I can't find this in the catalog
Candice asked if I wanted to go smoke hookah with a couple of her friends.
"Sure," I said. Figured it was only 6:30 pm and I had a couple of hours to kill.
"Actually, can we meet up with them later, cause Marj just got back from China and she's resting up. Also, a couple of my friends are coming out, and I haven't seen them in a while.” [insert unspoken but hinted at remark that we've been spending an inordinate amount of time together, thus contributing to the neglect of friends in our lives] Candice loves making plans on the train. She's heading back from work into the city, so it's efficient to do so; but the problem is, I only hear every other word cause the LIRR apparently tunnels through the Verizon Bermuda Triangle every second.
“Oh, we can reschedule? I'm sure she needs some shuteye. I'll just catch dinner somewhere and hook up with ya some other time.”
“Well, I was hoping we can catch dinner together and meet up with her later? Besides, she's leaving for Singapore Friday morning on another assignment and this will be the only time I'll see her.”
"Good God – some people have the best life!” It's only 6:30 pm. Dinner will take an hour and then we'll meet up and shoot the shit for another hour max. So I'll come.
It's 8:30 pm and we've been walking the streets of NY together. It's kind of nice, cause Candice and I haven't done this in a while. Dinner ended hours ago, and the reek of kimchee and marinated steaks have made a permanent home on our coats. Our poor poor coats. I'm kind of happy, that this bubble of hyper-reality happened tonight. Too often, I get caught up in meeting people or finishing deadlines or struggling with self-imposed writing. And all too often, I get pissed and depressed at the lack of productivity, at the lack of results that I can actually be happy with.
I'll run late because the N/R isn't working (damm you MTA!), I'll push off deadlines cause, to hell with it, I don't really care working for other people when I have so much to do for myself, and confronted with the incessant bombard of work, life, love, sex, ads, hucksterisms, inane decisions/thoughts/acts, my mind is a jumbled mess of dates and times — "Warning, this is a message from your Outlook, you have passed a deadline for your appointed task, do you wish to snooze or dismiss?" Dismiss, dismiss! For the love of God, how many times do I have to tell you! Snooze. My life is one lame dorky joke.
We've been walking for the past hour. It started with a steady walk, across the dark alleyways of the Garment District and down besides the glowing glowering towers of the Met Life buildings; we rediscovered the Flatiron parting the Broadway into rivers of red and yellow neon-ed lights. She grabbed my hand and punched them into her coat pocket on the wide walkways of Fifth Ave as we sidled along the bright shops, stuffed full with skinny mannequins dressed in frilly flowing floral bohemian dresses of the coming season - we walked rapidly against the clamoring winds. We cut into the side streets of furniture stores when we couldn't resist the frost any longer, and stared at the wares, laid neatly and orderly, picture perfect because real life wants to be perfect.
I love furniture stores for their sense of otherworldliness, because they are so un-real. In any real home, your plain table, frazzled sofa, and mismatched candlesticks are infused with humaness, the by-products of your imperfect taste and your uneven growth. I love how after every makeover show , the lucky person exclaims, “I love how they did it, this house/car/outfit is so me!” But it’s not, not any more than buying a French citizenship makes you French. The lottery winner, the art collector, the cultist – they are all the lonelier when compared to the entrepreneur who found a successful business, the painter who created a piece of art, the monk who attained enlightenment through physical and mental trials. It is always lonelier when you disregard the sheer thrill of creation for the material results of today.
The furniture in any given home is beautiful because it has a past that speak of worn lives lived. The chips, scratches and dents all have stories to tell. The ugly 70s entertainment unit is lovely when it clashes against the modern flatscreen TV, it’s poignant because the owners have grown, there is a sense of self that has grown along with the excitement of buying something for the very first time, the discovery of mature tastes, the realization of functional and aesthetic balance…
Candice and I looked at the perfectly designed furniturescape in the windows and it tinged me with a sad humor. The matching themes and glistening dinner sets seems so robotic to me – where are the chaos, the bad tastes, the imperfections that are the hallmark of our humanness?
People fall in love with the reflection of who they could be, never realizing that who they are is infinitely more beautiful.
We made our way slowly to Greenwich, and like mice in a maze, we quickly scuttled into Doma, attracted by its twinkling lights, large windows, and warm buzz. We shared a cookie (actually, I gobbled the cookie down), a mochaccino and an orange juice. I forget what we talked about but then again, Candice and I have gotten beyond the point of momentous talks. Our words are like bright stars strung together across the mournful sky. In lonely moments, remembering one conversation can be mystically beautiful – and in moments where a thousand million blazing stars adorn the night, seeing them all together can knock me sense-less.
It’s 10 pm and I’m still walking in the far west Village. We've walked past the bakeries and the silent stores and the candlelit restaurants. Past the town homes (with their panting dogs- Candice stops to oggle) and the bars with muffled music; past treelined streets and lampposts glowing in the jazzed night. I love how ordinary places, coffeeshops and park benches and cracked sidewalks, can be so meaningful because two people have left their imprints behind. The world is one big silent tapestry where the most beautiful threads are felt, not seen.