next to the big building, is my space.
Who am I, and where do I belong in the scheme of things?
What things? Well, the world ...
I belong in America, state of New York, New York City, in a hundred-year-old brownstone, in the heart of the city.
What do I do? I write and try to get people to read what I've written -- most of the people who are reading what I write are like me -- specks -- located inside one of the rectangles or curved, or other shapes. (NYC's got the Guggenheim Museum, and other odd-shaped structures you note, if you're looking down at the city from high above.)
A speck? Gee, when I was a little girl, I certainly wasn't a speck. I was first name and last name, with parents' first and last names, and when the school's attendance taker called out my name I said "here." If I put my hand up, and waved, the teacher would pick me to answer the question, or I could ask a question that might affect everyone.
My size and importance changed. I wasn't a speck when I took my first dance classes, or when I went I got a job in New York to help pay for dance classes. I was not a speck when I danced -- I was the center. The spotlight was on me. I was somebody. (No wonder show biz stardom -- singer, dancer, actor -- is such a big dream for kids.)
Right now, I'm aware of my friends, who are writers, bopping themselves on the head like me, who are asking what I'm asking -- what is my place. where is my place on earth?
Okay, I am a reacher, a person grabbing at recognition, trying to seize more space, a better place. When I leave the earth, will I be missed? Things I said or did may be remembered -- words, even tone -- but no, time will pass and as it passes, the rectangle I occupied will be crowded with, golly, billions of specs.
hit me --
Be we specks or whatever, right now, my house and your house are the world and we own the world.
That's more than space and a place. I like that.