Sweet Dreams

This was actually a WRT 101 assignment answering the question "Where do you see yourself in 10-years" using a descriptive essay format...

The light radiated through my window as I lay in bed resisting the urge to wake up. I could feel the warmth of the sun creeping across the floor and my bed, like a caterpillar inching slowly along. I knew before long I would not be able to resist the bright sunshine, thinking to myself that it would be a perfect day to take the camera out and see if I could capture a few decent pictures of fall in the city.

        It wasn't long before the coolness of the wood floors touched my bare feet and I was up walking around my twelfth floor apartment. Strolling by the bright window I remembered why I had made the splurge to pay the steep monthly rent; the view was breathtaking. I paused only momentarily to take in the landscape before I walked away to start getting ready for the day.

        By the time I had showered and dressed, my apartment was filled with the rich smell of fresh coffee. The smell alone is almost enough to keep me up for hours. It reminds me of Saturday morning breakfast with my Aunt back when I was in college. I smile at the memory, grabbing my favorite coffee mug; filling it with the aromatic, dark, and steaming hot liquid.

        I remember, I had always wanted a very open loft-style apartment with big open windows that would view the city, so it was no wonder that when I found this place that it would be my personal heaven. I stare into the vast and sparsely furnished room with a bed in one corner. Standing in the middle of the room, you could see one large window that covered the entire length of the apartment and from it, I saw what some people only see in pictures. Tall jutting up towers that loomed over the sidewalks below that were always bustling with people.

        At 7 A.M business men already hurrying off to work in their expensive Armani suits, kids walking with their parents; lunch pails in tow and college students with their futures ahead of them; ready to be molded, carrying books that would talk about famous philosophers and how the West was won. Below, the streets were no longer lined with the mountains of black trash bags placed at the curb almost nightly by owners of restaurants or stores below me. Cars are already beginning to cram the streets stuck in tight, like sardines waiting desperately to get through the light. Car horns blast incessantly. Glancing over the city below, I am reminded by the scarlet red and pumpkin orange leaves sprouting from tree lined streets what my mission for today is.

        As I open the door, the brisk cold air from the October air greets me, stinging my cheeks slightly as gusts of wind howl through the valley of skyscrapers that dominate above me. Once outside, the exotic smells of the city invade my senses. Today it's a mixture of freshly baked bread and car exhaust, with a sprinkle of wood from the fires people burned in the previous night to keep their places warm. I take a step onto the leaf littered sidewalk and a billow of steam arises up from streets. The ground below me starts to quake from the roar of the subway.

        I set out on my journey uptown to Central Park with camera in tow and the music of the city ringing in my ear. The music starts with the gentle sounds of steam being released causing a high scream and then a symphony of sounds join in, cars honking, a siren as a police car attempts to squeeze by jammed traffic on official business, people talking on cell phones and bags rustling in the wind. In the distance I can hear the lonely sounds of someone playing a saxophone; the music wails its story of love lost as my steps fall in line with the drumming of the city.

        I am tempted by new smells almost every block, the smell of freshly made hot chocolate lingers in the air and a bouquet of flowers lures me and I think that I would love to have this on my table because of a single flower sitting like a lone wolf on a table. However, I know I won't be home until later so I settle for a quick snapshot and enter the a corner store for a bottle of water.

        I am greeted by a bell; the sounds of the morning news on a small TV set located behind the counter, two Indian men talking in their native tongue, and a strange mix of foreign smells. The older man nods his head towards me greeting me with a smile, "Morning Miss." I smile back, nodding, and head to the back of the store. Again I am tempted by the array of offerings in this small market. I grab a pack of Starburst and a bottle of water then bring my selections to the counter. The younger man rings up my purchases. "Tree-fifty" he says, so I pay and head back out into the chilled air. The bell jingles as I open the door.        

        Before long I am at a smaller opening into the park, excited to start snapping pictures. Already people have gathered to read their morning paper on the benches and men with horse drawn carriages begin to set up for the day's work.

        "Carriage ride miss?" one man offers petting the mane and neck of his mare.

        "No thank you, I think I'll do this one on foot," I respond holding up my camera indicating my intentions.

        He nods to me and I walk through the stonewalled opening, leaves crunching below me. My world becomes a bit darker as the leaves still on the trees shade me from the warmth of the sun. I pull my coat around me tighter, tying off the waist to hold it, and begin snapping pictures. I pay close attention to the birds chirping and watch how they dart in and out of bushes. I watch particularly close to what I can assume to be a lovers' quarrel among two small grey and white birds. They squawk at each other fluttering their wings and moving about in a circular motion before one flies deeper into the park.

        Again, I hear the wailing of the saxophone, this time more upbeat and before long I can hear someone plucking strings on a guitar. I follow the sound through the park where specks of light are allowed to squeeze through the bone like fingers of branches and leaves above. Before long I am at an opening. An old and weathered man dressed in a brown suit sits on a dirt encrusted bucket playing a worn and darkened saxophone. The sounds of the pads opening and closing on the saxophone can be heard underneath the tranquilizing melodies. Next to him is a boy, dressed in jeans and a black hooded sweater sitting cross-legged on the ground. He cradles a guitar in his lap, his fingers work the strings like a painter works a brush on canvas, each note is delivered flawlessly.

        I notice the soft clink of change as it lands on the soft but worn velvety surface of an open guitar case and then the flutter of a dollar bill as it slowly cascades, joining more change and bills. Watching them play I am reminded why I love New York. The diversity comes rushing at you like waves lapping up on a beach shore.

        A cool wind sends chilled fingers across my exposed cheeks; slowly I lift my camera, centering the frame upon the brick wall background and the two men working side by side. The camera clicks I am again reminded of why I am living the life I've always dreamed.         

Author's Note

I have sense lived some of this as I have moved from Arizona to New Jersey and often spend time in the city. Recently I realized this dream as I was walking through central park and heard the melancholy sounds of a sax and was overcome by realization that while I did not have my pent house suite in NYC, I was half way there. And that was more than I could ever imagined having written this just 1.5 years ago.