean? It changes you: how you think, look, and behave. Yeah, it makes you stronger, faster, smarter, and tougher, but you learn to let those little things go over the catastrophes, losing sight of the details that pile up in the face of neglect.
I certainly wasn't alone. As part of my "Reconnect" campaign, I briefly became a "joiner" of clubs and associations, at least temporarily, while I made crucial connections. With my safety, security, and money in mind, I forced myself out into the nightlife of Manhattan, typically after rushing home to Brooklyn from work to walk my dog, change my clothes, and take the train back into town, usually because people become snobbish about boroughs at the slightest suggestion from an out-of-towner. Yeah, I know. Women lead brutally hard lives. On one such night, I sat alone at the bar that some local actor bought with t.v. series money about life in the city. But not for long. Within minutes, I chatted with an attractive lady sitting next to me to learn that, yes, she too did design work. Well, yeah. Most of us do that at some point.
We quickly became friends, and branched out from our two bar stools to include other RISD alumni within our conversations. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a guy speed past me like a blur, and then I thought I heard my name. "Hey! Beau!" Turned out to be a guy I had gone out on a date or two with, made out with one time without sex, and then never dated him again. He avoided me in classes after that, and I never really knew why, although hardcore dysfunction was definitely part of my short list of reasons. He fit the criteria: well-to-do, infamous dad, artsy Jewish family with lots of creative connections, etc. You know the type. Handsome but distant, like he's got a million exciting things going on, but honestly, it's creative procrastination.
Anyway, we reconnected as friends, in the same dithering slightly romantic way we had made contact at school with. He was still attractive and young, and so was I. He was entering a Japanese firm through Marketing, that standby for artists when the art and design department thing doesn't work out for you. We were all trying to make our way in Post-911 New York. He'd come back from teaching English in Japan after the attacks to enlist in the NYPD. The force didn't work out for him, for obvious reasons, but I admired his response to a call-to-action. I felt the same way about my people, too. This is our home.
We fight to defend it. Makes sense.
We became reacquainted and spent some time together, mostly drinking his food of choice, like Sake and Sushi, so he could show off his knowledge of Japanese to me, but we occasionally connected on a deeper level. One 9/11 night was one of those times, when we broke through the petty show-off competition of visual genius to throw some light on what it means to really belong to a culture, like he and I do. He was trying to work on series of paintings about his brief time on the force, like his Jewish Upper East Side gallery agent suggested he do, because his pretty but lackluster Japanese landscapes kind of fell flat. I didn't mind. His rich kid edge was the same energy I met with at school. Why would his life here be any different for him? It wasn't really, as I watched him muddle through his intense feelings about seeing murder and the worst of humanity firsthand, for hours at a time.
I didn't think it would go far due to his emotional constipation, hence the whole codependent thing he's got going on with his folk in their Village apartment, because processing wasn't high on his family's list of accomplishments. His sister still slept on his parent's couch at the time, supposedly because she was the victim of a sexual assault that left her traumatized, but after my brush-ups with the insane, I knew it could be untrue. Besides, his parents covered for her constantly in her infirmity, and I knew all about that, too. I covered up for my family more times than I could count, being an abuse survivor all my life. I knew the consequences for speaking up against mental illness in the home.
It was in that context that he invited me to see his cool art studio housed in a trendy brick building that was formerly a warehouse in the Meatpacking District, on the very night we mourn our dead. After touring the facilities, we made our way to the roof with a bottle of wine. It was cold out, as September nights that edge towards Fall are. Besides the uncomfortable fumbling around that passes for flirting with the disordered, I could see the twin lights of the former Trade Center site from atop the building, and I still can't really explain what I saw accurately. It was like there were a thousand little lights twirling, dipping, and swooping independently within the two upward beams, of their individual volition. It was eerie, fantastical, and utterly miraculous.
I asked him if he saw what I saw, and we spoke briefly about it.
He dismissed it as dust motes, but what kind of matter moves like that?! I tried watching the evening news for days afterward, as well as intermittently searching the web for other witnesses to the events of that night, but I still don't know what happened. I don't know what I saw, except that it looked like the dearly departed souls had become a thousand points of light** in the night, a cluster of brilliant fairy lights brushing up against one another as they surfed the warm updraft of the hot spotlight currents. It was joyful and free, and I have the same chill goosebumps writing about it in this library's air conditioning as I did on that windy night in September, when I wasn't a human warrior on a mission to save the world with my friends, but an artist who could really see what life was about: the beauty of it, the pathos of it, the sometimes tragic and hopelessly beautiful quality to our unique lives that makes the world go 'round. Do you know what I mean?
I hope you do, because that feeling was more real to me than any of the words spoken to me that night by a New York kid who would never make it out of his head to achieve great success, despite every advantage that was rigged for him through a Capitalist system designed for his particular benefit. He was a victim of circumstances beyond his control, like the synapses in his brain that constantly misfire, as mysterious to me as the cosmic forces that drive stardust across the night sky, but such is the mystery and marvel of our faith. Amen to you today who have suffered at the hands of others who do not love you like I do. I understand you, and I can feel your pain. I can help. We'll be here for you, when you're ready. I am the light at the end of the tunnel. Come home to me.
* https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Round-robin
** https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thousand_points_of_light
