The Essays Of My life. Solitude.

ESSAYS OF MY LIFE.

          

                                                                                               

                                                      

                                            Photo: Courtesy  of : Christine Pash.

                                                             SOLITUDE.

                                                                   By

                                                           Heather Rowan.

        "I'm taking a trip."   The usual response when I say that I will be away of course is,  

          “Where are you going?”  (I mean it follows right?) Everyone who asks this in his company turns to my husband and asks.

          “Are you looking forward to it Ralph?” He stalwartly answers. “I’m not going’. Heads turn back towards me, with the rest of their bodies of course but, all look at me as if I have two heads and no body or vice-a-versa. I love it. 

     “Are you go going on your own?" 

     “Ralph isn’t much of a traveler.” .Alone dear friends it is my favorite way to travel.
     “Oh…But New York City!”  “Do be careful.,” and here it comes along with the confused expressions that are so familiar, "Do be careful.", and there they are trying to figure me out again.

      Damn right  I  travel alone. Ralph understands this. I like to disappear in a megalopolis, or wander the mysterious streets of a European village or a sizable town. 

       I have solitude as I move among hundreds, meditation is in the rhythm of my  footsteps. I never have to talk. I never  visit the tourist spots on my first, second or any other time I visit.

     No… I find tucked away places as I walk. 

     A fabric store hiding in the shadows of scaffolding as the contractors putting another new face on the ever-changing face of New York. The stores interior is full of sumptuous bales of satin, brocade, chiffon and so much more. . This store is in the Fashion District of New York. The thought strikes me that the goods on display would be a treasure trove for a costume designer; after all its near the theater district.

    More easy walking and contemplating. My eyes are like cameras. Why is that woman standing under that Fire Escape? A steaming cup of coffee sits on top of a battered green cable box as she lights her cigarette. Beneath the stairs, small pieces of dirty paper drift sluggishly around her feet. Our eyes meet briefly. Are you, stranger, a story?

    I’m walking now parallel to Broadway Ave. The street is shabbier, quieter. Here I watch as a woman walks doggedly behind a man. She is frightened. I know it. She looks my way. Her eyes are full of fear. Why…?  Be safe, sister…

     I’m writing in my head. The smells. The sounds. The only color on this gray November day comes from the Yellow Cabs pouring up and down the streets. Where do they come from? They are like Manna slipping out of the Yellow Cab mothers’ womb.

    I see two men among the hundreds, shaking hands and hugging. “Pietro, my friend where have you been all of this time.”  I have never seen such genuine  pleasure in two men meeting in public before,but as I move around this city I have to admit these New Yorkers can be affectionate it seems, and  they move with purpose, as well as restrained energy. I like them.

    You know we only see these marvelous cities throughout the world through the eyes of Hollywood, or Television.

    As I  travel.,  I  feel the heart of these places. I  discover the spirit in these lands and the cities It and they speak to me.  I am always on a quest to  find the souls hidden there.

      I travel alone... Damn right I do.

                                                              END.
First Draft.