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Apr. 6th, 2005 09:33 amIt was warm last night, and that helped more. Although I had a hundred things to do, I took one of my -walks- and the streets were so quiet, so empty... it was good. Really really sad for whatever reason. But good. I have an incredibly complex relationship with Soho, that just keeps getting more complicated as both I and the city continue to change and not.
I write about Soho a lot, and I miss it when it was less Rodeo Drive, mainly because you could just stoop sit and it would be fine, but now all the buildings have security cameras and you can't just loiter really in a place meant for just that. Even the side streets are so overrun with shops, and not original Soho things like Morgan Le Fey or even Betsy Johnson, but like Addidas and Stussy and Chanel on streets that never mattered, that you could never even tell your friends where they were... "ah, like... before West houston? I dunno... wander around you'll bump into it?" were once all the directions that were there to give, and granted, considering how most NYC'ers feel about life below Houston, it's not entirely different, although you know, "turn left at the Swatch shop," while more useful, is really a bit too late 90s brand name short fiction for me.
I have been bretrayed in Soho and lost. Overworked, lonely and frightened by dogs.
Every story I write that's set in a home borrows the layout from some loft down there, simply because the windows are larger, and easier to look into as all New Yorkers do. And there was that crazy girl I knew in high school who actually lived on West Broadway. She was too cool to be my friend, and was only my friend for about a week, but even that, I still can't figure out how it happened, or remember how it unhappened.
One of my favourite things about Soho are the parking lots, empty at night, and how they serve as alleys to other streets or reveal buildings, hidden from the world and unnumbered.
There are many restaurants and bars I like down there, many that I grew up going to. But I always press to the glass in them, touching the windows, because this business of being on the inside is always somehow the life of tourists.
I am sure there are at least thousands of people in NYC like me, who grew up here, and who spent time in Soho when they were small in the 70s and 80s, but I don't remember other children from that time of being taken to shops by my parents, and being dressed up in clothes not made for so small a person and trying on ridiculous outfits and makeup and stuff, because I could. Unlike peers, unlike the girl who lived on West Broadway, I was not allowed to grow up too soon, and imagine that I was almost never allowed to grow up at all. But I was allowed to practice and I was made methodical.
Like the televisions on the busses in Sydney, like our eternal betrayer the second avenue subway, this explains everything. So long, I thought the question was, How long was I supposed to keep waiting for you?, when really it was simply, How long was I supposed to keep waiting for me?. And I was never very patient and there is no one on those streets at night.
Houseplague was a bad boyfriend. And Mimi? Fucking ho.
I gotta clean my place in 20 minutes or less now.
Cheers.
I write about Soho a lot, and I miss it when it was less Rodeo Drive, mainly because you could just stoop sit and it would be fine, but now all the buildings have security cameras and you can't just loiter really in a place meant for just that. Even the side streets are so overrun with shops, and not original Soho things like Morgan Le Fey or even Betsy Johnson, but like Addidas and Stussy and Chanel on streets that never mattered, that you could never even tell your friends where they were... "ah, like... before West houston? I dunno... wander around you'll bump into it?" were once all the directions that were there to give, and granted, considering how most NYC'ers feel about life below Houston, it's not entirely different, although you know, "turn left at the Swatch shop," while more useful, is really a bit too late 90s brand name short fiction for me.
I have been bretrayed in Soho and lost. Overworked, lonely and frightened by dogs.
Every story I write that's set in a home borrows the layout from some loft down there, simply because the windows are larger, and easier to look into as all New Yorkers do. And there was that crazy girl I knew in high school who actually lived on West Broadway. She was too cool to be my friend, and was only my friend for about a week, but even that, I still can't figure out how it happened, or remember how it unhappened.
One of my favourite things about Soho are the parking lots, empty at night, and how they serve as alleys to other streets or reveal buildings, hidden from the world and unnumbered.
There are many restaurants and bars I like down there, many that I grew up going to. But I always press to the glass in them, touching the windows, because this business of being on the inside is always somehow the life of tourists.
I am sure there are at least thousands of people in NYC like me, who grew up here, and who spent time in Soho when they were small in the 70s and 80s, but I don't remember other children from that time of being taken to shops by my parents, and being dressed up in clothes not made for so small a person and trying on ridiculous outfits and makeup and stuff, because I could. Unlike peers, unlike the girl who lived on West Broadway, I was not allowed to grow up too soon, and imagine that I was almost never allowed to grow up at all. But I was allowed to practice and I was made methodical.
Like the televisions on the busses in Sydney, like our eternal betrayer the second avenue subway, this explains everything. So long, I thought the question was, How long was I supposed to keep waiting for you?, when really it was simply, How long was I supposed to keep waiting for me?. And I was never very patient and there is no one on those streets at night.
Houseplague was a bad boyfriend. And Mimi? Fucking ho.
I gotta clean my place in 20 minutes or less now.
Cheers.
