Haecceity.nu

I wrote this last night, when I couldn’t sleep. I was thinking too much. I haven’t written poetry in a few years so it’s not that great, but it felt good to get my feelings out onto paper. I think I want to start writing poetry more often.

The hooks of memory
are freshly pierced into my mind.
A rush of fear and sadness
mingled with the smell of burning.

Never forget.

Smoke so thick it blot out the sun,
how can I forget such a darkness?
People so desperate to get out that they jump,
how can I not remember watching as they fell?

It’s impossible to.

Buildings once bright, tall and firm
reduced now to ghosts in the skyline,
a hole in the heart of my city.
How can I not recall that void,
felt in my own chest?

Life moves on.

10 years have gone by but still, the image—
seared onto the backs of my eyelids,
a brand of remembrance so vivid and real
that the nightmare once lived
is absorbed through each blink.

I remember.

I’m back from my just-over-a-week-long visit to New York and have realized that San Francisco is indeed growing on me, I actually missed quite a few things about it! But I will still always miss certain things about NYC, too. As a given, missing family & friends is assumed in this list post. :P
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So, as you’re probably already very well aware, I am a native New Yorker. I was born there, I was raised there, and I have a very biased opinion that it’s the best city in the world (though many non-natives also agree with this sentiment!) and I’m not afraid to tell you about it.

However, now I live in San Francisco—a great city in it’s own right, but certainly not the same and not very easily comparable to the place I still consider “home.” So much is different or “missing” here—buildings aren’t tall enough to blot out the sky, there aren’t enough people, the streets are too wide what a waste of space—and while that leaves me a tad homesick every day it’s not enough to make me say “Well, I hate it here, I hate San Francisco.” Truth be told, I quite like San Francisco. Though cliché, it does remind me of my trips to Europe—winding streets, steep hills, buildings that are not-so-tall. It doesn’t carry with it the quaint, beautiful oldness that European cities have, of course, but it’s still enough to be reminiscent of Paris or Florence. But is it better…?

No, it isn’t. I still think New York is better, sorry! No amount of convincing will make me think otherwise, I can promise you that. I have a superiority complex about it. ;)

I just find it funny that whenever I introduce myself to people, like the teacher of my letterpress class at the San Francisco Center for the Book, they always ask me how I compare SF to NY. Well, actually, my teacher asked me and then quickly said “oh, wait, please don’t go on about how NY is better!” It’s a good thing, too, because otherwise I would have.

So, if I encounter you on the streets of San Francisco you should probably avoid asking me that question unless you genuinely want to hear my sentiments. I think, though, that if Louie is present with me it’s best you don’t. He’s sick of hearing about it, I’m told.

I read Allison’s blog post today about an older man who sat down next to her in a cafe and started to talk about his life. It made me really, really miss New York City.

I’ve often encountered people like the man she talks about in New York, on park benches or in a subway car, outdoor cafes or just waiting at the bus stop. I miss hearing their stories, however ridiculous they can sound. I haven’t encountered anyone like that here in San Francisco, though admittedly I don’t spend as much time as I used to sitting in public spaces. I walk to work, so I don’t sit on a subway or bus for hours of my day commuting. The weather is cold enough here where I wouldn’t want to sit in a park reading, and even if I did that would mean leaving Louie inside the apartment by himself.

I lament the fact that this has happened—I actually miss my commute because it gave me extra nap time in the morning, and plenty of time to read books. I miss running into people I knew from high school on the bus and complaining about how packed the subway is to a random stranger squashed in next to me on the train.

I also miss looking up and actually seeing the tall buildings stretch into the sky and poke the clouds. Here, it’s foggy in the early morning and in the evenings. The sky is often rather grey at these times, and while the buildings DO still “poke” the clouds (if the clouds aren’t already swallowing them whole) they’re not nearly as tall as the ones in New York. The space around is almost too open for me and I find myself longing for the comfort of the buildings padding my view on all sides.

Is that strange?

I spent my last residential day in New York City going over my old stomping grounds—the neighborhoods where my high school was, my college, and Union Square where I often hang out with friends. The ground was good and solid underneath my feet, and the gravity of my incoming move is starting to slowly hit me.

This time tomorrow I’ll be on a plane, more than halfway to my new home known as San Francisco, California. It’s a big—no, ginormous—change. And I’m still not quite sure I’m ready for it, but I’m not one to dwell on the whole “readiness” thing. I’m a firm believer in taking chances and not having any regrets because I didn’t go and try something.

My family has been adamantly telling me that I “can’t go,” and honestly the more they say it the more I want to leave. Not because I don’t love my family, I of course love them dearly. It’s more because I’m itching to start something fresh and new. I’m looking forward to a nice, clean slate. A new city to explore, new people to meet, and the adventure of figuring out life on my own for the first time. (Well, okay, not entirely on my own. Louie will be with me. I’m actually very glad I’m not completely on my own and couldn’t ask for a better boyfriend to be at my side.)

Adieu, New York. I love you and will miss you, don’t change too much.