This morning I announced in my Facebook status update that I love garrulous salespeople.
On another note, yesterday in Andy Martin's piece, Beyond Understanding, in NYT's series - The Stone - I got interested in his quoting Simon Baron-Cohen:
"In his book “Mindblindness,” Simon Baron-Cohen argues that the whole raison d’être of consciousness is to be able to read other people’s minds; autism, in this context, can be defined as an inability to “get” other people, hence “mindblind.”"
When I announced that I loved garrulous salespeople two of my dear friends responded. R said that she did too and that silence was overrated. I responded to her comment saying that I just loved watching how they were all lit up from inside, putting their best foot forward, when they were trying to make a sale. I implied that it was interesting to watch the process.
There is a heater in my cubicle that emits a series of dings as it automatically switches on as the thermostat dictates: Ding...Ding...Ding...Ding...and then the welcome heat. The dings may not be obvious in the sales people but they are very much there. They are trying to get me to buy something or to make me a repeat customer. Do they know that I am aware that they are trying to sell to me and that I am watching them with hidden amusement as I decide whether to be "sold" or not? Or do they think I feel as though they are my newest best friends and that I am all warmed up for a sale because of this newly minted friendship?
At my response, which is only partially the reason I like garrulous sales people, R came back with a response that she missed the "sales" bit in the comment and she felt that her response was probably off base. Stay tuned R!
Another friend, J, responded that she didn't like garrulous salespeople who went on and on about their product.
She has a point. The sleazy used car salesmen, and so many other types fall in this distinctly unlikable category. But I responded to J with a couple of anecdotes. The ones that had prompted my comment in the first place.
I was strolling home last night and I decided to stop at Cafe Galet, a tiny French patisserie. I wanted to try one of the macaroons on display. There were orange ones, green ones, brown ones...So I had to ask him what flavors they were. He explained them all. Then he told me that the mocha one must be had with an espresso and that the chocolate one went well with a cappuccino. He also said that one small one was enough, that it packed so many calories. He was incredulous that a customer before me had purchased sixteen of them and was washing them down with le Coke! He went on to wring his hands at how Americans didn't care what they drank with what they ate. It was beyond him. I flashed back to a memory of my time in Cannes when some co-workers had ordered Coke with chocolate mousse making our waiter and the waiters on neighboring tables frown. I also quizzed him on his delicious looking madeleines. They were smaller in size than the mass-marketed Entenmann's. Some were the familiar golden yellow and the others were greenish. He said the greenish ones were pistachio flavored. He stated that madeleines only tasted good in these two flavors, that chocolate ones were horrible. Of course one can't talk about madeleines without discussing Marcel Proust, especially with a Frenchman.
I ordered my chocolate macaroon and a cappuccino as he suggested but when I pulled out my credit card he said he only took cash. This led to another conversation on how banks were crooks and why he only accepted cash.
I enjoyed our conversation. I returned to him this morning for a buttered croissant and a cappuccino and talked some more about the "delicieuse" soups he was planning to serve for lunch.
The other anecdote was about a woman who had a gemstone jewelry stall at the Bryant park holiday shops. She had some amazing pieces, a lot of them fashioned with different varieties of Jasper, Opals and Kyanite. I am fascinated with gemstones so I was full of questions. However, Helen (at Helen's Corner) was reticent. She wasn't offering up any information. At first she was only answering me when I asked a question. This time my questions were the catalyst for the "Dings". But then she warmed up and started telling me about everything at her store....the Red Creek Jaspers, the Black Lace Agates, the African Opals and the Kyanite. I asked her about her creative process and her sources. I came away with so much information and so much fascination at how some people were making such a go of their Plan B's.
So I love conversations. I love to see people warming up to converse. I was telling another friend today that the thing I yearned for the most, the thing that would make me the happiest, was having someone with whom I could have long, meaningful conversations. I told this friend that I remembered his conversation with the owner of an antiquarian bookshop here in NYC, when he was visiting. He spent an entire afternoon at this shop talking to the owner about Indian geopolitics, listening to him about his 1979 visit to India, learning that the son of the owner of this shop was a famous sportscaster in the NY tri-state area. Even a second-hand retelling of the conversation was interesting to me.
Conversations where there is give and take, where one listens and learns and where I one is heard in turn, where one can willingly share a bit of oneself, no currency, no riches are more valuable than that. For me such conversations have been especially rare this year.
Which brings me to the three points I wanted to make here. One that I probably seek out conversations with "garrulous salespeople" because I am starved for conversation. Sounds pathetic perhaps but not necessarily - it's probably a sign of resourcefulness in making up for dearth, I'd say! And they do their best to listen...it's a part of the warming up "ding".
The second point is that R wasn't off base at all in her first comment. She was in fact right on target. Silence is overrated. Conversation isn't rated high enough.
