Sometimes, no matter how much fun one has, one feels cheated of some meaningful, grander, more marvelous experience that will hold together one’s disorganized world. An experience, after which, one can put into words that fit neatly in one’s head and from then on become a vantage point to which one has permanent visiting privileges. A sentence that functions like a pair of binoculars and a microscope. And on worse days, one feels that opportunities for such events are continually and criminally being wasted on oneself.
Such a state visited me a few days ago. I was on First Avenue in the great outdoors sauna having eaten a sandwich and taken advantage of free refill coffee in the company of a book. I was, more or less, content. I began walking and passed an ice cream shop where children stood on tiptoes to peek at the flavors. I thought about getting an ice cream myself but moved on and passed a couple with a stroller and a school crossing supervisor. A cabbie eating lunch and chatting on the phone on the trunk of his cab. And more typical Sunday city sights like apparitions from memory or imaginations. Like some kind of a series of visitations later to be formulated into a fable.
Somewhere I took a step and crossed over a threshold; I went from being content with myself to wanting some kind, any kind, of human contact. An old friend, an acquaintance from college, someone met at a forgotten party. A stranger whose features are ready targets for my creepy lonesome projections of longing. Anything.
There’s little one can do at these moments. Only afterwards does one find time to be relieved that they pass. Beer often helps. As do O’Hara poems. As does the thought of beaches. This time, looking up cottages in the Catskills that I will probably not go to.
- Ana Banana Team