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A twisting strand-found writings from last decade.

A twisting strand


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

At Deep Dish Cabaret: Punching & Drinking

The thing is, I was 35, not 25. The idea of finding a cell-like room in a convent or sharing a floorspace with strangers was moderately appealing, as was, for a moment, the prospect of meeting new, interesting men with whom I could share some spice and romance. 


At Deep Dish Cabaret, the boxing ring our stage.


But...back home in Northcote, there was a little studio waiting. 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. And there was a man, who had waited quietly for me to think of the idea of children with him.

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, 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.

To look into the eyes of those New Yorkers was to see a challenge. ‘Hey, little lady, you be careful now.’ I felt like my eyes were swimming in an illuminated field. There was a clarity and harshness that made the streets feel like highways. 

But there was something about the image of a garden bed, framed by rotting wood and containing wildflowers, which pulled me harder than I can understand. 

The strand bound me and it also set me free. I came home.



 © Anna Sublet approx 2004
Recently found in old computer files, memories submerged...

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Comments

  1. Isabel23 August 2015 at 09:34

    I loved reading this piece, Anna. Something about travel that can make the big life decisions clearer. I can completely imagine the pull of that bed of wildflowers while you were in the gritty streets of Manhattan. Excellent writing x

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    Replies
    1. Anna Sublet 23 August 2015 at 17:12

      Oooh, Isabel, thank you so much! That just made my day. It's funny when you find old pieces of writing and they capture the essence of such a compelling feeling. I really appreciate you reading, and your lovely feedback. Do pop by again! x

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