The third goes back to "mindblindness" - the raison d'etre of consciousness is to be able to read people's minds - to see where someone is really going with a thought. This is what makes something like a status message interesting, seeing where people think you are going with any given thought. :)
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Perspectives
My social interactions and associations are often with like-minded people. My friends and acquaintances tend to espouse liberal views and shun conservatism, libertarianism, tea party-isms and other conservative fringe elements. That's just the way it is. If my television remote ever stumbles upon a station where Glenn Beck is holding forth or where Sarah Palin and her clan are "refudiating" this or that and talking about a future White House residency then I would probably have to cleanse and purify my erring remote, rinse it clean, make it a "born-again" remote.
Many of my co-workers and friends live in New Jersey and commute to New York City. We wouldn't be exaggerating if we were to characterize our commutes as horrendous or as a major drag on the quality of our lives. The distance between my home and my place of work is approximately 54 miles but it has taken up to 3 hours on certain days, certain conditions to traverse this distance. The plan for a trans-Hudson Commuter Rail Tunnel was welcome news for those of us who share in this misery. There was a promise for shorter, more efficient commuting. Some studies even indicated higher property values. Those of us who rest our heads on pillows in New Jersey care about higher NJ property values and property taxes that are held down as a result of higher property values. But NJ Governor Christie shot down the idea for the moment. Nearly half of all the NJ voters supported his decision. It was a matter of not being able to afford the $9 billion price tag plus potential overruns on the costs for the construction of this tunnel. The latest news is that other financing options are being explored and that NJ voters want New York City to contribute to the costs.
I am pleased to learn that other financing options are being considered for this project, that it isn't necessarily dead in the water yet. But I doubt Governor Christie's willingness to explore and exhaust every option. Politicians like Governor Christie don't strike me as visionaries who would rather find better ways of doing things than slashing health care, education and policing budgets to make ends meet. They really don't come to office with long term goals or a plan of action. They just stand at a podium and tell people they are against taxation and often in states like New Jersey that's enough to get them elected to a gubernatorial office. Slashing requires no vision and no further action.
But that just shows my bias and my perspective. The disappointment and anger at the block on the trans-Hudson tunnel also reflects my bias, my perspective.
A few days ago I was in conversation with the parents of Anoushka's classmate. They have jobs in New Jersey, not too far from where they live. They appeared sympathetic to my commuting plight and this led to my mistaken feeling of comfort in sharing my chagrin at the Christie decision. My comments generated instant heat and anger and a valiant defense of the governor. In earlier conversations it had seemed as though they missed their former state of residence, a state where it is so easy to get around if one lives in the Bay area or in San Francisco. The BART is unmatched in convenience. New Jersey, by contrast, is all cars and clogged highways with poor signage no matter where in the state you are. So I had assumed they would be in favor of mass transit options. But, as I said, I was mistaken. A non-confrontational person like me had finally gone and broached a controversial subject with people who weren't like-minded.
They loved Christie's decision and supported it because a tunnel to NYC was meaningless for them. Why pay for something that was meaningless to them at the moment? Perhaps they had already decided that they would never seek employment in New York City. Perhaps there are no long term costs attached to the gas 302,500 New Jersey residents burn in commuting to New York City. Perhaps these NY commuters are not the ones who contribute to the New Jersey boast about of annual income of $70,000 being the second highest median income in the country. And I say this without sarcasm - perhaps these things are significantly less important than an increase in our New Jersey taxes and a more efficient means of getting to and from the city.
It is all a matter of perspective.
Two other things did come up during the discussion. One was whether New Jersey's economy was in the worst shape of all other states. I was sure it wasn't-was sure we were ahead of California, Michigan and Nevada. But they thought New Jersey was the worst. I had to research that assertion and it turns out NJ might be in the bottom five based on the budget deficit and unemployment numbers (around 9.4%) but it certainly isn't the worst. The states I thought were worse off really are - CA unemployment 12.4%.
The other was an implied assertion that the number of NJ residents working in NYC wasn't a significant number. From my skewed perspective this number was more than significant. Why else would I face a 3 hour commute every morning and night with Lincoln Tunnel being the narrowest bottleneck? So I had to dig into the numbers.
I collected some information from these sites:
http://quickfacts.census.gov/qfd/states/34000.html
http://www.us-places.com/New-Jersey/population-by-County.htm
http://www.newgeography.com/content/001721-new-york-commuting-profile-from-monocentrism-edgeless-city
Did some rather liberal extrapolation, such as assuming that only 56.6% of the 6.4 million people, who lived in the counties from which commutes to NYC originated, worked. Since 43.4% of them were either under 18 or over 65. Further assumed that the 9.4% state unemployment percent applied to all these counties evenly (probably faulty) and then determined that about 302,500 people commute daily to NYC from NJ.
