Letter From Harlem to Cambridge 8.18.05

Harlem. Certainly this (NY) is a relentless city. There is nowhere I have been less comfortable indoors. Even in my childood (a few miles up Boulder Canyon on Sugarloaf Mountain) I liked the indoors. When one is so obviously submerged in scenic purple folds and seemingly interminable fields, the white walls of a windowless room, are less constrictive/restrictive/suffocating than they are necessary. A breath. Something soft and bland, cold, to clear the sinuses. Even now, when I go back, I find myself at a loss for words. I've heard that upon return it takes many natives a few days to adjust to something as spectacular as a crest of the Rocky Mountains. It takes a few days of waking up there to accept it, although I never fall totally out of a Herr-esque mixture of sheer emotional entropy and disbelief. Gap. Stop. Gap. Thought. Gap.

But here- separates and peels apart from that past reality into a different world landscape altogether. And regardless of the decor, regardless of what is outide, I rarely want to stay inside.

It is easier to lose one's breath here.

The outdoors is only more frustrating.

I'm leaving though. I'm moving here, to New York. And on our small Slumberville, I'm also addicted to a morose and porous blue available only in Suburban Night. Maybe it's a sediment or toxin I should wean off of. New York feels like
it's impersonating night. In the dark, I trust my old home, Boston's an unreconciled insomniac: sick and wavering in the dark, eyes closed, lights off, awake nonetheless.


Here, would I be barraged senseless, headachey, nauseated, and a whole
host of other things which non-aspirin can only mitigate.


my most sincere regards,

RN



please elaborate.