Grey-haired Martha sits at nearly the same latitude each morning on the 4F bus into downtown Minneapolis. Sometimes it's the left, and sometimes the right, but always she is very nearly one-third of the distance back from the front of the bus.
Each morning she reads the same magazine: TV Digest. Until I noticed this, I wasn't even aware that the magazine was still published anymore. Now it's an oversized publication, like People or Newsweek, not the small Readers-Digest size that I remember from years ago. I'm kind of amazed that it's still in print anymore, though if any magazine has a chance to survive in our culture, it would be one devoted to television, I suppose.
I'm also impressed that Martha finds enough new to read there each morning. Other than the schedule logs themselves, the editorial content of TV Digest looks to be pretty sparse. Is Martha just boning up on the evening TV schedules each and every day? Or does the magazine now have enough editorial content to offer 4 hours or so of reading each week?
Martha begins each morning sitting adjacent to the window, but as the bus begins to fill up, by about Franklin Avenue, she moves to an aisle seat. This has the impact of making it hard for anyone to sit next to her, and so it seems like a slightly mean-spirited thing to do, like those people who place their briefcases or backpacks on the seat next to themselves, effectively denying the seat to folks who might wind up standing. I don't like thinking that this is the kind of person she is.
So I settle on a more charitable explanation. She moves to the aisle seat so that, if another person comes and takes the window seat, she won't have to disturb them when her bus stop comes on the south edge of downtown and she arises to exit.
I'm not entirely convinced, though. It's the TV Digest that spoils it for me.
Showing posts with label Citizens of 4F. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Citizens of 4F. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Citizens of 4F, Aug. 17, 2009
Vincent sits on the right row of inward facing seats at the front of the 7:12 4F bus into downtown. He is in many ways a very typical young man in the 28-32 year-old range, and the fact that he is typical is mildly disturbing to me.
Looking over his face, I count 13 pieces of metal piercing various aspects of his face, if indeed that was a tongue stud I saw peeking out a moment ago. In addition to this, there are pieces of hardware in his upper and lower ears, his eyebrows, his lips, his chin, his nostrils. In his earlobes are round disks of the type you used to associate with aboriginal natives of Africa or the Amazon. It is for the moment just a small insert disk in his ear lobe; the habit is to start small and gradually increase the size of the disks.
Once upon a time, this look would have marked Vincent as a rebel of some degree, but it is not at all unusual today. Not only do you see young adults like this at the hip downtown ad agencies, but it's also quite common to see them dressed in suits working as loan officers at banks. In my office, there are several young adults with vivid body art tattoos that run from toes to scalp. Nose studs are now so common that they no longer warrant noticing.
It is certainly a sign of my fuddy-duddiness that I'm quietly appalled at the proliferation of body mutilation among young citizens. As I study Vincent, and others like him, I wonder what inner processes lead them to compulsively deface the physical body that nature has given them. I simply can't imagine the appeal of going to a body art studio to have my flesh drilled and bored for the insertion of nails, studs, chains and other hardware. I try to imagine a situation in which I'd want to do such a thing, and I can't. And I have a pretty good imagination.
Even as I'm thinking this, though, I recognize my indignation isn't entirely legitimate. Vincent and others of his kind are only extending an established human trait to an extreme degree. The human animal is the only one I can think of that routinely chooses to to mutilate itself in the name of ornament. At the mild end of the spectrum is coloring our hair, shaving whiskers from our cheeks and legs, wearing earrings. Carry the habit several degrees to the right, and you're goring your genitalia to hang heavy chains. All of it, even ordinary grooming, is a form of self-mutilation, when you look at it nakedly. All manifestations of this impulse seem to serve the paradoxical purpose of shifting your identity away from the norm, and thereby establishing your membership in a different group. I hope, anyway, that this is the motivation, and that it's not a manifestation of self-loathing.
And so if I was going to be true to my disapproval of the shocking idea of piercing the glans of one's penis, would I not stop shaving, stop trimming my hair, stop wearing cologne? What makes my form of ordinary self-mutilation better than your more creative effort? After all, is piercing your nipples any more barbaric than having our sons routinely circumcised at birth?
Disconcerting thoughts at 7:15 in the morning. Must try a different antihistamine.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Citizens of 4F, March 10, 2010
My walk-sprint to the bus stop is successful, and I arrive there several minutes before the bus arrives.
