The Notebook
in Tompkins Square Park
Spoke to Eddie today. He’s still out in LA selling his soul to false gods but he can’t understand why I left.
“Kat keeps asking about you,” he said. “She’s still in love with you.”
“Kat loved the idea of me,” I said. “She never really knew the real me.”
“Who does, man? You know what it is? You get all these cool chicks falling for you because you’re like this tragic hero from a fucking novel…” I heard him snap his fingers. “You’re like Holden Caulfield.”
I was nothing like Holden Caulfield, but Eddie wasn’t a big reader and I could tell he was proud of himself for coming up with that so I let it go.
Eddie asked me what’s so great about NYC.
I told him that it feels like I’ve been hooked up to a power grid and all my synapses are firing on all cylinders, the adrenaline rushing through my veins and crash-landing in the center of my chest where my heart thrashes against my rib cage fighting to break free and dance a drunken tango.
The Lower East Side is where it’s at, baby.
Unlike LA, that industry town without a soul or a conscience, the LES still has a beating pulse and opens its arms to the weirdos and outcasts and artists and creative minds of our generation.
There’s no plastic fantastic bullshit, no posers or industry suits or fame-seeking junkies screaming, Look at me, I’m so fucking beautiful, put me in your movie!
Put me in your bubble gum pop band with your slick, manufactured, fake bullshit, overproduced commercial jingles so everyone can see me on MTV!
The East Village embraces originality, fucking demands it, and for the first time in my life, I’ve found a place where I belong.
Eddie told me I was going mad and asked where he could buy whatever I’ve been smoking.
After we hung up, I wandered the streets searching for the girl who got away…
An artist with a portfolio hanging from the strap over her shoulder, a tube (of canvases?) sticking out of it.
Are you a reader, Jane? Tolstoy, Rilke, Ayn Rand, Baudelaire…Kerouac? In my dreams, you speak fluent French with a British accent and read me poetry you’ve written in a Moleskine notebook just like Hemingway’s.
Your jokes are dirty, your soul is pure, and your heart is engraved with battle scars from all the lovers and false prophets who have let you down.
I only saw you once and now you haunt my dreams…maybe I really am going mad…
But aren’t all artists touched with madness?
Is it even good art if you don’t starve for it, bleed for it, dance naked down the streets drunk on life and swinging a lasso, trying to capture that fleeting, elusive moment in time when your soul ignites and your heart bursts into flames…
and translate that cryptic language onto paper or parchment or canvas…
mold it into clay…chisel it into stone and write it on cave walls like humans have done since the dawn of civilization…
Seize all the madness. Write lyrics set to secret chords.