Hello from New York

Midtown Manhattan
Past Midnight



Coffee Eyes

I made this image on the plane today; it is based on a slice of a photograph of a beautiful woman's laughing dark brown eyes.

***

So here we are, back where it all started. I expected to be somewhat down tonight, for lots of reasons, but the minute we hit this city, I started feeling much better. Sitting in an Irish bar and grill across from our hotel, my companion and I watched as the locals cheered when their Mets won a playoff game over the Dodgers.

Earlier, in the San Francisco airport, we watched the Tigers go ahead of the Yankees. Here, in the pub, I learned that my childhood favorite held on to win that game.

But if I lived in New York, it would be hard to resist becoming a fan of one of these two teams here. Of course, they buy the best talent. But, still, that talent has to perform, and there is no bigger stage for baseball than this wonderful city.

Never has been. The Dodgers, the Giants, the Yankees, the Mets -- all originally New York teams, of course. Three of the four are good enough that they made this year's playoffs. Only our Giants failed to do so.

***

New York is home to a hell of a lot more than baseball. That this is now the lowest-crime major city in America truly amazes me, because I remember a former time. But money has pushed most of the poor out of Manhattan, at least. This is now the great holding pen for America's upper middle class. It's hard to argue with them when the Dow hits an all-time high this week.

As I have kept saying for over a year, everyone in the Valley knows there is a new boom, but nobody will say it. Employment has doubled in Silicon Valley this past year! And, as we go, so goes the nation's economy.

***

Meanwhile, there is an election building, and tomorrow I will have the privilege of listening to some of this country's smartest political thinkers predict what will happen. Tune in tomorrow night. Right here, on this modest little node of the global blogosphere, I will reveal which party is going to prevail at the polls a month from now.

You can say you knew it first.

***

This is the only city in America where I feel truly at home as a writer. So I will blog from here, for the first time, and ask myself to express whatever heightened awareness being here brings. This is also a city of so many memories, professional and personal. I actually could write an entire memoir composed on vignettes from New York City. It would cover the past 39 years at this point.

My traveling companion told me something I didn't know today. (Or, if I did know, I had forgotten, which is an increasingly serious problem for me.) She had always been told her hair was "dirty blond," and, understandably, she didn't much like that. Then, a friend of hers suggested that she call her hair "golden blond" instead.

It turns out that that suggestion took root and has stuck to the point where she now feels her hair just may be a lovely shade of golden blond. Julia is not the kind of person who forgets such gifts. Even at the age of seven, she remembers, is grateful, and loyal to her friend, even though they have not seen one another for, oh, so long, especially in the mind of a little girl.

***

It's Indian Summer here, even as rains lashed San Francisco in our wake. The plane rocked and lurched uneasily over a troubled continent. I've rarely experienced such turbulence -- many passengers were scared. I saw a man take his screaming baby into the bathroom just before we hit the worst bumps. The flight attendants grew pale and ran for their seats. Our stomachs rose to our throats. The plane pitched and rolled. "Are we upside down?" my daughter asked nonchalantly.

When the plane momentarily stabilized, the man with the screaming baby burst out of the bathroom with eyes as big as frisbees, and dove into his seat. He fastened their seatbelts. The child continued to shriek.
Meanwhile, Julia concentrated on her movies (several by her brothers, "WeirDudes Productions," and then, Hollywoods's "The Devil Wears Prada"), while I silently congratulated myself on NOT passing on to any of my kids my earlier fear of flying, or hopefully, any of my other fears, too numerous to mention. When I think back, it is amazing I survived my own fears, as they were so numerous and so intense, it exhausts me even to try and conjure them at this point.

I was not really afraid tonight on that bouncing plane. There was none of that primal smell of sweat under my arms as I undressed tonight; in fact I can and will wear the same shirt tomorrow. I have learned there are many fates worse than death. At least for me, death pales in the face of losing love.

Why am I this way? I wish someone could tell me. But to me, loving is the greatest of all treasures. Not being loved, loving. When I do it, I give myself away without reservation, even as I open myself to a pain that is almost intolerable. I hope it is clear that I now recognize that this is a weakness, not a strength -- of mine. I have listened to all counsel, and my main mission is to be make sure I am loved in return.

Thing is, I know the women I have loved truly loved me back. With a couple of possible exceptions, they gave their hearts to me as much as I gave mine to them. But it is also apparent to me that they, as women, seem to have been better prepared for the endings of love than I have ever been.

So, I am told, if any of us, men or women, can survive the loss of love and the inevitable feelings of rejection that follow, we will heal. Then, we are given to believe, the best moments will come again -- new loves, new appreciation of our family (this one is true), new opportunities to do the simple things like plant flowers, cook meals, give a friend a gift, make sweet love, listen to great music, participate in the community around us, and ultimately persevere in this challenging voyage through life.

The goal is to recover so you can keep going. You never know who is around the next corner, but when (s)he comes into view, you get to go back to Go and start all over again.

Isn't that fun?

Smile.

That's all, just smile. Go to the nearest mirror and smile. Behold how beautiful you are and always have been. Ignore the lines of age; look through the surface to glimpse the soul within. You, and I, are beautiful. We all have the most beautiful faces.

If that makes you feel like crying, please cry. But know this world is a better place that you are here. Then, go out and do something about it!

We all fight these battles.

Just like my little "golden blond," now fast asleep on the first night of her very first visit to the city of writerly dreams.

-30-


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