As I relax against the back wall of the enclosed shelter, and my mind becomes slow and receptive, a street appears in my experience of mind——as with all experiences, it is a mixture of sensory data coming in from eyes and ears and skin, plus memory, plus subjective feeling.
It is Marquette Avenue in downtown Minneapolis, between Third St. and Fourth St., at 5:33 pm on March 10, as experienced by myself.
This street that appears in my experience is utterly unique, and will never appear again. At no other time will the light and overcast weather be exactly the same; never again will the melting ice and snow create exactly the same sculptural shapes on the sidewalks; never again will my own mood and memory and outlook be exactly the same.
This street, utterly unique and temporary, appears nowhere else but in my mind. For no one else is this street exactly the same as the one I experience. The fellow standing next to me——although he might see a few details that resemble the details in my own experience of the street——is experiencing a different street than I am. Perhaps his emotional day has been such that the street seems terribly dreary and foreboding, not the mysterious and symbolic street that I am experiencing right now. Perhaps his hearing is much more acute than mine; perhaps he has more perceptive sense of color, and sees a more vibrant display in the reflected lights of the wet pavement.
Not only is my street unique to me, but in the very next moment, I will myself experience an entirely different street, as when the bus pulls up to the curb, there will be a glad urgency to get home to a warm supper followed by relaxed time spent reading or planning the spring garden. Slight differences in sight and sound and smell and memory and mood will create an entirely new experience. In fact, merely noticing what I am currently experiencing causes it to vanish and be replaced by a new experience.
This is the nature of all phenomena, all experiences. They occur only in our minds, they are utterly unique and belong to us alone, and they are instantly vanishing in the very same moment they first appear.
Depending on your outlook, this realization can be quite terrifying, or it can be jubilantly freeing.
That too, may change moment to moment.
As I relax against the back wall of the enclosed shelter, and my mind becomes slow and receptive, a street appears in my experience of mind——as with all experiences, it is a mixture of sensory data coming in from eyes and ears and skin, plus memory, plus subjective feeling.
It is Marquette Avenue in downtown Minneapolis, between Third St. and Fourth St., at 5:33 pm on March 10, as experienced by myself.
This street that appears in my experience is utterly unique, and will never appear again. At no other time will the light and overcast weather be exactly the same; never again will the melting ice and snow create exactly the same sculptural shapes on the sidewalks; never again will my own mood and memory and outlook be exactly the same.
This street, utterly unique and temporary, appears nowhere else but in my mind. For no one else is this street exactly the same as the one I experience. The fellow standing next to me——although he might see a few details that resemble the details in my own experience of the street——is experiencing a different street than I am. Perhaps his emotional day has been such that the street seems terribly dreary and foreboding, not the mysterious and symbolic street that I am experiencing right now. Perhaps his hearing is much more acute than mine; perhaps he has more perceptive sense of color, and sees a more vibrant display in the reflected lights of the wet pavement.
Not only is my street unique to me, but in the very next moment, I will myself experience an entirely different street, as when the bus pulls up to the curb, there will be a glad urgency to get home to a warm supper followed by relaxed time spent reading or planning the spring garden. Slight differences in sight and sound and smell and memory and mood will create an entirely new experience. In fact, merely noticing what I am currently experiencing causes it to vanish and be replaced by a new experience.
This is the nature of all phenomena, all experiences. They occur only in our minds, they are utterly unique and belong to us alone, and they are instantly vanishing in the very same moment they first appear.
Depending on your outlook, this realization can be quite terrifying, or it can be jubilantly freeing.
That too, may change moment to moment.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Citizens of 4F, Feb. 5, 2010
What has become of Donald, I wonder?
Donald has been a fixture of the morning 4F bus ride into downtown Minneapolis for nearly every single day of the last three years. He is a high-functioning adult with some form of developmental disability; a chronological age that appears to be 40-something, but a personal manner that makes him seem like 10 or 12 years of age. He carries an oversized lunch box and wears converse tennis shoes, sometimes covered with rubber over-boots. When it's cold he, wears either a Twins ball cap, or sometimes zips on the hood to his parka. Very often he plays a hand-held video game on the ride downtown. Twice, I've seen his cell phone ring during the bus ride, and it appears these calls are from some family member checking on his well-being. He is very deliberate and careful when he takes out his phone, and he talks loudly and clearly to someone who obviously knows him well.
