First Day in Harlem.
I overpacked. I overpacked after reminding myself, several times, that I'd have to lug whatever crap who knew how far across New York, then to destinations across the States. So after a night of very little sleep - even by my standards - and four hours of fitful bus-dreams, I lugged maybe thirty-five pounds of stuff onto the crowded A-train at Penn Station, then onto the M96 crosstown bus towards Spanish Harlem, then a few more blocks to Christina's work. Exhausting stuff for a smoker working on little sleep or food and too much drink!
I was revitalized by what I see to be the absolute beauty of the city, though. I love the old buildings and old signs and bodegas and tallness, the grey and red, the people too cool and sensible to seem like they're checking you out.
Christina works at Harlem RBI, which gets underprivileged kids playing baseball, staying in school, and applying to college. As soon as I walked in the door, a bevy of teenaged girls greeted me with an overwhelming, if beautiful, collective energy. The few boys were very beautiful too, and after a little juice and water I felt at home, laughing louder than anyone else. Christina and I talked about the excitement of living together again, now both as fully committed poets.
Afterwards, Christina ushered me onto another bus, and another train, to take us back to her West Harlem apartment. By this point, I was totally exhausted and even hurting a little, so at points I just stared out the window and tried not to be overwhelmed by the big busyness of New York.
As soon as we reached her apartment, I was at home. Christina's good like that. The orange walls of the hallway and the cerulean rug told me everything. Her place smells great. My room is big and clean, well-lit, full of books, and quiet. She has a big, rent-controlled two-bedroom. Bigger and better than Xn's & my old place in Oakland, and she pays less for it. Go figure!
We got some Mexican food from her favorite hole-in-the-wall, tacos al pastor y agua de piña for me, un sope for Christina. Toda la gente aquí conversa en español, which somehow surprised me. I love it! Christina and I talked about ways to make money, from spitting poems in the subway to whipping submissive men to working for the UN.
After eating, we complained about our mutual exhaustion, irritated our friends with texts, and eventually showered and dressed up. It was Christina's birthday, which meant we were pretty much obligated to not be lame for a change. Our boldness paid off. We went to a tiny club back on the Spanish Harlem side (taking a cab this time, happily), where the clientele and musicians were almost entirely Puerto Rican. Everyone was packed together, grooving to the awesome chanting and drumming. Individuals and couples took turns rocking the tiny dance floor, each with distinctive style and incredible musical/kinesthetic intelligence.
Our old friend Pearl showed with man in tow, and the three of us reminisced about the college days when we all hated Amherst and lived off-campus in a house in Hadley. Pearl is as crazy and fun as ever... I find New Yorkers to be really beautiful, probably partly because of confidence and style. It was interesting to be in a club full of people who were such, but also down-to-earth enough to be content with simply dancing and watching each other. I told Christina, "Just when I think I couldn't get any happier..."
Towards the end of the night, as Pearl was pulling her car around, a man did begin talking to me. I was kinda feeling it, but more feeling gluttonous for my own space and rest. So here we are, lj ghosts. You and me, a warm bed and a light in my head.
I was revitalized by what I see to be the absolute beauty of the city, though. I love the old buildings and old signs and bodegas and tallness, the grey and red, the people too cool and sensible to seem like they're checking you out.
Christina works at Harlem RBI, which gets underprivileged kids playing baseball, staying in school, and applying to college. As soon as I walked in the door, a bevy of teenaged girls greeted me with an overwhelming, if beautiful, collective energy. The few boys were very beautiful too, and after a little juice and water I felt at home, laughing louder than anyone else. Christina and I talked about the excitement of living together again, now both as fully committed poets.
Afterwards, Christina ushered me onto another bus, and another train, to take us back to her West Harlem apartment. By this point, I was totally exhausted and even hurting a little, so at points I just stared out the window and tried not to be overwhelmed by the big busyness of New York.
As soon as we reached her apartment, I was at home. Christina's good like that. The orange walls of the hallway and the cerulean rug told me everything. Her place smells great. My room is big and clean, well-lit, full of books, and quiet. She has a big, rent-controlled two-bedroom. Bigger and better than Xn's & my old place in Oakland, and she pays less for it. Go figure!
We got some Mexican food from her favorite hole-in-the-wall, tacos al pastor y agua de piña for me, un sope for Christina. Toda la gente aquí conversa en español, which somehow surprised me. I love it! Christina and I talked about ways to make money, from spitting poems in the subway to whipping submissive men to working for the UN.
After eating, we complained about our mutual exhaustion, irritated our friends with texts, and eventually showered and dressed up. It was Christina's birthday, which meant we were pretty much obligated to not be lame for a change. Our boldness paid off. We went to a tiny club back on the Spanish Harlem side (taking a cab this time, happily), where the clientele and musicians were almost entirely Puerto Rican. Everyone was packed together, grooving to the awesome chanting and drumming. Individuals and couples took turns rocking the tiny dance floor, each with distinctive style and incredible musical/kinesthetic intelligence.
Our old friend Pearl showed with man in tow, and the three of us reminisced about the college days when we all hated Amherst and lived off-campus in a house in Hadley. Pearl is as crazy and fun as ever... I find New Yorkers to be really beautiful, probably partly because of confidence and style. It was interesting to be in a club full of people who were such, but also down-to-earth enough to be content with simply dancing and watching each other. I told Christina, "Just when I think I couldn't get any happier..."
Towards the end of the night, as Pearl was pulling her car around, a man did begin talking to me. I was kinda feeling it, but more feeling gluttonous for my own space and rest. So here we are, lj ghosts. You and me, a warm bed and a light in my head.