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Twisted Strands



It was October 2000, and I was in New York, contemplating working in Manhattan. I was sleeping on a couch bed while attorneys checked out my visa. 'Brian' said I could do website maintenance and client accounts for his Lexington Avenue finance company. 

From the Staten Island Ferry, October 2000

I walked the streets, feeding myself on Coke and trips to galleries. In the evenings, we ate late, danced in gymnasiums, did group art projects and drank in bars.



Deep Dish Cabaret, punching and drinking.

The thing is, I was 35, not 25. I had just lost my job, and in shock, had taken this leap to New York City to recalibrate. Manhattan rents were high, and while the idea of finding an affordable cell-like room in a convent or sharing a floorspace with strangers had some appeal, I had a sense that my life might have already put down roots back home, and that transplanting myself could see me, well, come unstuck. 

Back home in Northcote, there were nasturtiums tumbling across the garden bed, and a patch full of veggies to tend. There was endless parsley, and rejuvenating rocket and a plum tree that was mangled but still sent forth fruit in season. There was a little corrugated-iron studio waiting. And there was a man, who was quietly hoping that I'd consider the idea of having children with him.

The Russian Tea Rooms, October 2000

Across the timezones and seasons, the missed emails in cafes and ill-timed phone calls, a twisting strand reached out. In the buzzing phone call to my partner back home, I felt the image of sunshine and plenty, a warmth, a sense of space filled with bird calls and an open sky. 

In Manhattan, the streets pulsated with people, the sirens needled into apartments, the leaking, creaking heaters hissed and popped in walk-ups where neighbours shared the rhythms and aromas of each others’ lives.

My eyes were swimming in an illuminated field. The streets felt like highways. 

‘Hey, little lady, you be careful now,’ the man in the subway told me, as I looked into his lined face. 

And in between the visa logistics and the discussion of work benefits–a salary, a lunch cart and two weeks annual leave–the image of that garden bed in my back yard, framed by rotting wood and holding wildflowers, pulled me so hard that it felt like an unravelling; a spool, unspooling.

The strand bound me and it also set me free. I came home. We made babies. We tended that garden bed and then left it. I miss New York City, but it was never to be my home. We grow a garden of a different sort now. 





My birthday, October 2000. Taken by a stranger.
I had just turned 35. My eyes, they can see something.


Text recently found in old computer files, memories submerged...
© Anna Sublet approx 2004, slightly updated 2021

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