August 6th, 2010
Last night I sat with the spirits of Hemmingway and Fitzgerald, with Faulkner and O. Henry and Julia and MFK too. Sabrina and I sat and conversed in their presence on a sidewalk café, drinking and transcending the time and place, yet being fully present in it. We spoke about life and love, wars and re-birth, God and truth and beauty. We spoke about writing and passion, the way only writers can, and the terror and ecstasy associated with the craft.
We humans so crave understanding, true communion with other human beings, it is such a rare gift to find it, even if just for one night in a west village café. In just this night I celebrated our meeting and mourned the death of a dear friend who I will carry in my heart through the moments and years. The wild thing inside of me was tamed and tantalized, like a lion purring. It saw a glimpse of a fellow creature, perhaps not of the same tribe, but of the same place. She felt at home, she felt both peaceful and free.
“Only in little old New York” O. Henry whispered, as Fitzgerald cried for his lost love and Hemmingway dreamed of other cities across the sea; Julia laughed and reached out for Paul, while MFK bravely looked into the distance and mused about her lives and loves and flavors both bitter and sweet, Faulkner cracked a melancholy smile, while we two young souls, still walking among the living, inspired one another with ideas to alien for most ears to hear. Last night my soul sang, my mind was free and I danced with ghosts under the watchful eye of the Manhattan lights.
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