(no subject)
The doors opened late on the return train home. When the time came that they allowed passengers to board, there were still very few doors that opened . People scurried and ran leaving their posts where moments before they dutifully stood awaiting entry. Caressing their pre-visualized window seat in their imagination. For a short time I waited in the vestibule content with the satisfaction of safe passage home. I watched angry commuters file bye, with their disappointed faces, of lost determination and hope of finding their window seat. Eventually the parade ended and I watched the tail end disappeared into cars beyond my sight. So I walked in search of a seat of my own and even if I didn't perhaps I might find a vestibule with a working air conditioner. I was denied a seat in three different cars due to some bicyclist taking up an extra seat that could be mine with their damn bicycle. In my head I imagined them all getting run down by mad New York cab drivers. Almost as if I were rooting for teams,
I eventually take a place in the relatively empty first car behind the engine. There is a man sitting across from me. Tall with broad shoulders, older, big hands, a wedding band. The style of his hair resembles that of a medieval boy prince. It is bright red, shoulder length, with a perfect bangs falling straight across his brow. He begins to fumble nervously through his duffel, looking frequently over his shoulder. I begin to entertain thoughts that he in fact could be a bomber. With dead set intentions of blowing up this entire train. Starting with the very first car with the hopes of affecting everyone behind it to the very last seat. Eventually the conductor arrives only to greet him with a firm handshake. The kind that is given between old friends. The conductor begins to speak to the air of the impatience and irritation of the passengers. He acts with tones of sarcasm and condescension. He mimics the complaints, dramatic and over exaggerated like a preacher during a sunday sermon. Then at the end of his speech he shakes his head like a disappointed parent. He exits raising his arm in the air and delivers the clinching line that grabs the audiences attention and draws from them a reaction. I removed my headphones and asked my fellow passengers what I missed. The man sitting next to me who looks like my father, open toed sandals, tan legs, colorful madras print shirt, cotton duck shorts. He smiles big, and opens wide his stark blue eyes bearing not only a face, but also an expression resembling that of my blood father. My moment is interrupted by the reply of another passenger saying "shitty attitudes of New Jersey Transit". All within earshot of the conductor. I smile and briefly return to my headphones, which I leave to contribute my presence to this moment, and for a short time we converse. And there is on a small level interaction between us, the commuters. who otherwise would remain silent and strangers. We quickly abandon the dialogue to return to our own moments, the haven of our own personal space. As I wait to exit the train on my stop, I sit next to the conductor. I repeat to him the same words I contributed previously to the other commuters. I tell him "If the doors wouldn't have opened, there would have been nothing for people to complain about, and then there would have been no interaction at all. After all, how much is there to talk about when all the doors open?" He agrees and smiles spreading himself wide to stretch tired muscles. In his face I see the face of my grandfather, had his skin been black. I shake his hand as I step off the platform starting my walk home.
She walks into the mail foyer as I close our box. Intuition tells me it is her. The girl who lives next door who kept me up the night before. With worry and wonder if I should notify the police of a domestic affair that I might suspect beating or abuse. I slowly lag behind following her until the conclusion of my prediction. It is her as the fits the key into the lock. She is barely clothed, tan with the smell of alcohol and coconut, untouched, unmarked, unscathed, unharmed. I say nothing as I walk past. I wait for the door to close behind me wherein I shake my head like a disapproving parent.
I think of the arguments I've had over the course of a relationship and I come to the conclusion that I've ruined enough walls. I begin to wonder if you can't probe far enough into the deeper issues that you finally reach the bottom, or if it isn't an infinite continuation of new surfaces and things. I wonder if we've invented a new status quo for relationships that is based on turmoil rather than harmony. That we are centered around and motivated by conflict rather than peace.
For a moment I feel clever and smart, nervous and alive, living like each moment is laced with promise. The phenomenon of many good things happening at once.
I turn 30 at midnight
I eventually take a place in the relatively empty first car behind the engine. There is a man sitting across from me. Tall with broad shoulders, older, big hands, a wedding band. The style of his hair resembles that of a medieval boy prince. It is bright red, shoulder length, with a perfect bangs falling straight across his brow. He begins to fumble nervously through his duffel, looking frequently over his shoulder. I begin to entertain thoughts that he in fact could be a bomber. With dead set intentions of blowing up this entire train. Starting with the very first car with the hopes of affecting everyone behind it to the very last seat. Eventually the conductor arrives only to greet him with a firm handshake. The kind that is given between old friends. The conductor begins to speak to the air of the impatience and irritation of the passengers. He acts with tones of sarcasm and condescension. He mimics the complaints, dramatic and over exaggerated like a preacher during a sunday sermon. Then at the end of his speech he shakes his head like a disappointed parent. He exits raising his arm in the air and delivers the clinching line that grabs the audiences attention and draws from them a reaction. I removed my headphones and asked my fellow passengers what I missed. The man sitting next to me who looks like my father, open toed sandals, tan legs, colorful madras print shirt, cotton duck shorts. He smiles big, and opens wide his stark blue eyes bearing not only a face, but also an expression resembling that of my blood father. My moment is interrupted by the reply of another passenger saying "shitty attitudes of New Jersey Transit". All within earshot of the conductor. I smile and briefly return to my headphones, which I leave to contribute my presence to this moment, and for a short time we converse. And there is on a small level interaction between us, the commuters. who otherwise would remain silent and strangers. We quickly abandon the dialogue to return to our own moments, the haven of our own personal space. As I wait to exit the train on my stop, I sit next to the conductor. I repeat to him the same words I contributed previously to the other commuters. I tell him "If the doors wouldn't have opened, there would have been nothing for people to complain about, and then there would have been no interaction at all. After all, how much is there to talk about when all the doors open?" He agrees and smiles spreading himself wide to stretch tired muscles. In his face I see the face of my grandfather, had his skin been black. I shake his hand as I step off the platform starting my walk home.
She walks into the mail foyer as I close our box. Intuition tells me it is her. The girl who lives next door who kept me up the night before. With worry and wonder if I should notify the police of a domestic affair that I might suspect beating or abuse. I slowly lag behind following her until the conclusion of my prediction. It is her as the fits the key into the lock. She is barely clothed, tan with the smell of alcohol and coconut, untouched, unmarked, unscathed, unharmed. I say nothing as I walk past. I wait for the door to close behind me wherein I shake my head like a disapproving parent.
I think of the arguments I've had over the course of a relationship and I come to the conclusion that I've ruined enough walls. I begin to wonder if you can't probe far enough into the deeper issues that you finally reach the bottom, or if it isn't an infinite continuation of new surfaces and things. I wonder if we've invented a new status quo for relationships that is based on turmoil rather than harmony. That we are centered around and motivated by conflict rather than peace.
For a moment I feel clever and smart, nervous and alive, living like each moment is laced with promise. The phenomenon of many good things happening at once.
I turn 30 at midnight