Moving Through Space
I move through space. But don’t always know where I am. I do know that I’m tucked into a big puffy bed in a brownstone in Manhattan. (That one there on the left.) I think I’m in Gramercy. Or is it Stuyvesant? And that New York gets much better when I walk, winding through delis and grocery stores, past cleaners and restaurants.
In a strange turn. Sometimes when I travel in the U.S. I get a little clench of anxiety. Will I figure out where to go? Will I get a seat on the train? I can tell myself this is completely nonsensical. That if landing in Addis Ababa where I cannot speak the language or in Calcutta does not phase me, why worry about getting anywhere in a country where I speak the language and have the currency? But there it is. Like an Achilles heel. That little clench. Of anxiety.