Hmm...so in a state as densely populated as New Jersey, 8.7 million people living in 7,417 square miles, is this number significant? Is it enough to justify an expensive tunnel? What do three hundred thousand of us contribute to our state's budget even if we labor across the Hudson? Do we deserve a tunnel to bring a modicum of comfort to our lives?
Don't really have any of the answers. Just know that I want my tunnel and don't mind eating a little humble pie when it comes to respecting another perspective.
Many of my co-workers and friends live in New Jersey and commute to New York City. We wouldn't be exaggerating if we were to characterize our commutes as horrendous or as a major drag on the quality of our lives. The distance between my home and my place of work is approximately 54 miles but it has taken up to 3 hours on certain days, certain conditions to traverse this distance. The plan for a trans-Hudson Commuter Rail Tunnel was welcome news for those of us who share in this misery. There was a promise for shorter, more efficient commuting. Some studies even indicated higher property values. Those of us who rest our heads on pillows in New Jersey care about higher NJ property values and property taxes that are held down as a result of higher property values. But NJ Governor Christie shot down the idea for the moment. Nearly half of all the NJ voters supported his decision. It was a matter of not being able to afford the $9 billion price tag plus potential overruns on the costs for the construction of this tunnel. The latest news is that other financing options are being explored and that NJ voters want New York City to contribute to the costs.
I am pleased to learn that other financing options are being considered for this project, that it isn't necessarily dead in the water yet. But I doubt Governor Christie's willingness to explore and exhaust every option. Politicians like Governor Christie don't strike me as visionaries who would rather find better ways of doing things than slashing health care, education and policing budgets to make ends meet. They really don't come to office with long term goals or a plan of action. They just stand at a podium and tell people they are against taxation and often in states like New Jersey that's enough to get them elected to a gubernatorial office. Slashing requires no vision and no further action.
But that just shows my bias and my perspective. The disappointment and anger at the block on the trans-Hudson tunnel also reflects my bias, my perspective.
A few days ago I was in conversation with the parents of Anoushka's classmate. They have jobs in New Jersey, not too far from where they live. They appeared sympathetic to my commuting plight and this led to my mistaken feeling of comfort in sharing my chagrin at the Christie decision. My comments generated instant heat and anger and a valiant defense of the governor. In earlier conversations it had seemed as though they missed their former state of residence, a state where it is so easy to get around if one lives in the Bay area or in San Francisco. The BART is unmatched in convenience. New Jersey, by contrast, is all cars and clogged highways with poor signage no matter where in the state you are. So I had assumed they would be in favor of mass transit options. But, as I said, I was mistaken. A non-confrontational person like me had finally gone and broached a controversial subject with people who weren't like-minded.
They loved Christie's decision and supported it because a tunnel to NYC was meaningless for them. Why pay for something that was meaningless to them at the moment? Perhaps they had already decided that they would never seek employment in New York City. Perhaps there are no long term costs attached to the gas 302,500 New Jersey residents burn in commuting to New York City. Perhaps these NY commuters are not the ones who contribute to the New Jersey boast about of annual income of $70,000 being the second highest median income in the country. And I say this without sarcasm - perhaps these things are significantly less important than an increase in our New Jersey taxes and a more efficient means of getting to and from the city.
It is all a matter of perspective.
Two other things did come up during the discussion. One was whether New Jersey's economy was in the worst shape of all other states. I was sure it wasn't-was sure we were ahead of California, Michigan and Nevada. But they thought New Jersey was the worst. I had to research that assertion and it turns out NJ might be in the bottom five based on the budget deficit and unemployment numbers (around 9.4%) but it certainly isn't the worst. The states I thought were worse off really are - CA unemployment 12.4%.
The other was an implied assertion that the number of NJ residents working in NYC wasn't a significant number. From my skewed perspective this number was more than significant. Why else would I face a 3 hour commute every morning and night with Lincoln Tunnel being the narrowest bottleneck? So I had to dig into the numbers.
I collected some information from these sites:
http://quickfacts.census.gov/qfd/states/34000.html
http://www.us-places.com/New-Jersey/population-by-County.htm
http://www.newgeography.com/content/001721-new-york-commuting-profile-from-monocentrism-edgeless-city
Did some rather liberal extrapolation, such as assuming that only 56.6% of the 6.4 million people, who lived in the counties from which commutes to NYC originated, worked. Since 43.4% of them were either under 18 or over 65. Further assumed that the 9.4% state unemployment percent applied to all these counties evenly (probably faulty) and then determined that about 302,500 people commute daily to NYC from NJ.
Hmm...so in a state as densely populated as New Jersey, 8.7 million people living in 7,417 square miles, is this number significant? Is it enough to justify an expensive tunnel? What do three hundred thousand of us contribute to our state's budget even if we labor across the Hudson? Do we deserve a tunnel to bring a modicum of comfort to our lives?
