There may be no two American cities that share certain aspects of culture in ways that excite writers more than San Francisco and New York. But out west, we are a tiny version of the other place on the continent that refers to itself as simply The City.
If New York is an apple, we are an apple seed.
Sometimes that bigger, faster City plants itself so firmly in my imagination that it replaces my conscious mind and hijacks my dreams.
Concepts like what could have been, or what still could be...But dreams always end, sending me crashing back to a daily reality that includes some fairly crushing weights.
There is a lot of crankiness around me. Missed signals, misinterpretations, anxieties. There also are moments of rare beauty. My 10-year-old went to an "art party" yesterday and brought back several tiny colorful works that inspired a new wave of hope.
A few hours later, several extremely bad memories surfaced, knocking me backwards again. This period is like trying to hit fog with a hammer -- all one can do is swing wildly in the air, looking foolish.
If you see someone doing that, of course you back away. He has to be crazy. Or maybe not. Maybe he just really badly needs somebody to hug.
I brought back little pieces of New York this time, to remind me afterward that I really was there. As the line between what is imagined and what is reality degrades, not just for me but in our world in general, concrete reminders might help what dreams remain to continue to flicker during those long, dark nights of a thickening fog that never will settle.
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