Column XI: Central Park Droughts
Before dawn came, I rolled around in Central Park. Studying the sun, embracing the winds that flowed through the center of NYC. On my pink striped picnic blanket, I rolled on top of the lush grass daydreaming of walking down fashion show runways and being carried, by muscle men, to my deepest desires.
I could guess and say I was a fiend. I couldn’t resist the soul feeling of wanting to grind, and yet those first two weeks in NYC left me in a love droughts. Ten times out of nine, I knew that the boys were lying, not trying to be fair with me. Getting caught up in semi-permanent emotions, I cried about all that romantic love and passion getting tossed up in the air. I seemed to be floating in the air, looking for hope everywhere.
What am I doing wrong? On that blanket, I began to study the squirrels playing in the sunlit trees and my own rodent filled mind lightened by the moon’s gleam. In my vision of love, I thought of being treated kindly by a sweet destiny that could carry me through desperation. Instead of just praying at night, today I carried the prayers into the day. My gentle sorrow sparkled a heightened activation of rage and fear. Deep in my feelings, I started to feel things that I hadn’t felt in a long time, regret. My regression through,seemingly detailed, decisions has made me in the last three months.
For the next thirty minutes, in increments of three minutes, I went through the motions. I let my mind wire and unwire high across the sun and below the globe’s core; heat rose in me, igniting my deepest desires. Under Central Park’s heat I thought about what I wanted to be, thinking that I already had destiny fulfilled, yet I didn’t feel so destined nor fulfilled.
Model, singer, chef, dancer, news reporter, architect, stripper? Actress? Theatre or film? First Lady of the country? Shit, maybe I can do stand up? I questioned myself. Through the disoriented fire spreading inside.
Growing tired of my central spot in the park, I gathered my belongings. I took a few deep breaths before I started skipping along the biker’s path. My kinky curls blew in the ray of light underneath my pink headphones. Grooving to Lipps’Funkytown while getting honked at and cursed by fragile bikers, I moved southeast to Christopher Street Pier.