Yesterday on my lunch break, as I walked along Park Avenue, long shadows wavered on the sidewalk as if we were all underwater.
I felt seasick and might have fainted or barfed were it not for the unadorned font of the subway sign, where I focused my attention and soon enough felt much better. Some of the light, I noticed, was rushing down the steps into the station, presumably to head downtown on the local six-train, perhaps to have lunch at Union Square, assuming it could find a seat, which is by no means easy to do given that the surrounding area is always teeming with shining people with huge bank accounts but who don’t seem to have jobs (such is the state of downtown Manhattan in the year 2010). Still, part of me wished I was going along for the ride: after all, it’s not everyday that you see sunlight riding the subway. On the other hand, I think I’ve reached a point in my life where I wouldn’t ever miss the subway if I never had to ride it again, no matter who or what was on it (that said, I wouldn’t want to drive everywhere, either.)
Some of the light decided to sit next to the curb and keep the dying puddles company. Unlike people in the modern era, so many of whom long to live in the city, young puddles around the world generally don’t like the thought of moving to an urban area, but most of those who do (for as you know, we sometimes don’t have a choice in the matter) try make the best of it, even if they’re not widely acclaimed as objects of beauty.
I took a picture in which my face was obliterated by the sun.
I turned around and the light was gone, leaving me alone to dissolve into the darkening, December streets.
