Wednesday, 3 August 2011
RIP Hotel Chelsea
I spent one night barefoot running through your corridors in a crimson silk ballgown, playing kiss chase with a camcorder, placing polaroids on the walls.
We had black eyes for the boys and bourbon for the girls. Champagne and powder, lipstick, neon. A bathtub for sleepover sudsing. Bedsprings for leapfrog. A walk-in wardrobe as empty as an envelope from a love letter thrown away in spring.
Can you believe the sign, can you believe we’re here, doesn’t your heart feel like a velvet drawstring purse full of rubies, tripped and spilling on the floor?
I wrestled in evening gloves for the very first time and six months later, the teeth marks hadn’t faded: six months tattooed with a postcard from a past self, signed wish you were here.
Long before I let my heart break its ankle running down the stairs, I was on a balcony trying to lasso the Empire State spire with a smoke ring. I was clattering down a stairwell windswept with giggles.
I let the histories trample my own corridors on their slipshod feet. I believed in all the clichés. I ran so fast the modern world hadn’t a hope for my coattails.
I love the Chelsea Hotel. This news made me sigh.