young generation

Keep Art Alive :: “Young Generation” :: Art by Gunnisal

“Well, it’s a big big city and it’s always the same,
can never be too pretty,
tell me your name.
Is it out of line if I was to be bold and say,
‘would you be mine?'”

I have always felt more comfortable in the midst of stoplights and sidewalk passer-by’s, window displays, and the sounds of traffic, all the trappings that make up a city, then I ever have been in the middle of nowhere. True, I have a deep affection for the ocean, and there is something breathtaking when standing atop a mountain looking over what sprawls below, and I have acquired a new perspective of awe when I have found myself in the starkness of the desert, especially at night spread out beneath a blanket of stars. All of those places have poetry and music and true beauty to me. I take all those images and fold them into pocket-sized origami memories, and some nights when I can’t sleep, I take them out, unfold them, and sprinkle the makings of dreams into them. It is the city, or cities, though, that I have walked in, breathed in, been both born and broken in. It is the city that is part of the core of me.

There is something within the chaos and clatter that moves me, a sense of rhythm and story that weaves and intertwines between the couple that are walking hand-in-hand, next to the busker boy playing guitar with his hat out, and the aging woman pushing around a cart filled with what cannot be anything else but her defined treasures. Sometimes I catch snippets of conversations, the flush of emotion that blows off of people whether they mean it to or not, and the found art of storefront signs and items in windows – not the things that are heavily marketed and appropriately displayed – you know, not The Gap windows that are identical no matter what city you may be in – but the unexpected; the sleeping cat in the dry cleaners window snuggled up around a seamstress mannequin, or the well-worn suitcase with fading, whimsical stickers from all over the world affixed to the sides.

Sometimes it is a bar coaster with a note scratched on the back and sent like a postcard that ends up meaning the world to me, or the diner napkin where I wrote half a poem on that I find later, partially crumpled up, nearly lost in the bottom of my purse, bringing ¬†back the momentary inspiration I had over coffee and a slice of pie, or that dress that I bought on a lazy Sunday afternoon from a hole in the wall, blink and you’d miss it boutique. The store owner had a purple streak in her hair and was playing Cocteau Twins’ Garlands on an old side-by-side tape deck. She smiled and said “that dress was meant for you” with the kind of tone and seer’s knowledge that a fortune card reader seeks to emanate, and she was right, as it hangs in my closet some five years later, it is still my favorite.
There are more recollections, tales of the cities that could be the basis of many an untold story that maybe I will write someday. And, I know there will be more, I mean, I haven’t even been to New York City yet…but some day…maybe some day soon…maybe this year.

Whistle for the Choir :: The Fratellis

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