a reach towards enlightenment in 3 (new york) minutes. v-log deux!

Now that I am back home safe in my apartment this afternoon with heat, light, unlimited internet and a phone that works, it seems unfair that my “Sandy” experience will draw to a close when I know so many others are still suffering.

Half a dozen of my closest male friends remained downtown.  Urban cowboys riding a snapshot of what a post apocalyptic world could look like.  They texted me stories of subsisting on pancakes or whisky, growing beards and going for days without showers.  They would trek to charge their cellphones at (marginally generous) NYU and hunker back down into their forts of darkness.  As a nod to the New York-y shortening of consolidating neighborhood names (Soho, Nolita, Noho,) they began to refer to themselves as SoPo residents.  As in: South of Power.  My neighbor told me, there was a pride in toughing it out.  This was their home, their people, their connection.  They could not abandon ship.

When he reaches for you, and you lean into him; that arching sensation of want. A defenselessness of…

She enters and the Love is palpable.  Waves begin to rock my body.

Picture the shore—any shore—water lapping in, over and again, but it’s not a distant shore or water, it’s your body and the waves are glittered sparklers of warmth coursing through every cell, nonstop.  It feels like drugs.

In short, it feels awesome.

I catch a glimpse of Her, and involuntary tears spring.

My eyes well, and these are not discreet, pretty tears, two-inches down my right cheekbone at a moonlit angle.  These are cannonballs; face tipped forward, puddles forming on my silky patterned pants.

Lips wobbly, I press them quiet.  Her orange clad, right hand man takes center stage, leading a meditation, urging to us go in, with a long drawn-out tone that I used to think was annoying; now its drama reads as pretty apt.