a thousand street scenes.

may 2nd, 2009
so here i am once again in a room with typewriter letters pinned to its walls, with another cold cup of tea, with another nicotine stung newyorkcity dream in my head. it always begins with a train ride; a whole hour, with my head still spinning. the rush of the morning, of what's to come. the only still moments i’ll have for the next twenty seven straight hours in which excitement, cigarettes & coffee are my only life supports. i can smell the dampening asphalt, the trash, the smoke from the subway steps. i’m home. easy alphabet pony. midtown has become mine. no maps needed. i file through the mass of people, under darkening clouds, cancer stick stuck between shaking fingers. a raven haired mosshart sings into my ears. i stand outside the door enjoying the last bit before putting it out, music on mute, into the lounge. its orchid plants & smell familiar. the pod. it’s already been a year. i hand over my plastic signature in return for a plastic key. into the elevator, three different languages spoken at once. floor six. open doors. laid down on a hotel bed. my bags a wet mass on the floor. my own a wet mass in the mirror. corrected, a lighter load & im back downstairs. directions asked. im heading toward seventh avenue. train station found, texts & calls, there he is. he isn't good at maps, i am. he follows me to my midtown. bags dropped, stomachs empty. the escalator rises as it falls. onto the train again. lowereastside. my favourite. teany. my favourite. bagels, chai, chicken salad & a lavender lemonade. onto the sun spotted sidewalks, the stylish crowd, slouchy black leather bags slung over fading floral prints. fox & fawn. my favourite. one hello for stevie. one vintage dress, one vintage skirt, one vintage top into the dressing room. secondhand acne jeans paid for & taken away. two hours left till doors open. the jmz uptown train is closed. wrongway to brooklyn. an hour lost, we rush. back to the pod, living in a suitcase. clothes changed, polaroid packed. floral romper, daddy’s denim jacket, bowler hat & docs. the fourteenth floor, a rooftop photoshoot.


six pm, we arrive in a flush. the kills wont be on til nine. time don’t give a shit. an hours left for wandering around. ice cream shops & vintage stores. lychee in a cup, overpriced nineties band tees. i get mistaken for a londoner.


eight pm, back at webster hall. tickets & ids. foreign boys who get stood up, merch girls who take the longest breaks ever. the wait is here. still standing for minutes more. alexa chung is over there too, a few bodies down, as impatient as we are. its over. hotel on the left, vv on the right. their chemistry turning me on from feet away. the way they move, the way they stare. the nicotine sting, the flashes, the screams. go home it’s over.
back to the merch table. we get the last two. the tee i’ve been living in ever since. back onto the street, we circle the block, light up & circle again. we decide cigarettes are better after shows than after sex. we wait. fans come & go. vague conversations. one comments on the fact that i look “quite like róisín murphy”. we wait. one roadie chatted up & we’re invited to the afterparty. he wears a single earring, has a british accent. “we’re all meeting up again at the annex. give me your names - i’ll put you on the list.” sore feet, never ending walks under those fluorescent lights & starry skies. iphone maps & drunk partiers’ surprisingly helpful directions & we’re there; the east village, the annex, finally. no smoking inside. the doors open; jessica stam, alison mosshart & the boyfriend. jessica turns to alison - “what?” alison -“oh my boyfriend was just admiring what a nice ass you have. he’s gone too far.” they giggle drunkenly over to us. the same stoop we’re enjoying our own marlboro menthols on. they sit. i try not to listen in on much more of their conversation. texts to twitter, i cant believe this. ashes fall, butts left on the ground. back inside. kate must be here somewhere. a little while later & there they are again. a tap on jamie's shoulder, a squeeze on mine. flash. compliments passed between alison & i, a kneel to my level, her raven hair in my face. we’ve perhaps had one too many vodkas & juices. flash. polaroids with the kills. its close to three am. i’ve been up twenty six hours. no money for cabs, we walk back, back down to the subway. i’m still dreaming, spinning on my feet. the city & the pity of it. hotel home. a shower. band tee makes for a grunge nightie. i’m sleeping, still spinning.
may 3nd, 2009
i wake to the sound of rain, the last day of magic, the smell of menthols still in my hair. tyler’s up, writing me a note on hotel stationary. he’s headed out for coffee, he’s getting me a chai. i stay in bed. i’m too excited to sleep again. a quick ipod shuffle, a chat & we’re ready. vintage levi cutoffs & an h&m necklace - additions to my new grunge nightie. umbrellas out, it’s pouring. a morning fag. broadway & broome. we’re headed to topshop. union jacks reflect from raindropped windows. kate was here somewhere. inside - row after row of frocks, vests, jumpers, trousers, & shoes like candy; the london girls get spoiled. i sneak a few snaps, it’s against the rules, i get yelled at. i make my rounds, up & down. floors one, two & three. five items tried on, four purchased; pink blazer, black bicycle shorts, monochrome crop tops, one free electric blue patent heartshaped change purse, tossed in one brown paper shopping bag.
back into the rain, under beautiful polluted skies. soho, sunday streetmarket; a new favourite ring, a new stock of pashminas. greenwich is next. we pass the mercer street, rain like daggers coming down on us. we pose by the streetsign, its become somewhat of a tradition now. blocks pass. still pouring. the brown paper bag, soaked, bleeds black ink, leaving topshop smudges on my highwaisted shorts & favourite canvas bag. a few record shops for shelter, the first knife album bought for later. goldfrapp found amongst sharpie written, fingerprint stained dividers of cds once loved more. lush green grows from damp brick. bleeker street.
marc’s on every corner. we visit each one. tricky tricky plays, a singalong, a phonecall home. with the asphalt finally drying, umbrellas are in. alexa’s harpers bought in another dodgy corner cigarette shop. the dodgier the better. we drop into the hummus place. lunch; moroccan mint tea, cucumber tomato salad, hummus smashed with egg, the traditional way. we never knew hummus could be so good. over a rose flan, we talk the last bit of sun away, clichéd snapshots of us taken by us.
only hours remain, one last nyc coffee run. a windowseat, more chats, more snaps. back to midtown, to the pod. luggage picked up & stuffed, bursting with purchases. the e train, one taken west, one taken east, farewell my black balloon. alone on the train again, each subway stop a reminder, the further i’m dragged away. manhattan a blur. jfk again, a weighted balenciaga on sore shoulders. i rush, no need, i’m early, i won’t be sleeping in baggage claim this time, i’ve no extra night. i collapse, a single hour left to go. a few notes in a notebook, outfits to remember. a postcard wrote with love. the city misses you. the florescent lights smaller from above, from that tiny airplane window. it left its sting, the nicotine, this is what new york used to be.

A.

photos by me & tyler's iphone

scanned polaroids of me with vv & hotel to come next