From New York with love

A letter to Hofan, who is studying movement theatre in Paris:

I am watching le comedie humaine on the streets and in the subway, such as this surprising ambulance arrival to the curb outside my window. Old man, red beanie, being loaded up and cared for. There, too, a family of orthodox Jews heaving boxes into a purple minivan. Here, more hints on the old man -- a bald and rotund police officer pouring water onto the pavement, and I see red disperse and disappear -- blood?

Japanese, maybe, girl, walks past my window and into the coffee shop. Green, not army-fatigue, but a military sort of olive, fur collar on the hood, white lace-up leather boots. Windscreen-like tinted glasses spanning temple to temple. Curly -- krinked, even -- bronze highlighted hair. If I guessed her beverage of choice, would I be right? She's a tall, not a grande girl, but not an addict either, no regular coffee here. Simple cappucino, maybe, elegance yet normality. Not like one of those tall skinny ladies with cups as long as their legs, ice-cold blended beverage whipped cream on top. Suck it through a straw, also long and slender. No, she I saw yesterday, and I wondered if that was the only thing she let herself eat all day.

So, how is New York? I am being a cruel observer of human life, and the more I do it the less I want to participate. I imagine with envy the comfort of regularity, but know that without constant change I feel like I die. I watched Eduard Locke's Lalala Human Steps last night -- an almost anaesthetized display of technical prowess, the dancers in abstract relationship to one another, if not to themselves. I fell asleep a little, missing the all male sections, but really no heart break because this was a piece made for the woman (note that though it was choreographed for the memory of Amelia/Emile, the transvestite friend of Locke's youth, the title is simply: Amelia). On pointe, with rapid turns, fast foot work, and equally torrential yet detailed hand and arm gestures, it was almost comic when Locke threw in a "modern" floor roll here and there, because the momentum inherent in such an action wasn't used. Instead, they continued in their Barbie-on-crack gesticulations, and the audience was enthralled. New Yorkers are such suckers for anything with a whiff of European tragedy.

But my main point is that afterwards, in a post-show discussion with Locke, he mentioned in passing his discovery in dance of movement for movement's sake; that dance moves for itself. The way he said it close to personified dance to me -- like "it" was a deity we invoke, appease, please, annoy, gratify, pleasure, depending on the nature of our movement. Which, to relate to my current detachment from place, purpose, or power, makes me think of what is achieved in travelling for travelling's sake, moving just to be moving -- the process of pilgrimage and not it's destination. It makes me think of busy-ness and how we so easily adjust to different paces of life. I think of New York and remember that I am in the capitalist center of the world, and that maybe that is why I cannot feel at rest. There is a sense here that one man's busyness makes the world turn, when really, the planet revolves on its axis regardless. I often feared that I had been "suburbanized" by my time at Swarthmore, but insofar as that may mean "de-urbanized," perhaps I am thankful, for I think I have realized gentler pleasures. That said -- this place must be great in the summer.

Where I live -- Astoria, Queens -- feels like a British seaside town on a sunny day. Pigeons rather than seagulls line telephone poles and rooftops, but the way they draw infinity in the sky, ensemble, and at random, carries an atmosphere of promise and timelessness that draws me to a feeling of walking along a wooden boardwalk above pebble beach. All buildings are low-rise -- nothing above four storeys -- which also gives me a sense of unattainable space; not immersive, like an actual landscape, rather distant but ever-present. The sky is a sexy lady, and whether it appears that she waves goodbye or beckons, you can't ever touch her.

A attractive young man walked out of the coffee shop, stealing glances at me, as he had done while seated, as he walks off to get lost in Union Square. I see him now at the traffic light, looking bewildered and with map or guidebook in hand. He spoke French on his cellphone -- Parisian? Moroccan? Tunisian? At this point, I think maybe he's waiting for somebody, because he's pacing.

"Susan," before me, is also leaving -- dressed hoodie-satchel-hippie-chic, I know her name because it was written on her coffee cup. I observed her as she oddly sipped at her orange juice and coffee alternately, swallowed, then slowly protruded her lips with shivering specificity -- a ritual of sorts, an act of self-poisoning? Staring into the distance with glazed eyes, her notebook and fountain pen which was to record, no doubt, the process of her magic imbibing, sat untouched upon her lap.

Moroccan (as I've now decided him), is back, speaking on the phone to his reluctant date. I wonder if I should try and start a conversation with him when he's done, just to see whether or not he really is African.

Not going to the Steps (an uptown dance studio full of ballerinas and jazz artistes) work/study meeting this morning was a good decision. Though I am fast fatigued by the downtown (improvisation) dance scene and its post-modern philosophical mess, going uptown for 20 hours a week would distract too much from honing my own craft and learning to listen to my own creative voice, which are my primary aspirations right now. Which I do for free, for me, sitting in Starbucks coffee. But only in New York!