Don't really have any of the answers. Just know that I want my tunnel and don't mind eating a little humble pie when it comes to respecting another perspective.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Mental Spelunking
A few months ago I reported starting a vision board. In concept, a wonderful idea. Of this I am convinced. When you take the pains to state your intentions, if you spend time thinking about it, cutting out pictures, finding the right words, cutting and pasting things on construction paper; ritualizing the thing in any way, it's all a means to imprint what you want on your neural networks. I've never doubted visualization even through all the layers of cynicism and hopelessness that have accumulated over the years.
When I was younger I wanted things with greater desperation, with intense hunger. I wanted to ace my driving test after finishing 4 weeks of driving lessons (didn't visualize parallel parking well enough - so it took 2 attempts), I wanted to come to the US, I wanted an admission to the Delhi School of Economics and later to the Stern School of Business at NYU for my MBA. I wanted a job that would support my education. Hunger was a driving force behind everything I wanted or needed. I couldn't imagine a life where I would fail to get any of the aforementioned things. So visualization was easy. The goal was shimmering in the horizon, crystal clear and intense. I imagined myself hitting every note that I needed to and then went on to hit them. Sometimes with such ease that I felt I was getting more than my fair share of blessings. I was always afraid that the troughs that were sure to follow would be as intense as the crests ridden.
My vision board from a few months ago is still incomplete. It's languishing in one corner of the dining room, the red construction paper fading to pink. There's even a coffee stain on it somewhere. Someone in the home, perhaps me(?) who didn't think much of this piece of work probably rested a cup of coffee on it. A vision board is an exercise in futility when the vision has either ceased to exist or has exiled itself deep in a dark cave somewhere. Perhaps finding it requires some mental spelunking of the highest order.
I really don't know what I want next, this feeling of being lost in a perpetual fog is so real. And if fogs really scared me perhaps I'd flail harder and make a more meaningful effort at getting out of it. But the thing about fogs is that once you're in them they aren't quite as threatening as they appeared from the outside. They could even turn fascinating. In a fog things in one's immediate vicinity look clear enough. I can see my fingers and my toes. I can see well enough to step around the rocks and pebbles in my path, I know I won't step into puddles or ditches. But as far as the panoramic vision goes, I am blindfolded. I haven't a clue.
I don't know if I want to accept the futility of any resistance and roll with this viscous flow, that threatens to pull me under sometimes, or if I want to emerge, fight, dig deep, determine what would be the right next move, one that wouldn't leave me wishing for a return of what I had before. One where I won't discover brown, desiccated grass again.
This stuff I am writing today is all about me. I am whining, trying to come to terms with the parameters of my existence. But as I do it I know that I enjoy writing. I like it because it probably releases some endorphins within. It makes me feel good for some fleeting moments. But do I like it enough to make a living out of it? I have no ambitions of being published. Or, if I do harbor such thoughts, they are tainted with consternation. I could invent a story that may or may not sell but I don't have what it takes to push my finished work, to submit manuscripts to people, to deal with rejection. I balk at the idea of any self-promotion. Then I tell myself I won't be able to support myself or my family during the phase where I can't sell my work or when I am busy facing rejection. Nothing ventured, nothing gained they say but can things be ventured with a real danger of tampering with the well being of my family?
So what of acceptance? Contentment with what I have? Those ideas don't lack merit. Perhaps there's nothing wrong with total surrender. The choices I made have led me here, to this point where I can't find any pleasurable moments during the day. If I accepted this as my fate, if I told myself how much I like having a house, a car, a family that loves me, my freedom to explore a frequent, binge like indulgence in gemstones, or clothes, or books, or...egg cups on eBay... would it really be so bad?
I smile at strangers, I make small talk in elevators, I kid around with friends and family. I pretend for fourteen hours, because pretense has a way of morphing into reality. I am waiting for this morphing to reach completion. Then I go home and have a couple of hours of untainted and genuine fun and frolic with a daughter who is growing up too fast.
This should be enough. It feels right for this to be enough. It might be too late to build something out of this yearning to live a life that's drenched in the succulence of art, music and literature. A beautiful life where money is meaningless and the commute takes one from one's bedroom to one's sun drenched kitchen for breakfast with the family. It might be too late for that and the yearning only causes dissonance.
There is a world of meaning in this message from a friend who embraced Buddhism - Nam Myoho Renge Kyo - which essentially refers to the flow of life and to take a cue from the lotus flower that flourishes even in a swamp. I cannot find any fault with this message even if I abhor any membership in any organized religion. But this message is indeed flawless.
Perhaps the next words I need to cut out of a magazine and place on my incomplete vision board are - Accept. Surrender. Think of the Lotus (not lotus eating).
That should go up on the vision board along with a detailed picture of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that I want in my living room. I am desperate enough to visualize and achieve the construction of these bookshelves, along with a library like ladder that helps one reach for the books on the highest shelf.
