A New York State of Mind

[scarlettina]

Last night, Billy Joel played the first of two concerts that will constitute the last such at Shea Stadium before the venue's destruction. jon_chance posted about attending the show over in her LJ (for which I am truly grateful; I am envious of her getting to attend but delighted for her that she did). Both Newsday and The New York Times have posted poetic, nostalgic reviews of the show. All this discussion has made me a little homesick this morning.

At the end of every contract, at the end of every job, someone in my Northwest posse inevitably asks me if I'm moving back to New York now. With the end of this contract looming, I've already had two people ask this very question. It's become sort of a ritual, the nearly-annual reconsideration of my residence in Seattle. I won't lie and say that moving back hasn't occurred to me because it does, and often. You can take the girl out of New York but you can't take the New York out of the girl, even if she has gone a little native. (There are only two business suits in my closet: one that's never been worn, and one that was last worn more than a year ago -- for a funeral.)

The point is...the prospect is always there in the back of my mind. It never goes away. The arguments for a return are many and compelling: living closer to my brother; living closer to the friends who have been with me longer than anyone here in the Northwest ever will be -- simply due to math if nothing else; theater and museums unparalleled by anything in Seattle; a whole different job market; a whole different life. It would be another new beginning. Such things are difficult to navigate but rarely, in my experience, bad.

Seattle has its own compelling reasons for staying: a circle of friends who have become a second family, a quality of life that is hard to argue with, a condo that I really do like, a less stressful ambiance over all and, my God, it's beautiful here. There's a lot to be said for seeing a volcano and a lake during your commute rather than the inside of a subway tunnel. I used to say that one of the reasons I'm still in Seattle is that I haven't done everything here that I was meant to do yet; now, I'm not so sure about that. And the job market here hasn't been kind or easy on me; that's for sure.

But this discussion always ends up pretty much even. Every argument for a decision one way or another has an equally compelling counterbalance. The best explanation I ever wrote for my being torn was a poem called "Bicoastal," which I'll include beneath a cut. (I wrote it during a brief flirtation with the idea of getting into the slam scene, so it's probably better spoken than read but there it is.)

This morning, I'm in a New York State of Mind. Tonight, I'll drive home across Lake Washington with Mount Rainier reigning over the landscape and wonder how I could ever consider forsaking the mountains for Manhattan.

Bicoastal

I West

What keeps me in Seattle
are the mountains:
deckle-edged peaks,
invitation to the horizon.
Spirit like summer is in the air
even in winter rains
from a sky bigger than desire
challenged only by
muscular Rainier's ragged edge.
I want to slide on the slick sides
of downtown’s glass towers,
speed like a cigarette across Elliott Bay,
wrap my hips in a smooth hemp skirt,
soft as silk,
and feel breezes off the water
tickle the backs of my knees.
This city has a laid-back knowing,
a take-it-easy attitude
that loves the mysterious turn of a corner
and offers a gift of hawks circling skyscrapers
like a casually offered diamond.
It tangles me up in salmon-colored sunsets
behind blue paper cut-out skylines
and whispers to me in the liquid lisp of water
and the fingerpat of the rain
to stay where I can straddle the mountains
and ride them like a hungry, yearning bride.

II East

What draws me back to New York
is the whirlwind
that whips down Fifth Avenue
on blustery spring mornings
still crisp with winter's touch,
when the air smells like snow
and exhaust and chestnuts,
wind that sweeps commuters down the street
like broken leaves, bits of paper, and crushed wax cups.
There's liquor in the air
that slips down the throat
like wine turned to whiskey,
sharpens all your edges ’til
the air bleeds chutzpah,
so alive it surges with impatience
like the rock-and-stop tide of taxi traffic,
with a heartbeat like story off a rapper’s tongue,
a wide-world knowledge,
a smile, a smirk,
a take-it-for-granted attitude
with a paper under one arm and a train to catch.
This is the lightening life
that zaps me into focus,
keeps me sharp and sure,
energy that crackles along my nerves
and powers me up for another day
of riding the whirlwind
like a sharp-beaked, gold-feathered bird of prey.

III Bi-coastal

What makes me crazy
is the hunger:
the call to mountain and Manhattan,
stretching me on the rack
of the Continental Divide.
This vicious stretch from South Street to Seneca
that pulls my heart,
seesaw tug of two lovers
too great to bear,
will surely break any vow I make to either.
Call me faithless,
unable to resist the Saturday siren song
of a neon night in New York
or Seattle’s hipper-than-thou tattoo.
They mark the soul,
burn their brands into my skin
and hiss the truth hard
into my reluctant ear:
I'm bound by two masters,
But no common slave,
I top from the bottom
choosing their favors.
I know the truth I live by:
There's no whirlwind without
the westering sun.