Thursday, July 2, 2009
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Sometimes I wish I didn't leave my camera at home
Scribbling should do for lack of an image, at least this time.
I had an existential lunch with i. today.
When I expressed my regret at not being able to take a cute top down shot of a woman's pink toenails set against the red brick of Low Plaza, he jokingly replied that "not everything needs to be a photo." I stared straight at the sun for a second, not knowing how to respond. Then I closed my eyes and rested my head on the pillar behind me.
A few hours later, I was in one of the middle cars of the one train, heading for my apartment on 91st to see to an irritating appointment with Time Warner. The bastards are taking weeks to fix the wireless in my summer sublet.
(they just called to confirm)
Absorbed in some flirtatious thoughts about a godlike male seated right across from me, it took me a couple of minutes to notice the shriveled, sickly silhouette sitting crouched on the last two seats of the train car.
He was a man of about 70, naked save for his loose beige shorts, a pair of black shoes, and an old cap awkwardly covering his gray, disheveled head.
With mechanical gestures, he rubbed his right palm, first against the red swellings on his white wrinkled torso, then against his face and hair, then against his thighs.. He reeked of alcohol. I couldn't tell if his eyes were open.
I sought to pity him. I tried my best, looking straight at him for the entire journey to 96th.
Not so with my male flirt, or the young woman immersed in a Malcom Gladwell volume, or the MTA worker who got on the train at 103rd. They all agreed on tacitly ignoring the scene, inwardly resolving to show no discomfort. It was as if those last two seats were empty. In fact, I even witnessed the paradox of a corporate peon sitting cross legged and reading the Wall Street Journal, smiling at some numbers after casually looking towards the old man.
It's funny how sometimes a moment stays suspended in its absurdity, and nobody drifts. One stop, two stops, three stops, until someone flinches. Sooner or later, the discomforting sight ends up being temporarily removed.
I got off at 96th. I should have made a photo. Some things should be photos.
I had an existential lunch with i. today.
When I expressed my regret at not being able to take a cute top down shot of a woman's pink toenails set against the red brick of Low Plaza, he jokingly replied that "not everything needs to be a photo." I stared straight at the sun for a second, not knowing how to respond. Then I closed my eyes and rested my head on the pillar behind me.
A few hours later, I was in one of the middle cars of the one train, heading for my apartment on 91st to see to an irritating appointment with Time Warner. The bastards are taking weeks to fix the wireless in my summer sublet.
(they just called to confirm)
Absorbed in some flirtatious thoughts about a godlike male seated right across from me, it took me a couple of minutes to notice the shriveled, sickly silhouette sitting crouched on the last two seats of the train car.
He was a man of about 70, naked save for his loose beige shorts, a pair of black shoes, and an old cap awkwardly covering his gray, disheveled head.
With mechanical gestures, he rubbed his right palm, first against the red swellings on his white wrinkled torso, then against his face and hair, then against his thighs.. He reeked of alcohol. I couldn't tell if his eyes were open.
I sought to pity him. I tried my best, looking straight at him for the entire journey to 96th.
Not so with my male flirt, or the young woman immersed in a Malcom Gladwell volume, or the MTA worker who got on the train at 103rd. They all agreed on tacitly ignoring the scene, inwardly resolving to show no discomfort. It was as if those last two seats were empty. In fact, I even witnessed the paradox of a corporate peon sitting cross legged and reading the Wall Street Journal, smiling at some numbers after casually looking towards the old man.
It's funny how sometimes a moment stays suspended in its absurdity, and nobody drifts. One stop, two stops, three stops, until someone flinches. Sooner or later, the discomforting sight ends up being temporarily removed.
I got off at 96th. I should have made a photo. Some things should be photos.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
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