Performed at The Kates, February 2018
I’m looking for something to believe in. I go to New York. Southwest has airfare at $146, round trip, non-stop and I believe in airfare at $146 round trip, non-stop.
I’m in New York. It’s sloppy and busy and a cacophony of sounds, a symphony of languages. I do what I always do when I’m here. I walk.
Today I’m walking with the intention of finding something to believe in. I took a yoga class once. It was stretchy and relaxing and then not so relaxing and then empowering and then humbling and I learned two things: one, the nap at the end of class is amazing; and two, if you set an intention you can bend your leg over your head.
Sixth Avenue. I like to walk all the way up Sixth Avenue or down Sixth Avenue, depending on where I’m starting from. Today the languages swirling around in the air are silky and incisive, droplets of passion laced throughout conversations that look, gesturally, like a long to-do list that must be followed in a precise order.
It smells like rain on thrown-out hamburgers. The traffic sloshes. I walk into a bodega because they have lemonade there and I believe in lemonade.
The guy at the counter has deep lines around his eyes, which look like stress lines, until he smiles, at which point, those lines become the gorgeous ornate setting for the bright lights of his eyes. He treats me like I belong in New York. I believe in belonging.
I walk by a church because those things are supposed to be filled with things to believe in. But the gates are locked. And the door looks uninviting anyway and there’s a small park outside the church, but it’s closed and it’s a park, that’s closed, and that seems weird to me, to close a park, it seems to subvert the point of a park, but that yard isn’t my property and I don’t recall anyone asking for my input on the subject.
Crossing intersections is kinda like a game of Leap Frog, which I recently played because did you know there’s an arcade in the suburbs that has Leap Frog and Galaga and Pac Man and Space Invaders and Centipede--there is--it’s awesome, go immediately. As everyone knows, the trick behind Leap Frog is, you gotta go your own pace. You can’t just willy nilly jump on any old log. You gotta grab YOUR log. Same deal crossing Sixth Avenue and Houston—you know you’re not gonna wait there on the corner, but you really must know your limits and power particularly regarding lead time in relation to that oncoming moving truck with the driver who is eating a sandwich and about to rip it through the light.
I make it across the intersection. Now. Where was I. Looking for something to believe in. I head east because that’s where the sun rises and I believe in the sun rising.
In Soho there’s a Moleskin store. Inside the Moleskin store there is Heaven. Fine-tipped pens in bright blue, Heaven. Precisely lined paper in sturdily bound journals, Heaven. Tote bags that can take a beating. Backpacks that can fight monster robots in space. I believe in backpacks that can fight monster robots in space, so I go in.
Behind the register is a woman with graceful fingers and a sparkling laugh. She is a believer in precisely lined paper in sturdily bound journals and I’m about to ask about the backpacks fighting monster robots in space, but I don’t want to overplay my hand here. I have found a human and a place that I believe in and this park is not locked and closed but still…Right. This is a place of business and this human is working. I buy a pen refill because I believe in pen refills and I resume my trek.
I decide to take the subway uptown. This is because I like saying the word “uptown.” Also, I have a MetroCard from the last time I was here, and I thought it expired but it didn’t and using what was heretofore considered an unusable transit card is something I believe in.
I subway aim for the Natural History Museum because I believe in learning and also the park is up there and I believe in parks. We roll.
Every now and then I’ll suddenly drop into a daydream where I’m walking through a garden labyrinth that was clearly conceived by Guillermo del Toro and I’ll slip into an alternate timeline where raspberries have gigantic doll eyes and dogs invite you to a table for tea. In this timeline, I wear a top hat and gloves and I have perfect posture. I also have the ability to turn invisible on a whim so I have been privy to some pretty interesting conversations let me tell you, but I’m sworn to secrecy about the conversations in my daydream-Guillermo del Toro-labyrinth and also, the subway has come to a halt.
I’m sitting between two women. The woman on my right has beautiful braids and a Bible in one hand. The woman on my left has a cart filled with what look like cabbages or some other green vegetable I don’t know I’ve been subsisting on crackers and biting my nails since the election. The three us look up at the subway map in what looks like a highly coordinated move.
I’m aiming for the mid-70s and given the halting and the sorry-for-your-inconvenience messages, I suspect I’m either going to have to overshoot my aim or undershoot it but I try to put together the puzzle of public transportation because I believe in puzzles.
I’m still looking at the map when I say, “Are you gonna transfer at 59th?”
The woman on my right still looks at the map and says, “I believe so.” The woman on my left still looks at the map and says, “I believe so, too.”
I lean back just slightly and I feel the space open up behind me. I settle in. The women on either side of me make room and fit comfortably around me, which sounds weird now that I’m saying it out loud but it’s a specific public transportation thing you either stuff yourself into a space or you fit nicely into it but there’s usually some sort of group dynamic happening that swings those moments one way or another and usually it pisses me off and don’t you worry, I have a polished litany prepared that showcases years of writing experience intertwined with foggy metaphors and self-righteous fury that perfectly encapsulates my rage regarding group dynamics on public transportation. Now, however, I fit.
We get off the subway separately. We nod at each other as we do. I follow the signs, hop up the stairs, shoot through the exit at the top and out into what now looks like sunshine though maybe not, although it somehow feels sunnier than it was.
I run/jog along the park because I believe in feeling the feels and I believe in paying attention when it becomes sunnier than it has been.
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