Tag Archives: new york city subway

Scaffolding

08 Tuesday Jul 2014

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I wonder what the penalty is for defacing a New York City subway car. I see they have a code of conduct printed and posted in various cars, but it just says what not to do – not what will happen if you do… and get caught. I saw a YouTube video of a young graphic design student so bothered by a certain Manhattan doctor’s horrible ads for clear skin she had re-designed them and was sticking her much better version of his ad over the old ones – and nothing seemed to happen to her… In addition to the code of conduct, the New York Transit Authority also has poetry printed and posted in various cars, and I really want that poem. Not just a copy of it, the whole 2 foot by 2 foot poster board print with red lettering on a white background and a big heavy red scaffolding up the side. The program is called Poetry in Motion, and technically my tax dollars go to pay for it, so it is sort of part mine in a way, or at least that’s what I envision explaining to the police. Plus, it would be a gift so stealing it would actually be a generous act of kindness.

SCAFFOLDING

Masons, when they start upon a building,
Are careful to test out the scaffolding;

Make sure that planks won’t slip at busy points,
Secure all ladders, tighten bolted joints.

And yet all this comes down when the job’s done,
Showing off walls of sure and solid stone.

So if, my dear, there sometimes seem to be,
Old bridges breaking between you and me

Never fear. We may let the scaffolds fall.
Confident that we have built our wall.

-Seamus Heaney

I alway get excited when I get on the train and realize I’m near the poetry – it’s like finding a little gem. It’s not in every car, and then you have to be in the right part of the car that does have it. This poem, the other morning, just slayed me. Maybe because it is so simple, maybe because I had no idea what it was going to be about, or that the totality of all the conflicting and messy parts of a relationship – loving, fighting, building, breaking – could be summed up in four unexpected lines. It haunted me the rest of the day as I walked around the city – underneath many scaffoldings and past solid brick walls. I kept thinking of scaffoldings I had walked under in Hong Kong made of laced together bamboo poles that seemed to bounce and bow as the sure-footed workers walked on them – behind which were glass-clad skyscrapers that would shoot laser lights from their rooftops at night.

Convened around a dinner table later that night laughing and exchanging stories with new friends, the haunting poem appeared again. One couple had just celebrated their 28th anniversary, and over wine and dessert began to share their anniversary story. They had decided to forgo presents as they had had a “hell of year,” and have just a simple nice dinner out. The wife had prepared a card, and all she said was, “I was on the subway….” and I blurt out – “that poem!” She had copied Scoffolding into her card as a gift for her husband. When he opened the card and read the poem, his reaction was not expected – he wanted to know where she got that poem, why she gave it to him? He had also copied that poem into a card for her after seeing it on the subway, and was convinced she somehow knew until she convinced him it was poetic coincidence. They had both found a gem.

I’ve been looking for that poem all week, yes, to steal, for them. But all I keep seeing are empty two foot by two foot frames where the poetry should be. It seems many New Yorkers are also slayed by the simple complexities of love – being weak and being strong – being vulnerable yet solid – being laced together by the messy handiwork of love, which in the end is the foundation from which we move and flow around the city.

Here is a link to the Nobel Prize Winner reading this poem on his 70th birthday. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fNYBwF7lKLA

Helped with stroller on stairs downtown: older man, jeans, red t-shirt, grey hair and crooked teeth. He was very strong despite his age and managed his side of the stroller with one hand. He asked how old Cub was and pinched her cheek at the bottom of the stairs before wishing us a good day.

Tip of the day: Poetry in Motion is often at the end of the train car, on the short wall near the handicap seating. Look for it like it’s a treasure.

His feet are his shoes

27 Friday Jun 2014

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His feet are his shoes, literally. There’s a homeless man I pass each morning in the Columbus Circle station. He is always asleep, tilted to the side, his plump body wedged between the wooden bench he inhabits and the wall. He wears a black coat and black pants both so dirty they are starting to look grey. I’ve never really seen his face, and I’m not sure when I began to notice his feet.

His feet are large, plump, and uncovered. They are cracked and scabbed, calloused and worn. These feet fascinate me, maybe because being barefoot in New York City is so forbidden to start with. Maybe because comfortable footwear for the daily trekking that happens here is of utmost importance as I’ve learned firsthand. His feet look like eggplants to me, when you broil them and the skin turns from purple to dark purple brown and begins to crack and blister up. Everyday I try to sneak a peek at his feet as I walk by. At first I thought maybe I should bring him a pair of shoes, but the bottoms of his feet have already become as hard and leathered as the souls of shoes and it would be weird to put a shoe inside another shoe. And then I began to fantasize about washing his feet.

I am fully aware that this is bizarre, and I don’t even know how the idea got into my head, but I really want, in some crazy way, to wash this guy’s eggplant feet. At first it was a strange impulse, and now it is a full color fantasy that plays like a movie in my mind each time I walk by. I would carefully carry a circular white plastic or soft pastel color basin of warm water up to him. I would gently and quietly place it on the ground next to his feet. Then I would place a fluffy white towel, folded in half, in front of his feet and kneel down onto it. Slowly I would touch and lift his feet, one at a time, and place them like treasures into the warm water. The water would have a layer of soft suds floating on it – lavender which I really like might be too strong for all those cracks and sores, so maybe it would be scented with something more gentle like honey, or vanilla, or maybe chamomile. In this fantasy movie I wash him with a soft cloth, like the kind I use on Cub each morning. A little square the size of a coaster made of the softest terrycloth you can find. I would move it slowly between his toes, and along the sides of his feet where the black line of dirt sits like a water line reminder left on a wall after a flood. Then I tenderly swaddle each foot in another fluffy white towel and gently pat them dry. I place them back on the subway station floor, gather my things, and walk silently away. He never wakes up in my foot-washing fantasy, nor does he know I exist and think of him everyday as I walk by in real life.

