Words are just that, words. I can say any of them and they still leave me feeling unsatisfied that I’ve conveyed the meaning which would elicit the same feeling in the reader.
I cannot convey the massiveness of something like New York, but it is there. Spaceship NYC. I flew out to visit Sal and Sophie in the Village. Their environs are a nice hard wood floor one bedroom apartment with a good amount of light and in the thick of things. Hop on the elevator and walk out the door and you’re in the City. Walking out into it, you can feel the buzz. Your body will vibrate with it. You can feel it under your feet. But most of all you can smell it. It comes in many flavors . . . garlic rainfall, Szechuan breeze, polluted harbor hues, and cut flower rush hour tie us, no, bind us to the grit and glitter that is the City.
Every direction you look, there is evidence that some human has made their mark. Which in turn only sends a thousand different thoughts at all times. Little explosions of meaning and non-meaning abound, we pick up on this usually imperceptibly, but sometimes it overwhelms.
So often I found myself thinking “so-and-so would love this!” Realizing full well that my limited means of expression will do nothing to impart the true feeling of BEing and DOing in this fair town. No, it’s not the best place in the world. I love it for what it is.
The best Pizza in the world can be had at Arturo’s. We wander in and grab a booth. Of course I was already full of pizza and was under the spell of the plentiful $1.25 slices throughout the village. Oh yeah! So we order and not much later comes a pizza. Oh, it was pizza, but it rivaled sex (well, not really, but it would be great DURING sex). Something about that space where the sauce and cheese and toppings meets the crust. Oh, that space between! Something in it that makes all previous pizza shine pale in comparison. And the pizza we did eat, and it was good. Meanwhile, over on a stool in the corner, was a ninety-seven-year old man who the waiter informed us was also one of the first owners of an electric guitar, was playing some very very old lounge blues. Topped with the aromas of the best coal-pven pizza place and the chatter of the dinner time crowd and you have atmosphere baby!
Hugs go to Sophie for suggesting that place.