It’s time for a quiet piece of land somewhere. Maybe the city is dumb. Maybe it’s all the smells, conversations I don’t want to overhear, dog poo. Human poo. Honestly, the subway station I used to live near regularly had poo on the walls. Of course I gagged every time I saw it, but I also thought “There’s someone who has nowhere to poop in dignity and quiet. What’s wrong with everything?”
The big city confronts you with a lot of everything, all the time. I can’t control what will hit me, and how I’ll feel.
Some Saturdays if I hear the word “brunch” I want to throw eggs at people. Do the well-coiffed in my neighborhood carry a ton of credit card debt, or do they get the money from their jobs? Or their parents? What kind of jobs do they do? Do their jobs make them assholes who walk down the street in packs, taking up all the walking space without paying attention? If I want to go outside on weekends, I gotta do it before 12-3 when they all wake up and flood the sidewalks, smelling like garlic and wine from the night before.
The smell of garlic triggers migraines. Noise triggers migraines. Light, resentment, poverty, inanity – all give me headaches. I am a headache. I have a migraine every day in NY. (It’s partly the microclimate here, too – that’s a whole thing – another post).
In a WWII memoir, a man says if he can make it through D Day, he’ll find a quiet piece of land somewhere and live out the rest of his days in peace.
I’ve had my war. I’ve earned peace.