The tempo of things
I ran across the Williamsburg Bridge this morning. There and back seemed simple enough, but things are never simple when the tempo in my head doesn’t match the rhythm outside; sometimes the normalness of the neighborhood overwhelms my observations, causing half-formed thoughts to collide against reason and assumptions, exploding into a diarrhea of misgivings.
Summer has started – but what happened to spring? (Why does fall/autumn get two names while all the other seasons have one?)
The incline of the bridge is steeper than it seems, but the way across to Manhattan is easy because of the tremendous view seeping through the cross hatched fence alongside the edges. There is no other place in the world that can match the sweeping New York skyline, gleaming and boastful under the embrace of the midday sun. How many onlookers have dreamed that their son or daughter will one day sit atop one of those towers? Like outstretched fingers, the marble slabs, the concrete facades and the glass panels silently cried out, “We are — we are reaching for the American Dream.”
Oh such a worthy dream, one of sensible pursuits for happiness (defined by material proofs). Reach life’s apex and you will be staring down at a world hard at labor from the comfort of a windowed cloister. Work hard and work enough and you will work less and gain more. Built by the sweat of money earned through craft and ambition and vision; from power and perseverance and hardiness; on smarts and creativity and faith — the city writhes under its own expectations. Voices clamor, “Be one of us, one of us, successful and worthy.” Each wanted to be special and unique, to be part of those towers, blue bright and shining from the receding shores of yesteryears’ dreams, where with luck from above and individual grit, they one day can all become as important and successful as one another.
The city flashed bright gold with burnished dreams. The buildings fluttered as a thousand million lives sped on, faster and faster in efforts to reach those towers.
The sky was open today; open open with cotton ball clouds popping off the heavy blue canvas that only comes after a springtime shower. The shimmering East River bounced the lemony sun off pale and translucent waters, snaking its way between the Gotham and Brooklyn shores. The way back is much harder than the way forward. I see two kids, about 8 or 9, passing me on their bicycles. Damn kids. With Manhattan to my back and Brooklyn looming, I cantered on, wishing that I hadn’t had that cigarette in the morning.
Red rimmed eyes stared through me as I round the corner. A small man with a dark sun tanned face framed by a too big cap, slouched next to the door of one of the many grocery stores in the neighborhood. His red t-shirt drenched with perspiration, as he only focused on breathing. He was probably one of the laborers from the nearby construction site, where new condos were appearing like crazy. I nodded at my observer to no response and swung open the rusty door to the small store. Canned food, household supplies and ice cream jumbled together in a calculated mess inside the small space. The greenish halogen light seeped into the blue plaster walls.
“Una agua, por favor.”
“One dollar please.” The heavyset matron slowly got up from a Spanish soap on a small portable black and white TV.
“Gracias — thanks,” I mumbled. I pushed the bill to her, glancing at the man sitting in the dark corner, his eyes stonily staring at the flickering screen. The ceiling fan spun silently as I made my way outside again.
Establishments with names like Pepe’s Mart, Tito’s Deli and Cuarazon’s Store peppered my neighborhood. The Mexican immigrants are surprisingly resilient against the gentrification and hipsterization of their dwindling real estate. Billburg was encroached on all sides by vegan diners, independent boutiques, cafes, and now, rising condominiums. But on this quiet tree lined street houses were still vine covered, and their doors were lined by potted red petunias. Peeling paint graced chipped window frames, as overgrown gardens pressed against rotting white fences.
I walked slowly home, the metallic taste of water in my mouth a foil to the burning in my calves. Outside, three men were squatting next to the graffitied wall, listening to jumpy music from a boombox. Cigarette smoke danced above their heads, like crowns for lazy princes. A vanilla colored German shepherd mutt lay next to them on a piece of cardboard, ears flattened and pink tongue lolling from the heat. Through a flowing white curtain on the next block, I saw a man sink in an armchair with his newspaper, the radio faintly crackled in the next room. Two girls stood their bicycles against his fence and sat cross legged on the cracked sidewalk, sharing a bag of corn chips and orange soda, their peals of laughter hitching onto a feathery breeze that flowed through the neighborhood.
The main street pulsated. Men stood in groups, flashing ivory smiles while women stood in doorways chatting. Old men with white manes stared at the passing cars through the smudged windows of a pizza parlor. A car slowed down as the driver leaned out to shout hellos—crunk overlay with salsa bounced from the opened windows. In the corner laundromat sat mothers, black hair tied back and tight rhinestoned shirts pressing against their overflowing figures. Their sullen kids fidgeted. Outside the comida criollas restaurant clustered hipsters, their conversations of next projects and latest travels blending into the cackles and hoots of some boys darting between pedestrians, on their scooters and skateboards.
The day slowed as the neighborhood warmed under the midday sun. I looked at the pedestrian life: the people lazing, going about their chores and their lives in a steady rhythm undisturbed by pressure of speed. The neighborhood moved at its own tempo, slowed neither by the fear of tardiness nor hurried by the urge to be faster. I turned onto my street. Manhattan lay over the edge, its towers lustrous in the day and sparkling at night, beyond the waters and the converging clouds on the blue horizon. Dreams are created among those canyons of stone and iron and dashed within its glass parlors. The city reflects back upon the clamoring dreams their own truths, as each quickening success separates reality further from ambition, until a collective groan from unfulfilled hopes will dash the very foundations of a city built by misplaced dreams.
At some point, when I have to choose a certain ideology, purposeful ignorance of the balanced view is essential to push the way to the other side. It’s the prerequisite of belief that some willful blindness to the values of the opposite system exist, for only then can a pure faith in belief occur, unspoiled by the sensibilities of compromise. The world is built on systems of moderation, but only exaggeration can inspire greatness to break from the tedium of the average.