New York Insomnia

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This is a revised version that I performed for Dylan Day at Megaverse at Cardiff Central Library. 15/5/2016

New York hustled and bustled in the way only New York can. Somehow less intense than London, less arrogant than Paris and less maniac than Rome, it did rush hour in a down to earth kind of way. I watched from my seat in the window as people went about their business in and around Grand Central Terminus. My coffee steamed up one patch of glass, my breath another, but in between I could still see the city going to work.

I was working too, sort of. I had a pencil between finger and thumb and on my pad were words and phrases; linguistic snapshots of the unfolding drama of the everyday.

Who am I kidding? It was nothing really. Just verbal diarrhoea, writing for writing’s sake, to give me something to do in these early hours when by rights I should have been sleeping. Grand Central Terminus acted like a magnet to my insomnia; drawing me out of bed and down into its bowels.

“What you writing there, buddy?”

I’d been so absorbed by the streams of people that I hadn’t noticed the man  plonking himself down next to me; an extra large latte giving him a milk moustache.

“Oh nothing really, just jotting down a few thoughts, trying to write a poem.” I said.

“Now there’s an accent. Whereabouts are you from?” He asked, taking another sip of coffee.

“Wales,” I said not holding out much hope that he would know or care where it was.

“Wow!” he looked like I’d just said Venus or Mars, or Atlantis or something. “You’re Welsh, like Dy-lan Thom-mas?”

“I am,” I nodded although it was the first time I’d ever been likened to Dylan.

“And you are writing poetry like him too?”

I nodded although the like him bit was very tenuous.

“Let me see?” He snatched the pad off me and read the words out loud. I tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t let me.  I blushed profusely.

Central Terminus

Grand, by name and by nature.

Tramps sleep in the loos.

New York sleepless nights.

Sun rises over the east.

eggs sunny side up.

“Haiku, I like it. What’s your name?”

“Thomas Dylan.” I put out my hand.

Now I don’t know why I said this, I guess I was just caught up in the moment or I thought it would be funny or I thought it might make his day.

He nearly had an orgasm there and then in the middle of the café.

“Wow, Thomas Dylan, so pleased to meet you.” his huge hand took mine and shook it with vigour.

“Listen buddy I gotta go to work but we have to meet again?” the man said, were there tears in his eyes? “Where are you staying?”

I told him my hotel but stopped short of giving my room number.

“My name’s Art, short for Arthur, like your king.” It took me a while to realise he was talking mythology. “I’ll give you a call.” he said and shook my hand again.

By the evening I had forgotten all about my morning encounter. I’d been to John’s Pizza, got well fed, drank a few Buds and then wandered home through the weirdly deserted streets. The city that never sleeps was having a quick snooze off 5th Avenue.

When I got to the hotel I saw a big lump of a man and about seven friends standing at the reception desk. Christ he’d brought a posse of Dylan Thomas fans. He must have called, got no luck so come down here for himself.

“Check again,” I heard him say.

“I’m sorry sir there is no Thomas Dylan staying here.”

I pressed the lift button repeatedly. It was on the fifth floor. I tried to hide in the bright lights of the hotel foyer. I stared at the lift willing it to come, four, three two.

Ping. The doors opened.

“You!” I felt a massive paw on my shoulder and turned round. I had some explaining to do.

 For audio click here

New York hustled and bustled in the way only New York can. Somehow less intense than London, less arrogant than Paris and less maniac than Rome, it did rush hour in a down to earth kind of way. I watched from my seat in the window as people went about their business in and around Grand Central Terminal. My coffee steamed up one patch of glass, my breath another, but in between I could still see the city going to work.

I was working too, sort of. I had a pencil between finger and thumb and on my pad were words and phrases; linguistic snapshots of the unfolding drama of the everyday.

Who am I kidding it was nothing really. Just verbal diarrhoea, writing for writing’s sake, to give me something to do in these early hours when by rights I should have been sleeping. Grand Central Terminal acted like a magnet to my insomnia; drawing me out of bed and down into its bowels.

“What you writing there, buddy?”

I’d been so absorbed by the streams of people that I hadn’t noticed the man looking over my shoulder. He plonked himself down next to me; an extra large latte giving him a milk moustache.

“Oh nothing really, just jotting down a few thoughts, trying to write a poem.” I said.

“Now there’s an accent. Whereabouts are you from?” He asked, taking another sip of coffee.

“Wales,” I said not holding out much hope that he would know or care where it was.

“Wow!” he looked like I’d just said Venus or Mars, or Atlantis or something. “You’re Welsh, like Dy-lan Thom-mas?”

“I am,” I nodded although it was the first time I’d ever been likened to Dylan.

“And you are writing poetry like him too?”

I nodded although the like him bit was very tenuous.

‘What’s your name?”

Now I don’t know why I said this, I guess I was just caught up in the moment or I thought it would be funny or I thought it might make his day.

“Thomas Dylan.” I put out my hand.

He nearly had an orgasm there and then in the middle of the café.

“Wow, Thomas Dylan, so pleased to meet you.” his huge hand took mine and shook it with vigour.

“Listen buddy I gotta go to work but we have to meet again?” the man said, were there tears in his eyes?

“My phone isn’t working here,” I said with fake apology.

“Where are you staying?”

I told him my hotel but stopped short of giving my room number.

“My name’s Art, short for Arthur, like your king.” It took me a while to realise he was talking mythology. “I’ll give you a call.” he said and shook my hand again.

He lifted himself off the stool, slapped me on the back and lumbered away. It was quite pleasing that someone was so into one of our national heroes, but I was pretty relieved that I would never see him again.

I wandered back to the hotel, got showered and dressed and headed out for a day exploring the sites.

By the evening I had forgotten all about my morning encounter. I’d been to John’s Pizza, got well fed, drank a few Buds and then wandered home through the weirdly deserted streets. The city that never sleeps was having a quick snooze off 5^th Avenue.

When I got to the hotel I saw a big lump of a man and about seven friends standing at the reception desk. Christ he’d brought a posse of Dylan Thomas fans. He must have called, got no luck so come down here for himself.

“Check again,” he said.

“I’m sorry sir there is no Thomas Dylan staying here.”

I pressed the lift button repeatedly. It was on the fifth floor. I tried to hide in the bright lights of the hotel foyer. I stared at the lift willing it to come, four, three two.

Ping. The doors opened.

“You!” I felt a massive paw on my shoulder and turned round. I had some explaining to do.