When I was younger I wanted things with greater desperation, with intense hunger. I wanted to ace my driving test after finishing 4 weeks of driving lessons (didn't visualize parallel parking well enough - so it took 2 attempts), I wanted to come to the US, I wanted an admission to the Delhi School of Economics and later to the Stern School of Business at NYU for my MBA. I wanted a job that would support my education. Hunger was a driving force behind everything I wanted or needed. I couldn't imagine a life where I would fail to get any of the aforementioned things. So visualization was easy. The goal was shimmering in the horizon, crystal clear and intense. I imagined myself hitting every note that I needed to and then went on to hit them. Sometimes with such ease that I felt I was getting more than my fair share of blessings. I was always afraid that the troughs that were sure to follow would be as intense as the crests ridden.
My vision board from a few months ago is still incomplete. It's languishing in one corner of the dining room, the red construction paper fading to pink. There's even a coffee stain on it somewhere. Someone in the home, perhaps me(?) who didn't think much of this piece of work probably rested a cup of coffee on it. A vision board is an exercise in futility when the vision has either ceased to exist or has exiled itself deep in a dark cave somewhere. Perhaps finding it requires some mental spelunking of the highest order.
I really don't know what I want next, this feeling of being lost in a perpetual fog is so real. And if fogs really scared me perhaps I'd flail harder and make a more meaningful effort at getting out of it. But the thing about fogs is that once you're in them they aren't quite as threatening as they appeared from the outside. They could even turn fascinating. In a fog things in one's immediate vicinity look clear enough. I can see my fingers and my toes. I can see well enough to step around the rocks and pebbles in my path, I know I won't step into puddles or ditches. But as far as the panoramic vision goes, I am blindfolded. I haven't a clue.
I don't know if I want to accept the futility of any resistance and roll with this viscous flow, that threatens to pull me under sometimes, or if I want to emerge, fight, dig deep, determine what would be the right next move, one that wouldn't leave me wishing for a return of what I had before. One where I won't discover brown, desiccated grass again.
This stuff I am writing today is all about me. I am whining, trying to come to terms with the parameters of my existence. But as I do it I know that I enjoy writing. I like it because it probably releases some endorphins within. It makes me feel good for some fleeting moments. But do I like it enough to make a living out of it? I have no ambitions of being published. Or, if I do harbor such thoughts, they are tainted with consternation. I could invent a story that may or may not sell but I don't have what it takes to push my finished work, to submit manuscripts to people, to deal with rejection. I balk at the idea of any self-promotion. Then I tell myself I won't be able to support myself or my family during the phase where I can't sell my work or when I am busy facing rejection. Nothing ventured, nothing gained they say but can things be ventured with a real danger of tampering with the well being of my family?
So what of acceptance? Contentment with what I have? Those ideas don't lack merit. Perhaps there's nothing wrong with total surrender. The choices I made have led me here, to this point where I can't find any pleasurable moments during the day. If I accepted this as my fate, if I told myself how much I like having a house, a car, a family that loves me, my freedom to explore a frequent, binge like indulgence in gemstones, or clothes, or books, or...egg cups on eBay... would it really be so bad?
I smile at strangers, I make small talk in elevators, I kid around with friends and family. I pretend for fourteen hours, because pretense has a way of morphing into reality. I am waiting for this morphing to reach completion. Then I go home and have a couple of hours of untainted and genuine fun and frolic with a daughter who is growing up too fast.
This should be enough. It feels right for this to be enough. It might be too late to build something out of this yearning to live a life that's drenched in the succulence of art, music and literature. A beautiful life where money is meaningless and the commute takes one from one's bedroom to one's sun drenched kitchen for breakfast with the family. It might be too late for that and the yearning only causes dissonance.
There is a world of meaning in this message from a friend who embraced Buddhism - Nam Myoho Renge Kyo - which essentially refers to the flow of life and to take a cue from the lotus flower that flourishes even in a swamp. I cannot find any fault with this message even if I abhor any membership in any organized religion. But this message is indeed flawless.
Perhaps the next words I need to cut out of a magazine and place on my incomplete vision board are - Accept. Surrender. Think of the Lotus (not lotus eating).
That should go up on the vision board along with a detailed picture of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that I want in my living room. I am desperate enough to visualize and achieve the construction of these bookshelves, along with a library like ladder that helps one reach for the books on the highest shelf.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
What is she saying?
There's a new addition to the cast of characters who permanently inhabit the corridor between the Port Authority Bus Terminal and the Times Square train stop. She paces the area, making her speech in a sonorous mezzo/alto voice. I have been walking past her for the last week. I am in a rush like all the other commuters who are paying no mind to anything these people say. I act as if these tunnel inhabitants are invisible to me. The other commuters appear to be acting as if they are invisible to them as well.
