My friend is having a hard time right now, partly because of the pressure that humans put on each other by living in communities. We are not made to be solitary forever, but we damn sure aren’t always made to live so close together, either.
If you’ve read or listened to my essay “Surrender,” then you know I had a dream of a city life. Sometimes I still do, but the city in my imagination is very different now. I could never live in New York: too big for me, too much. The psychic weight of all those people would crush me. Chicago was wonderful, but I am not so sure that I would fit there anymore. I don’t know if it is that I have become smaller, or… well, I don’t know.
What I do know is that I’m not yet ready to live off the grid. I think a small community might be too small for me. I don’t do active “community” that well at the best of times, and I need a variety of human ways, of human expression, around me. I need access to a spectrum of human experience. Others tell me this is possible in small communities. Perhaps it is. And perhaps it is elitist and ignorant of me to think I need the nice restaurants and the club guarded by men where only women dance and the high-speed internet and multiple movie theatres and a store that carries the beers of the world — but I do think that, at least for now.
Mostly, I think, I need that hum of human energy. And (and there’s always an “and”…) I need to be able to shut the door on it sometimes, too. Seattle is good for me that way, right now. I don’t think I could shut the door in New York, or even maybe Chicago. And to my friend whose door is not shutting so well right now, I send my love and the only assurance I can give, which is that human cities, like the humans who live there, are sometimes random, sometimes unpredictable, and sometimes they hurt us. But we love our cities, and sometimes they sustain us, nurture us, love us back. Just like the humans who live there.
City living, heavy trouble.
City living rough.
We are given angry hearts
But anger’s not enough.
I don’t always know what is enough. I just know that humans have it.
I am the eagle
I live in high country
In rocky cathedrals that reach to the sky.
I am the hawk and there’s blood on my feathers.
But time is still turning
They soon will be dry.
And all those who see me
And all who believe in me
Share in the freedom I feel when I fly.
Come dance with the west wind
And touch all the mountaintops.
Sail o’er the canyons and up to the stars.
And reach for the heavens
And hope for the future
And all that we can be
Not what we are.
And why is this song in a post about city life? Because woven within all the noise and the chaos and the fizz of the city is this part of being human, too. We are eagles and hawks in our concrete canyons. In our cities, we dance and reach and hope.
Yes, Kelley–in response to your Tweet–John Denver and Duran Duran can co-exist in one post.
You executed it beautifully. 🙂
Tassoula, how lovely to see you here. And thank you!
I’m having fun with Twitter (grin).
If anyone had asked me, I would’ve bet money that I’d never see a John Denver song on your blog. Wow.
Beautifully said.
I’m coming late to the blogosphere today. This is a great welcome post, thank you. 🙂
I have a strange relationship with cities. For me, they are islands. Each individual has the option to be alone, because it’s not like anyone really needs her. In a small community, your neighbors need and know you; you need and know your neighbors. Not in cities. I love how completely anonymous and irrelevant I am among Mexico City’s 20+ million inhabitants. My lack of fixed schedule usually allows me to avoid peak hours, and the scenes I witness are so interesting and rich yet don’t require me to engage. There, I’m a ghost. I go from one place to the other: if I like a location I haunt it, if I don’t I move on to the next. No one stops me, no one rushes me, no one cares. And I can always choose to become visible if I feel like touching someone and letting them touch me—and when it happens, I can control how brief or extended the contact is. I do cities well, provided I’m a ghost which means I’m alone.
What I find insanely challenging is the small community of marriage. It’s hard to blend into the furniture or the walls when my partner’s attention is always on me. It’s hard to move around when roots have sprouted all over the place. Then there is love that won’t let go (and it shouldn’t) and an awareness of the other person’s need for contact. I don’t know… I’m people-challenged. I’m broken.
Can you tell I prefer the John Denver song?
Karina! Challenged maybe, broken no. I keep telling you…
I confess I Iove that John Denver song.