I’m sitting on a roof top in NYC. The view is Manhattan from Roosevelt Island. I just threw my kindle to the table in disgust. How some people publish books is beyond me. Is it true that you really cannot unlearn something? Shame. I’ll have to wait for altheimer’s.
The woman next to meet is reading The Beach. I want to tell her to just watch the movie. The story is not compelling or complex enough to warrant wasting memory on both the movie and the book. Especially if she keeps interrupting the book with her phone.
I arrived on the bus late in the afternoon and struggled for nearly an hour to find boat that would take me to the islets. After some some asking around at the dock I found a gentleman named Dante who would transport me for 500 pesos each way. I arrived with my camera bag, a tent, a few pieces of chicken and some rice for dinner, and some sweet bread for the morning. I said a secret prayer to myself as I waved the boatman off hoping I’d be picked up in the morning.
I’m laying on my back in Bryant Park. The grass feels wet though forecasted rain has yet to fall. The sky is getting dark. The city actually seems a little bit quieter. Less sirens. My guess is people take a break from getting hurt, hurting each other, and stealing things around dinner time.
There’s less people in the park than before. Their noise replaced by Love’s Labour Lost performed over speakers at one end of the park and the two women near by made deaf by years of high decibel story telling between each other. It’s nice to hear the accents though.
Yoga is spontaneous, like yawning, in the park. Little kids do yoga next to adults. There are a few upside down people opposite the play. They shake beneath each other weight. Other people try not to look.
When people talk about others we call it gossip. When people talk about themselves we call them self-centered. What else is there to talk about I wonder. I’m hearing a lot about some woman from the two on my left. They are gossiping. I’m telling you about it; I am gossiping.
The sky is a mixture of black and the blue of a glow in the dark stick if it were almost out of energy. A little girl’s rubber band launched paper helicopter stands out against the subtle light. Her father misses ever attempt at catching it.
80% of people are wearing head phones and/or staring at their phones, like me. All of us secretly hoping to meet someone new. Someone attractive. Someone who simultaneously makes us feel good about ourselves and makes us want to be better people. If it doesn’t happen in the moments between looking at our phones and looking at our phones…
I’m no exception. I’m just waiting for the rain to force me to go home.
I reached down into my right pocket and produced a few coins. With out even counting my small treasure I offered it to this old man. One hand with coins, the other with camera, I asked to pay him for his portrait. He reply was incoherent, even in his foreign language, but the enthusiasm felt like ‘yes.’ Him being a beggar and I, begging for a portrait, I felt that we were both making out in this transaction. I was wrong.I only did one more portrait of a beggar after this. It makes me feel terrible that the lines on their faces, etchings of difficult lives, make this photo great. Even though I can do nothing to alter his path, I feel like I took advantage.