I’m trying to tiptoe off the island. I’m sure of it. It’s gotta mean something that South of Houston just isn’t cutting it anymore. Lower, lower, I want to move as far south and as close to the water as I can go. Everyday for a week now, I’ve taken hour-long walks down to the South Street Seaport and back. “I could live here,” I think, “rent out a space over an oyster bar, hear the tugboats, smell the saltwater in the morning, watch the obscene oranges and pinks melt into the horizon at night.” I’d force those sensations to be interchangeable with memories of docks jutting out into the warm, brown bay waters at sunset.
Andalucia, Spain, Puglia, Italy—I’ve written before that I’m drawn to the southernmost points of all countries. New York City and I’m trying to do the same…
“Move to Maiden Lane, move to Maiden Lane…” It’s actually a lovely little chant, isn’t it? But I have to think, “Wouldn’t it all be a cheap approximation of the South that I really yearn for?”
A piece of land and a home, something that looks just like this (Hampton Plantation). Longing for “Tara” and all that picked over, Dixie nonsense? Yep, and I’m unapologetic in my desires. I’ll finish my book, its movie, do wonders with my new cooking “show,” and then I’m going to get her. And hopefully by then “maiden” won’t fit into the picture—I’ll be a Mrs.
(pre-emptive strike at smart ass comments: yes, i realize that the South Street Seaport is not the southernmost tip of the island, Maiden Lane and the surrounding streets lie south east while Battery Park City is the southernmost point of the island.)