I've written about Bryant Park once, but I think before I moved here. I never really sat in the park and enjoyed being there. There was some rush to leave, probably to catch the train. I was waiting for the train, in fact.
Now I am in New York. I have the luxury to waste time in New York.
I sat there without a reason. I wanted to get a gelato with this girl or that girl, but in the end, everyone was busy. If you are reading this, you must think I am some young boy constantly hungering for some chick. You got the "young" part wrong, but the rest I suppose has some truth.
Just some.
With some pain and a long chain attached to my foot at one end and a ball at the other, I move, dragging, to be friends with all these people, including men, but mostly women. I now know three women who have boyfriends and whom I wish they didn't. But in the end, it's OK. I am not counting the French girl since I don't know what the real nature of her relationship is and to type this sentence is already hard enough. The point is, I try to be good to myself by enjoying the beautiful friendships I am building.
So this is my defense of calling up girls and inviting them to gelato.
That didn't work out so I found myself sitting on the lawn of Bryant Park. I realized I loved it. Loved the moment. Behind me was a raucous crowd of restaurateurs at some seemingly expensive restaurant built on the steps between the lawn and the mighty New York Public Library. In front of me was the lawn and the trees that circumscribe it. And standing behind the trees, peeking into the human beings penned within the arboreal fences, are the Midtown financial firms. That Girl in Black and Red works at one of these big finance firms. I walked past her building, saw the great letters, thought about her. Thought about the reasons I liked her. Thought about my regrets from being superficial and never really noticed her inner beauty until now. Thought about her seeing her boyfriend.
In the park, I thought about the fortune of being her friend.
There were lots of people on the lawn, but not enough to be a nuisance, to distract me from enjoying the space. The sun was setting, the gap that 41st Street created among the glass giants was fiery orange.
On my left a man just sat down. He had a messenger bag on his lap, his face scarred by teenage-year acne, just like mine, his shoes indicate he works in one of these finance firms, and his constant chewing of that tiny white bubblegum probably means he's got a lot of stress to release. He sat that nearly motionless for the whole hour I was sitting there.
Another lone person sitting nearly motionless was this woman about ten feet from us, left of us. By motionless I mean also solitary. Undistracted. Most people were sitting with at least one other person. And all those people not sitting with anyone was either distracted by a book they were reading or using a laptop or some Smartphone. Only the three of us were totally motionless watching the sunset. (Well, I can't really count myself since I was occasionally distracted by looking at these two.) The woman I was, no surprise, looking at more. She was very beautiful, even for Manhattan standards. She dressed rather expensive looking, but I know you can get a lot of expensive-looking things at TJ-Max. She had very long and lean legs. She wasn't distracted. Once or twice she looked at her Smartphone, but most of the time, she stared into that fiery gap in front of us. I couldn't understand what she could be thinking about. What he was thinking about. Both were motionless. Both just staring into the gap that was slowly reddening, soon to become purple as soon as the sun set. It was as if they were both just meditating, searching for some peace at the end of a hard working week in the heart of this financial hub of an island. So isolated from the tourists and families and romantic couples around them.
Being in Bryant Park was one of the turning points for my re-establishment in New York. It was a point where I felt good about being in New York. I haven't felt regret of moving here. But to say I had no doubts would be lying. I am making friends. I am learning to be good to myself. I have discovered a new passion called kung fu, as an extension to the passion of "living". But then, there's this hole still in my heart. I feel lonely even if I am always busy doing something. Sometimes I am angry. Sometimes I still get angry with those who have abandoned me by choosing a path I couldn't follow. I don't have New York to blame. This emptiness will follow me until I find the connection to myself, until I have reconciled and love all that I am ashamed of.
I said in the last entry that I am ashamed of fearing pain. Kung fu is helping me with that. The master told us today that we had to empty ourselves and recreate ourselves. It is a very Buddhist belief, fundamental tenet, actually. Isn't that what I have been doing for a while, attempting to do. Recreate myself? Isn't that what my last Yale supervisor said to me? That I needed to recreate myself? I sort of did by choosing finance. But that's not a big deal. That's easy.
Sometimes to recreate yourself is to face your demons and shake their hands. Pain I am dealing with. I can deal with more pushups on my knuckles now. I can face pain for more than a fraction of a second and convince myself I can do another round.
I left Bryant Park more than an hour later. But those two still sat there like statues. The man didn't move at all, while the woman tried to shrink herself into her expensive-looking shirt like a turtle when the wind picked up and the sun had set. There are so many stories in this city. I want to know them. How do I connect to them?
How do I do it when I have a hard time connecting with those I already know? With those with boyfriends and I wish they didn't. With those whom I love dearly but I find so much pain just talking to them? I walked among the shadows of the glass giants, and they too were tired after a whole week of trading and finance auditing. The path ahead is difficult, but the most difficult thing for me is to maintain my course and not run away from the pain that was waiting for me. Through the gauntlets of the dark valley I can emerge a better man. A man closer to what I want myself to be.
I said I want to be the best amateur tango dancer in the city (which really means North America). There isn't some contest I want to enter to prove that. There isn't a list of things I can mark myself against. It isn't some black belt thing for kung fu. It is for myself. Mount Everest didn't become the tallest mountain by looking at how tall others are. I have my personal standards for what is a good tanguero, and I want to meet those standards better than anyone else on the social dance scene. This is an example of what I mean by being the man closer to what I want. Be more connected. Be me.
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