The Gods of Times Square

A New York City cab driver once told me, as he snaked through the mire of Times Square traffic, "You know...we hate the things you all love" and with a dispassionate hatred, vaguely gestured toward the gnarly, tangled mess that surrounded us. And, now, I can absolutely see why New Yorkers would abhor this place to which all the tourists flock. Not only do the waddling masses from those flyover states remind them of the reality that exists outside the city, its adrenaline-inducing effect is unsustainable and, ultimately, unfulfilling. It seems to me that Times Square, and places like it, are where people come to fill themselves up--for a little while, at least. This is where they come to see the bigger versions of familiar things, those logos that adorn the streets of their hometowns, lit up and towering over them, their corporate allegiances much stronger than the thin ones they have to their gods.

The first time I came here, six months ago, I felt the same. I was made ephemerally whole. I pushed the limits of my comfort and dared to venture outside of the only home I'd ever known. But the day I spent exploring those blown up beacons of comfort and consumption served as little more than a glittering metaphor for the kind of real exploration of Self I would soon endeavor upon. In a very New York way, I spent months moving beyond my own "Times Square". I traversed the soiled streets of each part of my city, one by one. I examined them, I wrecked them, and, with shaking hands, put all the pieces back together, albeit in a vastly different arrangement. When the time came, I went underground, deeper and deeper, until I found the bottom. Then, I fucking kept going. I would not stop, I pledged to my Self, until I saw it all, probed every dark corner, and emerged as the person I truly wanted to be.

Half a year later, I'm not sure if I'm there yet--I'm not certain whether "getting there" is ever really possible or even desirable--but I'm so much closer than I was. I am, to not only rob but also rape Henley's words, the master of my fate--and I surely am the god damned captain of my soul… Right?

I'm sure every New Yorker has their own version of what the city means to them. That's both the beauty and the Hell of it. It can be whatever you want it to be.

But for me, New York is not Times Square. Because Times Square isn't really even New York. For me, it's the view I have from the hotel room in which I sit right now. I am both right back where I started six months ago and, at the same time, light years ahead, loving a man who can only hate me, but, now, I understand his reasons. Outside of this window, three bleak brick walls seem to close in on me, both caging me in and pushing me out. The walls remind me of the perpetual suffocation that exists in tandem with the ever-present opportunity for more. More sex. More violence. More freedom.

The clues in the hunt for my freedom and my Self could always be found with the men. The men led me both toward and away from the city's most deeply hidden shadows. Each one, with his own distinct style, gave me exactly what I needed, as long as I deferred to his power. And I did so happily and hungrily. The only thing more intoxicating than possessing power, I came to understand, was giving it to the men.

Sure, it's the women who bring forth life. But it's the men who most often end it. They can, after all, kill you if they want.

And they can do it in more ways than one. They can end a woman's life by wringing their hands around our delicate necks. Or they can silence us much more slowly, causing our love for them to shrink, day by day, until it is small and still, quiet and unobtrusive.

For better or worse, I have had little success in domesticizing the love I have for my men, for displaying it prettily on a shelf like some half-treasured antique. And because of my insistence on its everyday use, on my demand to be loved with equal ferocity, beauty, and defilement, I have forced each of them to make a decision. I have compelled each one to decide whether he will hate me or love me. So far, even the ones who have loved me have hated me. I never blame them though. Just like Times Square, I can only fill them up for a little while. Inevitably, they'll come to hate me for what I can't do for them. Because, you see, I can love a man infinitely, but it will be of no use until he explores his own city and comes to know his own Self. Until then, I can only ever love the shadows that each man shows to me, which is as futile, of course, as loving a ghost.

I hold onto the hope, however, that one of my men will love me back one day. Perhaps he'll re-emerge, phoenix-like, from the ruins of my ancient history. Maybe I'll stumble into him serendipitously and we'll write our own stories together, side by side, our narratives merging at exactly the right--and, just as often, precisely the wrong--times. It's possible, even, that he's here in the city right now. Maybe he's thinking of me. Maybe he's trying to decide whether he loves me or hates me. Maybe he's even here, in Times Square, still taken in by its sirens and its songs because he doesn't yet know it's possible to love every part of the city, its splendors and, just as importantly, its sorrows. Until he figures this out, until he no longer relies on the bright lights for his power, I'll love the shadows and ghosts that he gives me. But I'll push him to get the fuck out of Times Square and see what else the city-his city-might offer him.