New York City

I would be lying if I said I experienced this place the way almost everyone else does. I would be lying if I said I have been to the physical place more than once or twice. I, and others like me, tend to go there only in dream; and only for a night or two, for whatever purpose. It is a place in which we may not spend much time. It is a place for a certain kind of person, or people--a group in which we take only a passing part.

So, perhaps I have been to the great idol they call Liberty or, at least, hovered near that wicked headdress. Perhaps I have been to the Twin Towers, before they were ghosts who linger still, or the pinnacle of Empire, to catch the view. I have certainly been under the ground, and seen the traveling homeless, though the time dictated my mother bade me look away. Look away, she said, do not catch their eyes. I thought I saw a flicker of something in one once, after a furtive peek from under my hood. Maybe they knew something I did not.

It was to these forced wanderers I would return, when my skin showed me what it really was, much later. It was them who made me understand the wisdom of wearing rags and bits of paper, marking my face and growing my hair out; letting it tangle to impenetrable elfknots. Because I came willing, they showed me their armor and arms, and how to achieve their strength. They were not there by choice, but by circumstance, and survivors make the best of life. When my training was done, I too could float easily through the city, a few inches from the concrete or the water, riding the wyrmy steeds through the underground and speaking their tongue, among others. I wondered how I ever thought the city stank like a drunken wretch, or felt sadness at the lack of stars--now I was of it (when I wanted to be), part and parcel of that great pulsing life. In this place, there was knowledge and strength, if one could be flexible and hard enough to attain them. Eyes slid over and past me, hidden in my armor, few could discern my form or nature and fewer still could engage what I became.

An artist once noticed though, and I sat still for the better part of an hour while he sketched, eyes never leaving his face. He sketched on, though the gaze unnerved him; he politely invited me for a bit of tea and a sandwich, provided I would consent to being painted. At first, I did not comprehend what he said, since he did not speak in the screeching, halting train tones, and he repeated himself. Watching his face as I considered the offer, he donned the look of one consumed by his passion, which made him beautiful to one who never knew a true passion, except the desire to be something else. I spoke for the first time in an age.

"Yes." I didn't remember my voice this husky or why I muttered assent. The other words were easier on my throat. I trailed his wake to a little studio apartment then, where he introduced me to his dog, who was well-mannered. I saw that he had a shower, and inquired after the use of it, smiling at his surprise. Perhaps he said yes out of shock, but we do not waste opportunity when it shows itself. The way physical things go, I was quite dirty; once clean and clad in fresher things, my skin showed me as somewhat else. My artist startled when I emerged.

"Is there tea?" I asked, reminding him why I was there. Hopefully a sandwich, but I would be graceful if he changed his mind. Tea and conversation are harder come by than a sandwich.








indie ink challenge. juin 20-24.