Except...I am not certain whether they are acting or they really don't notice the speech makers, the subway evangelists, the Indian accented, bespectacled evangelist, the really short and highly skilled accordion player, the Chinese man playing his bamboo flutes in a pentatonic scale, the little boy on the keyboard, the superb violinist who I now know is Susan Keser - Violinist for Hire, the family of five, undaunted in their acapella rendition of something or the other, the old Chinese woman seated outside the newsstand - asking for nothing but pleading all the same. I blend in with my fellow commuters...except...I know I am acting while being hyper aware of these subway tunnel citizens who appear to have dropped out of the raw deal that the rest of us have made in our lives.
The pre-caffeine faces are all blank in the morning, sans animation, all programmed to reach their bathed-in-fluorescence destinations with no emotional stops in between.
This new woman wears a plaid jacket and boots. She has a warm woolen scarf tied around her neck and she never smiles or stops to take a breath, as though doing so would derail her train of thought, wreak havoc on her momentum. The Doppler Effect of her voice remains with me for a very long time. Even after I've reached the end of the straight tunnel I feel as though I am still hearing a phantom echo of her voice even though her actual voice is out of hearing range.
However, I am yet to understand what she says. I know a language or two well and I have a sense of how some of the ones I don't know sound. I can assign a broad, general region to most of the sounds I hear. She doesn't sound like she is from anywhere. She punctuates her delivery, she uses recognizable inflections but she doesn't make any sense at all, the words are unearthly.
I am left wondering why. I wonder what place she calls home. She isn't unkempt or noisome. I wonder why she chose this venue or where she was before. What's her last thought as she turns in at night? Does she set the alarm clock for a certain time each morning, not wanting to be late for this unpaid gig at the tunnel? What drives her to do this everyday? Is she as familiar with the 9:15 am faces that treat her as invisible every morning as some of the ones who only pretend she's invisible are with her face and her voice?
Except...I am not certain whether they are acting or they really don't notice the speech makers, the subway evangelists, the Indian accented, bespectacled evangelist, the really short and highly skilled accordion player, the Chinese man playing his bamboo flutes in a pentatonic scale, the little boy on the keyboard, the superb violinist who I now know is Susan Keser - Violinist for Hire, the family of five, undaunted in their acapella rendition of something or the other, the old Chinese woman seated outside the newsstand - asking for nothing but pleading all the same. I blend in with my fellow commuters...except...I know I am acting while being hyper aware of these subway tunnel citizens who appear to have dropped out of the raw deal that the rest of us have made in our lives.
The pre-caffeine faces are all blank in the morning, sans animation, all programmed to reach their bathed-in-fluorescence destinations with no emotional stops in between.
This new woman wears a plaid jacket and boots. She has a warm woolen scarf tied around her neck and she never smiles or stops to take a breath, as though doing so would derail her train of thought, wreak havoc on her momentum. The Doppler Effect of her voice remains with me for a very long time. Even after I've reached the end of the straight tunnel I feel as though I am still hearing a phantom echo of her voice even though her actual voice is out of hearing range.
However, I am yet to understand what she says. I know a language or two well and I have a sense of how some of the ones I don't know sound. I can assign a broad, general region to most of the sounds I hear. She doesn't sound like she is from anywhere. She punctuates her delivery, she uses recognizable inflections but she doesn't make any sense at all, the words are unearthly.
I am left wondering why. I wonder what place she calls home. She isn't unkempt or noisome. I wonder why she chose this venue or where she was before. What's her last thought as she turns in at night? Does she set the alarm clock for a certain time each morning, not wanting to be late for this unpaid gig at the tunnel? What drives her to do this everyday? Is she as familiar with the 9:15 am faces that treat her as invisible every morning as some of the ones who only pretend she's invisible are with her face and her voice?
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Rainy 14th Day of Diwali
It's raining. I hate carrying huge umbrellas and tiny umbrellas do nothing for Manhattan rains. I guess I'll leave the umbrella behind, pull up the hood of the cozy jacket that makes everyone wonder if I went to Princeton, and duck into the nearest subway station. The hood doesn't quite stretch all the way to the front so we'll have to deal with some residual frizziness of the hair.
Tonight we'll go home and light the diya that is supposed to keep dark spirits at bay. If it wasn't too rainy I'd have ventured out to Edison in search of some succulent gulab jamuns and sparklers but the weather is too disgusting. I just want to catch up on some sleep since I was up till 2:00 am, working.
Diwali is going to be a remote access work day, since it isn't a festive holiday in these parts - still not anywhere near Christmas, Hanukkah and Kwaanza in the diversity and inclusion scales. So we have to celebrate it in our quiet little neck of the woods, without any friends or family. The right shoulder goes into phantom spasms at the thought of lugging the damn thing again. The straps of the tote back will be cutting into flesh and bone, probably inflicting a lifetime of damage. I am still sore from carrying it home last night and back today this morning. Why is the damn thing so heavy?
