Poet in New York, Take 2
Whenever I go to New York, at some point in the trip I ask myself whether I could live and work there. The energy of the city is undeniable and to me, addictive. It is endless fun to speculate about such a life.
It occurred to me to ask the question twice on this last trip--once on Thursday in the early evening, walking down Madison Avenue on my way back to the hotel, energized by our panel, the taillights, the rushing bodies. Then again on Sunday afternoon, walking in the sunlight on 5th Avenue along Central Park, dizzied by art, after spending four hours wandering through the Metropolitan Museum.
There would be many advantages to life in Manhattan--access to bookstores, readings and cultural institutions. Having friends nearby engaged in the the work of artists. Waking in a place where (theoretically, at least) not everyone laughs hysterically when you say you are a poet.
Setting aside the most obvious problem--I could not afford to live my dream-life as a poet in the City--the truth is that New York is too noisy, too important, too frantic a place for me. I was happy to come home last week to the cedars and white pines of Michigan; to the snow, my stars, our dogs.
There is a small life for me here and perhaps a few poems.