The sun plunging through a cloud bank out on the horizon is such an almost invasive intimacy to take part in- to be a silent observer. Fishing boats pulled up onto the shoreline to await another sunrise. I'm flooded with intimate memories on this night in the city. I'm in no mood to go out and try to make new intimate moments with the nighttime sky tonight. I can't take in any of NYC's nocturnal charms tonight because Maui is on my mind, and Bulgaria is on my mind.
A little over a week in the city so far and I hit crisis today; I NEED to smell, I need to have my vision stimulated by vast empty areas of greatness. I need to feel smothered in damp, heavy, intoxicating air. I want to have salt water dry on my skin and crack it and leave a fantastic trail of salt trailing behind long after the water evaporated to unleash their healing powers. I need to bike by Hookipa nearing sunset and look out at the line-up of surfers in the water and perhaps catch glimpse of that one set that comes along on those magical days that roar through out of nowhere and cleans up. When passing Mama's Fish House the night blooming Cereus- a otherworldly plant straight out of a hypnopompic science fiction novel where humans finally develop a way to communicate with plants and gain insight into their fantastical world- what exactly DOES give some of them their unique flair? Why are white flowers in the tropics night bloomers? Why do they hold such intimacies?
I am pondering how I miss the intimacy of my hands in the dirt. I miss that my hand has not cramped lately from having a trowel in it and shaving down a test unit into a perfect 1.0m x 1.0m x 1.0m work of art. In misery sometimes the most amazing intimicies are uncovered. I am reminded of 10-hour work days where we are all working side by side on our individual tasks and sharing stories and absurdities alike. 10 hours a day, etc. Archaeologists are funny peeps. We love to open up mysteries but tend to remain mysteries ourselves. Maybe we want people to tease it out of us like we use our trowels to carefully (most the time...) take down each layer of soil ever so painstakenly and intimately like we are having a conversation with it... Yes we are peculiar and I mean this in the most grateful of ways.
Perhaps it is just me. There are many people that know me but very few who really get me. Maybe I keep the details tucked away inside a treasure map for my friends to navigate through and have a fantastical journey of discovery along the way. Because, from what I gather, it is the journey...the meat... the intimacy.
Just another voice drowned out by the deafening sounds of people, of cars, in the city that never sleeps... New intimacies I need to familiarize myself with because I need to have intimate contact with my environment or else I don't know what will happen. Who can live without that? I will find that kind of peace here. I've caught glimpse of it already: viewing the Hudson from Chelsea Piers late at night when walking to the C train on 14th & 8th. I've seen it walking through Times Square oddly enough but not really. I've seen it walking on the High Line http://www.thehighline.org/
ok I'm not even going to proof this...