Sometimes I find the things that go on inside my head surprising, amusing, entertaining even to me. Like my subconscious mind is a circus, a carnival, playground, taking in all the stimulus from the day – the sights the smells the interactions and thoughts – then scrambling them up in a big tilt-a-whirl and feeding them back to me in fun-house style Technicolor sleeping dreams and waking fantasies. If the world, especially New York, is a big fun crazy place, the world inside me is bigger and more fun and definitely at times much crazier. I was smiling to myself about my weird foot-washing movie this morning as I sat on the floor in front of the bathtub. I was gently washing between Cub’s toes, combing out her hair, lifting her into a fluffy white blanket and tenderly patting her dry. That’s when I realized what the carnie circus master in my mind was prodding me to notice. This man with the eggplant feet that are his shoes was once someone’s baby. And I didn’t feel crazy anymore.

Helped with stroller on stairs downtown: somewhat non-descript white guy with a bad haircut, about 6 foot tall, navy shorts and maroon polo shirt, grey suede sneakers with no socks, looked like a graduate student. Shuffled near me with hands in pockets too shy to ask if I needed help until I looked at him and gave him a subtle nod and half smile indicating it was okay. He then asked if I needed help, I said yes, and gave him the rest of the smile. 

Tip of the day: if you are going to visit new york or move to new york, just know whatever you consider your comfiest shoes are most likely not going to cut it. This is good because it makes things more simple in a way – you will get a truly comfy pair of shoes, and you will wear them every single day. I wore the same pair of Merrell boots everyday for the first three months I was here, and now I wear a pair of Sketchers Go Walk loafers every single day. This also frees up closet space, which you will undoubtedly be grateful for.

I am a person

26 Thursday Jun 2014

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Sometimes I play the game, “Drop Me in the World.” It’s a game I made up of course, and it is played entirely in my own mind. Drop me at any random location in the world: side of the road in Nicaragua, Red Square Moscow, island in Malaysia, corner of 59th and Columbus NYC, with no money, no phone, no contact list, just what I can carry on my back, and what would I do? Where would I stay the first night? What would I eat? Where would I start in building a new life, finding work, finding money, shelter, food? Who would I approach for help and what would my pitch be? What type of sign would beget the best results for begging on a street corner – which corner would be best, locally trafficked or tourist trafficked? You get the idea… you start from scratch and build a theoretical new life step by step in chosen location. I think there is an extreme survival TV show version of this game, where they drop someone off on top of a glacier, middle of the desert, deserted island and they have 72 hours to make it to civilization – the show is called Dude You’re Screwed.

I’ve discovered a new survival option that happens inside New York subway cars – in my mind I call it oratory begging. Once the train doors close, a person steps to the middle of the car and begins a speech: about how they are in troubled times, have suffered a loss, have children to support and would like to call on the humanity of all those listening to help in any way they can. They are typically very articulate, decently clothed and well groomed. The stories involve elements of things familiar to most people – rent or mortgages, job instability, family obligations. They are down and out, but down and out in a highly socialized way. They often point out they were once just like us, until something happened and they fell of the track.

Today when the doors closed, a 40 something man, thin, Kelly blue polo shirt and black pants, began his speech: “I – am a person. Who – believes – sometimes you must do what you need to do. And that – is why – I – am here today in front of you.” Everyone was silent because it is always a little uncomfortable to be trapped in a confined space with someone who is begging from you, but today I think the car was silent because this man, obviously a trained orator, had a BEAUTIFUL voice. He sounded part Southern Preacher, but less dramatic and more refined, like a professor, or public speaker, or actor who might be called as a back up when Sidney Poitier wasn’t available. He sounded like a man who would recount the foraging habits of the North American black-tailed prairie dog on a PBS show, or some quintessential fatherly voice whose insight and knowledge would make any childhood problem vanish into thin air and hugs.

I’ve also discovered, during confined oratory begging, you can feel the collective uncomfortableness of the other passengers, right along side the collective desire to help. Both are palpable, in equal proportions. Another game I play in my mind is called “Start It.” I suppose it is more of a sociology experiment, but in these situations I like to break the giving ice and be the first to put a dollar in the bucket, not so much because I think my dollar will really help this man, but because I want to see how many people will follow suit once someone makes giving collectively acceptable. Today I gave my dollar to Cub, who was entranced by his oratory (and probably secretly thinking “that man would really rock Good Night Moon with that beautiful voice”). She’s at a stage where she really likes to put things in… and take things out. She reached up and put the dollar in his cup. And then the lady next to me gave a dollar, and another girl across the car gave. I’m not sure how much he made off our car, or what his real story is, or what life he led that groomed such a beautiful voice, but it felt good to give and like good parenting to be the ice breaker. At the next stop the doors opened and he was gone, and in my mind I thought to myself “I too – am a person – who believes – that sometimes you have to start it. And let others draft off your intentional courage.”

Helped carry stroller on stairs downtown: Latino man, young forties, fit, heather grey T-shirt and jeans, large diamond stud in ear. Started down stairs next to me, stopped, came back up a stair and lifted the other side of the stroller without even asking if I needed help.

Helped carry stroller on stairs uptown: Weather was beautiful so we walked.

Tip of the Day: when you gather your things in the morning – metro card, phone, etc. – make sure to put a few dollar bills in a handy place. There are amazing musicians you may encounter, or oratory beggars, or who knows what and you will want a dollar ready to give. This is for you more than them. If the money is handy you can guiltlessly enjoy the music without having to rifle around in your bag looking for a dollar as the train pulls up. You will be more present in the moment, and I just read a quote that said “no one has ever become poor from giving.”