Note: I will be migrating these blog posts to a formal blog in the next few weeks, as this site adapts and changes.
When I moved to New York City in the fall of 2010, my knowledge of the city amounted to rolling shots of 9/11, as twin towers fell, burned, and sent ashes through downtown streets, then scenes from the screen — The Devil Wears Prada, with a shout-out to the genie Anne Hathaway and Helen Mirren, or Sex in the City, with a nod to Sarah Jessica Parker and her lady friends.
Falling in love with the city itself, in its concretes, its tangibles, its contours, its smells, its sights and its sounds — its coffee shops, with mugs quirky and varied; its beer gardens, and one illegal drink or two, when a nineteen-year-old literary agent had to clients fulfill her duties, sneaking perhaps, even, into a party at midnight; its cultural houses, from operas with an Italian friend to nights with the Tesla Quartet, over strings and hands abuzz with magic — was supremely easy. Of even this night, and to this heart, the city remains one beloved.
This month, I’ve had the chance to utilize — with the deepest, most profound, and most hysterical of pleasures — the city’s gifts, with a trip to Waitress on Broadway, featuring the lovely Sara Barailles, whose spunk and heart made the story of a woman abused and woman in love worth an evening out; then a revisit with the aforementioned quartet, over a night at New Jersey’s Morris Museum, strings taut and fingers numbed, to then with rhythm ever-play; into a night with the New York City Ballet, its dancers firm and chiseled, formed and even.
Comparisons to the realm of writers abound, in a potential for genius and a manifestation of interior glory. The writer, though, delves deep to experience test and then it on the page utter. Come at me, dear genies, and let’s this musical play — a note, a song, a ballad, a lovers’ pitch, unto a deal, a bestseller, a film, among those Weronika knows well and deep. Into networks, into games, into negotiations and compensations, for work intense and true . . .