What Have I Done
An ache of departure and calamine of arrival.
I still don’t know if it would have been different if I’d just stayed.
But I couldn’t. I was just too restless and the glittering lure of the city just too great.
Ever since I’ve been caught in a limbic space between apple and brotherly love.
Perhaps that’s why Princeton always felt most comfortable.
I’m resident of neither city but somehow from both.
I carry the outsider’s ache for a place which can never be mine.
I tell everyone Philadelphia is the greatest city on earth.
I still mean it.
An immigrant’s love of a place where I began again.
Where as soon as I’d landed I’d committed to stay.
There was no back home any more. Even back home wasn’t home.
The visits became less and less regular, and eventually just stopped.
Communication less frequent like Gatsby grasping at lamplight across the sound.
The awkwardness of those trying to relate to the immigrant experience.
Did I know Pete from London. About as well as Dave from New York.
The weightlessness which comes from self-inflicted uprooting.
It’s all a grid but I’m still lost.
The Friendly finale in Times Square the evening I arrived and grabbing a folded slice at Sbarro like a genuine local.
Still not understanding the difference between a dime and a nickel.
Walking to the Battery by mistake.
Where have all the record stores gone.
Finding Central Park dull.
Never going to the movies again but making exceptions for the Angelika on a rainy afternoon.
Why wasn’t it like the Bourse.
Chinese food tastes different here.
I still ask d’jeet. It doesn’t mean the yankee.
The misophonic’s reflex.
WHYY over WNYC every time.
Why is there human shit everywhere.
Why is everywhere so fucking noisy.
Why does everyone talk just so much bullshit all the time.
Why did I come here. Why did I cut off my escape.
Why does everyone ask me about how great a time I’m having.
Why can’t I sleep.
Why do the windows have bars on them.
Why can’t I breathe.
What have I done.
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