While I’ve been working in New York City for quite some time now – almost a generation, really – since the beginning of this new year my job has offered many additional hours of travel, both on some old familiar commuter rails, and some new, and alien, subway lines.
Some thoughts, this morning, as I made my way in:
I’ve come to recognize that what truly defines New York for me is a kind of poetry that sneaks up in moments unexpected.
It’s not so much found in words, but in chaotic movements, constant noise, hulking anxieties, stubborn faces, random kindnesses, violent smells. Mostly, I see it in the tandem “whooshes” of machine and body, together, cavorting all around.
It’s all so very alienating, yet all so damn accommodating; it’s all so very ordinary, yet all so invitingly elegant