A friend told me that he couldn’t picture me enjoying Manhattan.  Did I never mention growing up in the war zone of Tacoma in the 80′s?  As much as I am in love with the earth itself and it’s moist green moss and trees and mountains and sweet fresh air, there is nothing that enables feeling the dichotomy of our days and lives like the grime of the cities jungle rising to block the sunshine, the noise of the traffic and cell phone conversations, shouts on the street, the dizzying scents of food smells and rubbish.

This is where I can most feel how we stay sane and go insane, the dulling cycles we run and the overwhelming chaos that is humanity crying to be noticed, to be seen, to be valued, to find peace and lives with some sense of meaning.  I love the easy pleasure of any entertainment, any indulgence, any dream within arms reach.  Anything and everything, except good coffee.  The teeming throngs of people ever so busy on their way here and there.  A whole day spent watching, wondering where?

I meditate staring at the courtyard view, concrete old enough to have broken and crumbled with the movement of the planet below, and a wall looming six stories the windows long since blinded with brick…

NYC is an immense grain of sand.

Spicy nag champa floating on soft instrumental cries and the rhythm of soft sighs,

your own breathing heartbeat avowing wondrous life.

Candlelight sunset dancing on hungry velvet skin caressed by warm chocolate melting tongue,

a silky touch demands attention as these eyes hold you, adored.