The most surprising things remind me of New York. A photo of bamboo, tall and thin, green and lush. A photo of such a foreign thing, so Un-American unlike Manhattan, evokes nostaglia for a short time ago that seems light years away.
The bamboo reminds me of The High Line, the Chelsea park built up from railway ruins. It was new to the city like me.
That time seems like a dream. Seems like a miracle and a burden all at once.
I forget it happened until I have a bad bagel or watch a girl struggle up California in stilettos and rememeber the women, the impeccable women in their heels and blow outs and flawless skirts.
The weather was bad and I gained weight in New York, sitting silent and solitary in my high rise studio overlooking the fabulous and iconic skyline of storylines that define entire existences. I had only a taste, just a small, trial-sized cone of New York.
Anyway, I'm often reminded.