Friday Night

Last night I had to get out. It was Friday night and I had to get out. Wanted loud music and sweaty bodies around me. Wanted to let go of inhibitions, hold fast to steady rhythms and move until the sun came up and all of my energy was gone. It didn't happen. One place was having a concert. No one would call back with directions for the other place. I felt nervous. I came home to reconnect, make some calls. Nothing. I couldn't stay though. I wanted to take beautiful things and fling them from my rooftop. Scream until there was no sound left unmade from a raw expended throat. It was no use. I changed clothes. Exchanged a satin halter and heels for nikes and sweats. Walked. It wasn't really the dancing. The dancing was just an outlet, a faucet that would release what it was really about. There were lots of lights on my way. Graffiti on trucks. People who had found their forgetting. Where was mine. Walked further. Heard music overflowing from brick buildings. Too late, I had already traded my halter and heels. Walked on. Where was my forgetting? Hiding from me. That much I know. Ask me if I found it. It's a temporary forgetting I know, but it's something. A night of it is something. I found other things on my walk. My New York by night. I wasn't impressed. It's just home. Plastic garbage bags are mountains, the pavement is my valley. But I had to get out. Give my obscure frustrations names, and curse those names. There aren't walls when you are out. There is no sitting with stale frustrations. Things are moving at least, not bouncing off of walls ten feet away and mocking you. It's hard to find your forgetting when your obscurities must be contained in the same square room all the time. So I got out. And although I didn't find my forgetting, I at least found my New York. It's just home. But it's home without walls. That's something.