Intermediary

The intermediary place was New York City, which puts me in good company. It has been the intermediary place for how many people throughout human history? How many writers toiled away on its city streets and never published anything? How many artists whose name I have never heard painted in a run down studio? How many twenty-somethings tried to make it work in shared beaten down apartments full of strangers? How many people in suits withered away working 80 hour weeks hoping they would succeed? How many weary travelers? How many immigrants? How many romances? This city is always changing and redefining itself, as are the people in it, and that energy you feel when you get out in the middle of it all.

So for three days I put my feet to the pavement and explored and wandered and got lost while visualizing again all the infinite crevices I could one day call home, and all the manners in which I could potentially make that happen. In the background sat lovely conversations woven with food and coffee that turned slowly into beers as the day moved on. All the various micro-niches worked themselves in and out of sight and by walking and tuning in to your surroundings you realize not a single city block is left untouched by some profound past event, whether remembered or not remembered by the average outsider like me. 

And again, that was it, a start and a stop. Up again from JFK and out across the Atlantic, Soho and Brooklyn and New York University and all the fountains around Washington Square continue making noise further and further into the background. The future ushers in tropical rains, tea plantations, and a whole new set of unknowns.