What a difference a river makes.

When I came up the stairs of the PATH station at 33rd St., I inhaled the smell of the streets, and felt like I do make sense. The feeling has not gone away in the years since I first came to New York City. I’m done with analyzing it, I’m simply relieved. With no reflection on the places I’ve been in this country, I understand now that I’ve felt mildly depressed during my explorations and attempts to understand how and where I feel most free. Most me. I don’t need to explain myself at all in New York. If you’re here, you understand.

I started the essential and routine chores of establishing bank accounts and a mailing address (at the magnificent main post office across from Madison Square Garden). I don’t know yet where I’m going to keep Janet, because she really doesn’t fit in, poor gal. She’s safely parked on a small street in a classic old neighborhood I chose in New Jersey, being watched by Betty, the 30-year resident stoop-sitter with whom I struck up a conversation after parking there. Betty said the magic words ‘I haven’t seen one of those in I don’t know how long!,’ and we were safe.

Thanks to the graciousness of a friend I met in a publishing workshop in Midtown during my previous residence in New York, I’ve had a very comfy bed and convenient access to the city. It’s very temporary, and I awoke in the night worrying about things I cannot plan. I went out for coffee this morning and gathered my mental forces to crack this nut. I belong over there, and I will get there, with or without Janet.

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