But hey, as long as I can skip three hours of wretched commuting in the rain tomorrow morning I can shoot for good spirits. Diwali in the day long company of the Nukster should cheer me up quite a bit.
It isn't possible to end this mundane account of the day without saying a few words about our resident Dolores Umbridge at work. The facilities manager who believes she wears a blinding aura of supremacy around here. When the office temperature is unbearably frigid and people turn on space heaters she comes storming down to ask, "Do you know what it's like to be burnt alive?"
When she spots an isolated offender dribbling some office milk in their cereal she takes away the half & half privileges from the entire office. I am waiting for the day when she will decide to take away the coffee! Against our Umbridge there are no higher courts of appeal.
She has been around with a measuring tape, measuring the length of every office cubicle. Now she's budgeting space. She wants to condense each cubicle by about two feet so that another closet sized cubicle could be created for some unfortunate newbie.
I had steered clear of her atrocities and unpleasantness thus far. Today she took away my printer. And this now is war.
Going to take this in my stride for now, count to10 etc, go home, unwind and hope for a pleasant Diwali.
Happy Diwali to all who care to wander on over here.
Tonight we'll go home and light the diya that is supposed to keep dark spirits at bay. If it wasn't too rainy I'd have ventured out to Edison in search of some succulent gulab jamuns and sparklers but the weather is too disgusting. I just want to catch up on some sleep since I was up till 2:00 am, working.
Diwali is going to be a remote access work day, since it isn't a festive holiday in these parts - still not anywhere near Christmas, Hanukkah and Kwaanza in the diversity and inclusion scales. So we have to celebrate it in our quiet little neck of the woods, without any friends or family. The right shoulder goes into phantom spasms at the thought of lugging the damn thing again. The straps of the tote back will be cutting into flesh and bone, probably inflicting a lifetime of damage. I am still sore from carrying it home last night and back today this morning. Why is the damn thing so heavy?
But hey, as long as I can skip three hours of wretched commuting in the rain tomorrow morning I can shoot for good spirits. Diwali in the day long company of the Nukster should cheer me up quite a bit.
It isn't possible to end this mundane account of the day without saying a few words about our resident Dolores Umbridge at work. The facilities manager who believes she wears a blinding aura of supremacy around here. When the office temperature is unbearably frigid and people turn on space heaters she comes storming down to ask, "Do you know what it's like to be burnt alive?"
When she spots an isolated offender dribbling some office milk in their cereal she takes away the half & half privileges from the entire office. I am waiting for the day when she will decide to take away the coffee! Against our Umbridge there are no higher courts of appeal.
She has been around with a measuring tape, measuring the length of every office cubicle. Now she's budgeting space. She wants to condense each cubicle by about two feet so that another closet sized cubicle could be created for some unfortunate newbie.
I had steered clear of her atrocities and unpleasantness thus far. Today she took away my printer. And this now is war.
Going to take this in my stride for now, count to10 etc, go home, unwind and hope for a pleasant Diwali.
Happy Diwali to all who care to wander on over here.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Silent Contemplation of the Seedless Grape
The skin was stretched tight, the color bearing the translucence of peridot, shimmering on the sun dappled breakfast table. Was there anything more perfect than a seedless grape? Who needs a pit taking up space within?
Pit - an angry sounding word. Did the word sound angry because of all its other connotations: a concealed hole in the ground, a trap, a sunken area, scars, depression? Because a seed - the very bearer of the genetic material that would result in future grapes - couldn't by itself create this feeling of anger toward seeded grapes; this feeling of something lying there, waiting, of something building up and congealing inside. Something ready to unleash a new wave, a new generation of confusion, of anger and of all forms of ferment upon one's insular and smooth world.
She broke one off and rolled it around her tongue, feeling the velvety texture with her tongue, reluctant to break the skin, even if it promised a flood of unbearable sweetness coursing over her teeth and gum and finally down her throat. The seeded ones sat there too, untouched, unwanted.
Her shopping list had said "seedless grapes" but he picked up whatever the heck he wanted - not paying any attention to her needs, her desires or to any of the words that left her lips these days. She had bit into one with extreme annoyance and then, without uttering another word, had grabbed her car keys and walked out the door to buy the green, large seedless grapes she wanted.
She cleared the table, shaking off her grape-filled reverie. There were other things to do, other evils to taste or spit out. With the most important meal of the day out of her way she could now some other fruits - blackberries, for instance.
She would soon be confronted by the fluid facial muscles of the guy she was forced to call boss. His eyebrows, eyelids, saggy cheeks, pupils, would all swim up for a second or two and then swim swiftly back to the contemplation of his Blackberry. He would expect her to prattle on about the things on her “plate” while he dove headfirst into his “fruit” of choice. The urge to swat the thing out of his hand would be barely contained as she sat there, unheard, for the second time within a few short hours, on the same day. She blessed him instead, “Be one with your Fruit, go forth and merge”.
