Storytelling
Lost is Lost, New York is New York
Poem about losing an idea in Times Square
Day to day, week to week, year to year, things change, like smooth lines on a face will one day transform into wrinkles.
I wrote something a few days ago, on Saturday, 20,000 words of a book that may end up being 90,000. Then something changed. My enthusiasm waned. The whole idea picked up anchor and left.
It felt like a woman who had loved me, then turned her back. I could go back, look in Times Square, search for the lost idea, but the language has gone. The words that connected and drove me now make me think.
These are the ticking moments of my life. I wrote as if I were a stranger in a new land, full of exploration, being passionate to write down every word as if each was a pulse in my wrist, reassuring me I was alive.
Now, sitting at the window of this broken-down hotel after a day when even strangers were hard to find, I stared into the darkness as it tumbled from daylight.
I left the window open and got into bed. I remember how you wept, saying that I lived in a world where you could not? I never knew what you meant until this moment.
I could write about New York, Liverpool, or San Tropez.
New York, pushed as it is with people, its streets torn up to make new subways. Why would I stay?
But New York has to be left alone; it’s a place I don’t know much about, like Pere Noel or magic. You told me that New York cannot be changed. Indeed, I said, but couldn’t we empty Times Square.
And that’s where I went to look for you, knowing I would have nothing to say after hello.
Harry Hogg: English writer raised in Scotland, living between California, Missouri, Colorado, and Scotland.
More from Harry:
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