Unreconstructed ramblings in the American Myth...............:Nu
Yawk.
AMERICA
AMERICAAAAA
WHAT TIME IS LOVE?????????
.........the KLF
And you sir, the purpose of your visit?
I'm on a kwest, a kwest for the poets soul.............
Yes sir.
I now understand the meaning of the word 'askance'.
Y'all have a good holiday now.
All great journeys begin not with a single step but with
a moment of acknowledging an absence. Perhaps this is
what Kerouac, warrior of the american night, meant by his
microscope which revealed the centre of all things being
nothing. The point we depart from in any attempt to
discover something is a point of emptiness, a realisation
that something, be it God or abstraction, is missing.
That in order to fulfil the prophecy of being one must
acquire this absence and with alchemy turn nothing into
something. The mystery of creation. The genesis of belief
is disbelief.
I'm considering these metaphysical issues from the back
seat of a cab (automatic of course) as I speed in from
the airport to town. Will my questions be answered on
these streets? Past Gospel churches and clapboard houses
my Hindi driver floats. Periodically, Bruce Wayne asks me
to buckle up. 
Welcome to America, land of the free, but you're only as
free as they let you be.
The basic idea seems to be that the alternative is too
scary.
Go with us.
Walk.
Don't walk.......... and be sure to have a nice day,
holiday, life.
Through the suburbs and into the city. Manhattan, nine
miles that make up the East Coast dream. It is a strange
thing to see something a thousand times before seeing it
in the flesh. The serrated skyline, symbolic of the
American vision, glares toward heaven. Sometimes progress
should go sideways instead of upwards; it would benefit
the breadth of vision required of rounded living.
This is New York. The Big Apple. The city that never
sleeps. Giuliani's Gomorrah.
Home to Holliday and Burroughs.  A young Kerouac
screamed west from here. Parker thought witticisms and
drank whisky. There is a history for NY to live up to. I
wonder if it can?
25th floor and my ears pop as I step out of the elevator.
From an apartment window I stare across the city and
listen to the Chemical Brothers, "Out of Control".
Something is missing. It is me, the security of an
identity in familiar surroundings. I am external to the
whole process. From here the city is made up of rooftops,
sirens. Up here the world tastes different. This city has
everything anyone could want, it's got a park, high class
shops, drugs to your door and gyms for your dogs. Tompkin
Square riots and the Dalai Lama speaking in Central Park.
You have to hand it to America, she's subtle. She wont
tell you what you can or cant have, she'll tell you what
you do or don't want.
..........."We'll manufacture your desires for you
and save you the trouble You can use the time to chase
your dream the dollar bill. The dream we mass-manufacture
for you and print complete with moral; "In God we
trust"! On high quality paper too!!".......
Enough cynicism. Time to explore the night, see what
makes this city tick. The pulse of concrete over a
malevolent snake. Gusts of hot air rush from beneath
assuring us of a rhythm the city is in thrall to. I
shower; high pressure for this height. A tattoo of water
on the skin I carry. Feeling better I go roaming.
Down third avenue, base-heads quoting Yeats, people I
will never see again call me Sir in saccharine tones. The
cloying heat of the city night is reminiscent of the
depth of an embrace. The shroud with pockets. Onwards,
embrace the mystery of the Atlantic night. The sirens
wail and the cabdrivers curse. The beautiful people walk
their dogs, run, rollerblade, sip Manhattans and indulge
in people friendly jazz with their cheese plate. They are
their image and don't know why.
Laura tells me that everyone needs therapy.
Sure......... we all have issues.
Downtown the streetscene is younger. Bangin'
apocalyptical electronica rocks Tompkins Sq. with
industrial menace. New York's finest look on as the
wheels of steel spiral ever tighter and homeless junkies
goof on benches. Charlie Parker lived here, Avenue
B. His spirit, a spirit of urgent intoxicated beauty and
hope amid drab reality, permeates the very air. Old folks
play chess and young folk dance. On street corners people
hang out looking intimidating, apathetic in their
movements. 
Astor Place. An angel with black wings and motorbike
boots points at me and tells me that lust without focus
is greed.................
A bar on East fourth. Watered down Jameson by candlelight
is reminiscent of Polish squats. Behind blocked out
windows the faces of women from assembly lines of fifties
Kiev watch over you. Busts of Lenin and Soviet flags. Mid
70's NY punk bands play from the ancient sound system. An
angular blonde reads a novel of inner city hope behind
the bar.
I slouch, smoking endless Kamel Reds.
Into the darkness of the night I sidle. Through the East
villages back streets. Dark and malevolent the edge is
dulled by people chillin' on the steps of their blocks.
Across West village cobbled streets. The bars are full.
Summer in the city.
The Chelsea Hotel, beautiful redbrick set off on a side
street, a roof garden and an archaic lobby. Miller wrote
the Crucible here. Behan espoused the wonders of his new
found homeland from these rooms. Sid murdered Nancy and
made the tabloids on the other side of the ocean. The
roof garden flourishes, it's greenery high in the sky
detached from the bustle of streets and avenues. Westside
chic ambles between coffee and stoli.
The night is sultry and the mood is upbeat.
A girl on blades swoops past, a bagel in one hand and a
coffee in the other.
On a corner I look to the depths of myself in an attempt
to answer what in hell I'm doing here. Travel centres the
self, builds resources and allows you to know yourself
more intimately. The true adventure is the adventure
within.
Back up, rightways to the Algonquin hotel, home of the
round table of 20's and 30's fame. Parker, her wondrous
use of American English, was based here amongst her
decadent and cynical cronies. I take in the plush
surroundings, leather chairs and originals on the walls.
Another myth dispelled. Revolution in luxury is
indulgence. Perhaps pursuit of truth is not all it is
cracked up to be.
A Hong Kong barman passes me a drink and asks where I'm
from. I tell him I'm not sure.
Fifth Avenue by night, Rockefeller plaza and St.
Patrick's Cathedral. A man carries the weight of his
world on his shoulders. I empathise by streetlight. The
south gates of Central Park. A man is feeding pigeons.
"I'm feeding my birds" he announces joyously as
I wander past. "I been feeding my birds for the last
twenty years. They trust me see."
I envy this man in his tattered jeans and tortured
Reeboks. On his knees in the indifferent city, surrounded
by breadcrumbs, he has found his way home. He is at ease
with his life. He's found something to trust him, someone
to need him. He has a reason and happily tells strangers
about it.
On up to lie out the night. Museum mile, the Met, the
Guggenheim, the Jewish museum. A surreal retrospective in
the Guggenheim.
All Dali's clocks state ten to seven.
It is not that time now.
Each step a symbol I work my way uptown.
Air conditioned Mexican beer. American cigarettes with
English music. Above the Hudson river I seek a point of
reference in the great scheme of things and get lost in
the process. It'll be a long night of idle self
reflection. There is no such thing as complex truth and
the truth hurts.
Through glass the city is silent.
Mileage yawns before me like a lifetime.
Chase dreams not women.
In the twinkle city lights I crumble.....................
By SEAN O' CADHAIN
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