The day had been half spent in the silent contemplation of grapes and blackberries. There were other concerns, other forms of all consuming mindlessness to worry about but the pit within was growing and demanding all her attention. She could feel it taking over, taking control inside. There were several layers to it. There was a hint of personal inadequacy, a tinge of guilt, a brushstroke or two of helplessness blended rather seamlessly with anger and impatience, the whole lot had then been die cast in the leaden weight of passing time.
Time with it’s illusory, rubbery feel. She remembered when it stretched into eternity. When the days seemed long and when a year seemed endless. The world was full of possibilities because time appeared generous, giving and forgiving. Depictions of the Roman Empire at it’s peak came to mind with fat emperors lounging around on plush thrones, biting off the succulent grapes proffered by the slave girls sashaying all around them.
Just a few short decades ago time felt just as benevolent as the languorous stupor of a Roman king’s palace in the heyday of the empire. Then came the realization that suddenly a year didn’t feel as long, that years were just folding in on themselves, piling up into a pile of debris in a corner of her consciousness, summed up in two words: the past. At this stage even this realization wasn’t worth the effort. One might as well date one’s letters, one’s bills, one’s work with the next year’s date because it was right here - just a blink away. This dark, multifaceted pit showed every sign of expanding and taking over, bursting through the skin. What ate Gilbert Grape was perhaps the grape itself, all the way from the inside.
She thought of her friends. All like-minded souls with their own varieties of grapes to contemplate. Each one desiring the seedless kind and in sharing adding to the growing pits within each other.
But in some ways her pits bore more of a resemblance to pitfalls...
Pit - an angry sounding word. Did the word sound angry because of all its other connotations: a concealed hole in the ground, a trap, a sunken area, scars, depression? Because a seed - the very bearer of the genetic material that would result in future grapes - couldn't by itself create this feeling of anger toward seeded grapes; this feeling of something lying there, waiting, of something building up and congealing inside. Something ready to unleash a new wave, a new generation of confusion, of anger and of all forms of ferment upon one's insular and smooth world.
She broke one off and rolled it around her tongue, feeling the velvety texture with her tongue, reluctant to break the skin, even if it promised a flood of unbearable sweetness coursing over her teeth and gum and finally down her throat. The seeded ones sat there too, untouched, unwanted.
Her shopping list had said "seedless grapes" but he picked up whatever the heck he wanted - not paying any attention to her needs, her desires or to any of the words that left her lips these days. She had bit into one with extreme annoyance and then, without uttering another word, had grabbed her car keys and walked out the door to buy the green, large seedless grapes she wanted.
She cleared the table, shaking off her grape-filled reverie. There were other things to do, other evils to taste or spit out. With the most important meal of the day out of her way she could now some other fruits - blackberries, for instance.
She would soon be confronted by the fluid facial muscles of the guy she was forced to call boss. His eyebrows, eyelids, saggy cheeks, pupils, would all swim up for a second or two and then swim swiftly back to the contemplation of his Blackberry. He would expect her to prattle on about the things on her “plate” while he dove headfirst into his “fruit” of choice. The urge to swat the thing out of his hand would be barely contained as she sat there, unheard, for the second time within a few short hours, on the same day. She blessed him instead, “Be one with your Fruit, go forth and merge”.
The day had been half spent in the silent contemplation of grapes and blackberries. There were other concerns, other forms of all consuming mindlessness to worry about but the pit within was growing and demanding all her attention. She could feel it taking over, taking control inside. There were several layers to it. There was a hint of personal inadequacy, a tinge of guilt, a brushstroke or two of helplessness blended rather seamlessly with anger and impatience, the whole lot had then been die cast in the leaden weight of passing time.
Time with it’s illusory, rubbery feel. She remembered when it stretched into eternity. When the days seemed long and when a year seemed endless. The world was full of possibilities because time appeared generous, giving and forgiving. Depictions of the Roman Empire at it’s peak came to mind with fat emperors lounging around on plush thrones, biting off the succulent grapes proffered by the slave girls sashaying all around them.
Just a few short decades ago time felt just as benevolent as the languorous stupor of a Roman king’s palace in the heyday of the empire. Then came the realization that suddenly a year didn’t feel as long, that years were just folding in on themselves, piling up into a pile of debris in a corner of her consciousness, summed up in two words: the past. At this stage even this realization wasn’t worth the effort. One might as well date one’s letters, one’s bills, one’s work with the next year’s date because it was right here - just a blink away. This dark, multifaceted pit showed every sign of expanding and taking over, bursting through the skin. What ate Gilbert Grape was perhaps the grape itself, all the way from the inside.
She thought of her friends. All like-minded souls with their own varieties of grapes to contemplate. Each one desiring the seedless kind and in sharing adding to the growing pits within each other.
But in some ways her pits bore more of a resemblance to pitfalls...