units of time & distance
One of my oldest friends became a New Yorker some years ago.
Retracing the small-town streets of our common histories on a warm night, he observed that seasoned urbanites, when presented with blank sidewalk, cannot help but walk—and if this means moving in the direction of no particular destination, learned nature will preside—as if the zen of no-particular-destination alone could fail to suffice.
This seemed natural, and so we walked. We talked until we ran out of long, small-towne blocks. Then we retraced our steps, pushing the boundaries of the other direction, talking into the wee hours.
Seasoned urbanites cannot help but walk.
Now I do not think this is so.
It’s true that metered city geography tells time. It tells textured, experiential time. (Or perhaps experience tells time.)
I’ll feel like myself again; just give me a block.
The drive from my place to Anaka’s old neighborhood takes one cigarette.
The T ride to Park Street is 10 engrossing pages.
Stand-still city geography imprints and raises experience, firmly fixed in time. Many of my experiences are those of anotherness. Some are, fondly, just mine.
There’s still smoke and lights in February.
The street did look different when I returned.
I am glad you kissed me for too long by that door.
Dancing days are here again.
Why is a flower lovelier when it hasn’t been planted?
Falafel mystery, solved with zen.
There a few things more lovely than a hand-holding couple conversing slowly home in spite of the rain.
I stand still, for the apprehension.
