IT was a Tuesday afternoon, colder than loneliness. There were a thousand other places I was supposed to be, but there I was, sitting at a Starbucks on Broadway and 115th, talking about Stravinsky and synesthesia.
Actually, there was much more to the conversation, which veered along a manic, oddly orchestrated trajectory from music to sensory perception, from formative childhood experience to adult pathology, from nature to nurture, from mid-afternoon to early evening.
The day had been sipped haltingly, barely tasted. Just enough of its liquid kept me fueled yet the overwhelming sensation was that of thirst.
And so I sat and talked with a stranger about dreams and the intersection of longing and fear; the color of deep pleasure; the connection between creativity and self-indulgence.
Time lost its familiar markers and the conversation became the universe, self-contained and complete.
In the middle of a Tuesday afternoon, I slipped through a temporal portal without a backwards glance.
Climbing the monkey bars of Time, I decided to hang upside down with barely a worry as to who could see my underpants.
And found myself delighted and surprised to find a fellow Time Traipser hanging upside down right across from me, sharing the freedom of this new perspective. We were so close that our noses nearly touched. His breath tasted like adventure.