Tag: whinging

This weekend realized for the first time with fierce clarity; I am hopelessly, toxically, in love with New York. I came to this epiphany after midnight, while crossing time zones somewhere in the Midwest. The moon was full, the clouds a mysterious Rorschach swirl, and Rufus Wainwright was crooning a Leonard Cohen cover over the car radio.

I’ve never thought of myself as a die-hard New Yorker. I think that sort of personality archetype is reserved for the denizens of NYC as portrayed in superhero blockbusters. I live nowhere near Manhattan. I have more in common with Toronto than Brooklyn, geographically speaking.

But as I found myself deep in the American Midwest, it was hard not be aware of what a hopeless Yankee I am. I had a critical eye on everything; from the tall, willowy, beautiful nordic girls that seemed to spring up from the hay fields like straw, to the crème brûlée that had gone sticky-soft in the humidity. Even the trees seemed weaker to me, less dangerous than those dark, sharp pines I know and love.

My homesickness was fierce. The quaint innkeepers were too kind and personal. The squat old dog that sidled up to me at the local bar was too casual, too at home.

I’d never been more desperate for sarcasm. I had come to a strange land, and here I felt like the cynical monster.

However, despite my longing for home, I realized something desperately (painfully?) poignant about being adrift and far from your particular comforts.

Writers inherently spend an inordinate amount of time in their heads. Writing is solitary, and the process insulates you against reality as a necessity. You draw upon your memories, your dreams, your fears—all of it—in order to create. But as an artist and a creative soul, I realize I can’t feed it just my own recycled thoughts forever.

I need experiences to feed the engine. Good ones, bad ones, doesn’t really matter- they all go into the soup. This is the best creative fodder I have, and why I always travel if I’m given the chance. My favorite pastime is to fall in love with strangers.

Maybe love isn’t the right word, but I can’t think of a better one. The English language disappoints me in that shortcoming.

I like to try on their life for a moment, to imagine what existence might look like through that person’s eyes. I notice the details, a unique pin or necklace, an unusual taste in shoes, a bag with a worn strap. I can’t help but fill in the rest:

She’s not just a flight attendant; she’s reading Flaubert for her online lit course in stolen moments after takeoff. She found those quirky silver-spoon earrings at a little boho shop down the street from her apartment and wears them on days she wants to feel more whimsical than her life allows. She knows she should call her sister, but she tells herself a flimsy excuse that it’s the time zone difference that keeps getting in the way and not her own guilt.

I do this constantly. I can’t help it, my mind just fills it in. Little stories about the strangers passing through my life. They’ll never know, but I’m taking an ephemeral photograph of them as I go on my way. This is how I know, despite any job positions, titles, or marketing—I have a Poet’s heart.

Listening to Rufus belt out the verse, I can imagine that too. My heart aches vicariously, yet my soul doesn’t know the difference. He is singing another man’s song about a woman he’s never met, and I can still hear the truth of it in his voice. We are mirrors, endlessly reflecting fragments of other people’s stories back into art.

Somewhere between Illinois and Infinity, another poet hurtles by on a dark interstate, driven half mad by the moon.