Donald and I have never spoken. He sits near the front of the bus and has already boarded by the time I get on. There is never room for me to sit near the front, so Donald and I only meet eyes briefly in the morning as I pass by him. Though I have no specific knowledge of this, I have always imagined that Donald must be a participant in one of those social programs that pairs up people with disabilities with jobs that offer benefit to both the businesses and the workers. Minnesota is one of those places with a lot of these kinds of programs. Although our Republican governor has undermined some of these opportunities, Minnesota remains one of those places that offers many subsidies to improve life quality for people in need, and when I see these cheerful, slightly handicapped people working about town at various businesses, it always makes me optimistic for human civilization, or at least for the Minnesota version of it.
Once, I ran into Donald at the downtown Target store while running errands at lunch. He recognized me instantly from across two check-out lanes, and broke into a broad smile of recognition. His hand started to come up in a wave, but then he shyly edited himself and simply continued to grinned broadly. He was gone long before I made my way through my own line.
After two years of seeing Donald every day, I've not seen him at all the last two weeks. I wonder if the economy has taken his job, even here in compassionate, liberal Minnesota. Surely not even this economy could be that cruel. Or, perhaps is he sick, or hurt in some way. It's just not like him to miss the 4F bus.
I hope Donald is alright. I would feel much better if he were back on the bus.
Donald has been a fixture of the morning 4F bus ride into downtown Minneapolis for nearly every single day of the last three years. He is a high-functioning adult with some form of developmental disability; a chronological age that appears to be 40-something, but a personal manner that makes him seem like 10 or 12 years of age. He carries an oversized lunch box and wears converse tennis shoes, sometimes covered with rubber over-boots. When it's cold he, wears either a Twins ball cap, or sometimes zips on the hood to his parka. Very often he plays a hand-held video game on the ride downtown. Twice, I've seen his cell phone ring during the bus ride, and it appears these calls are from some family member checking on his well-being. He is very deliberate and careful when he takes out his phone, and he talks loudly and clearly to someone who obviously knows him well.
Donald and I have never spoken. He sits near the front of the bus and has already boarded by the time I get on. There is never room for me to sit near the front, so Donald and I only meet eyes briefly in the morning as I pass by him. Though I have no specific knowledge of this, I have always imagined that Donald must be a participant in one of those social programs that pairs up people with disabilities with jobs that offer benefit to both the businesses and the workers. Minnesota is one of those places with a lot of these kinds of programs. Although our Republican governor has undermined some of these opportunities, Minnesota remains one of those places that offers many subsidies to improve life quality for people in need, and when I see these cheerful, slightly handicapped people working about town at various businesses, it always makes me optimistic for human civilization, or at least for the Minnesota version of it.
Once, I ran into Donald at the downtown Target store while running errands at lunch. He recognized me instantly from across two check-out lanes, and broke into a broad smile of recognition. His hand started to come up in a wave, but then he shyly edited himself and simply continued to grinned broadly. He was gone long before I made my way through my own line.
After two years of seeing Donald every day, I've not seen him at all the last two weeks. I wonder if the economy has taken his job, even here in compassionate, liberal Minnesota. Surely not even this economy could be that cruel. Or, perhaps is he sick, or hurt in some way. It's just not like him to miss the 4F bus.
I hope Donald is alright. I would feel much better if he were back on the bus.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Citizen of 4F, Jan. 12, 2010
554447Mood is a strange and fickle human quality.
After two days in a quietly gray mood, I find myself this morning in a mood that is equally quiet, but most definitely happy. How exactly did this transformation occur? I wonder. It happened very subtly.
Perhaps it began when friend called me late yesterday, excited with good career news. She has an infectious personality, and it was pleasant to listen closely to her happiness.
When I left the office for the day, though, was when I noticed a definite uptick in my mood. Part of it was that at 5:15 pm, for the first time in recent memory, the sky was still light. At these latitudes, a cloudy overcast in the days just prior to the Dec. 21 solstice will see Minnesota night lasting from 4:30 in the afternoon until the following morning at 8:30 or so. But it was clear yesterday, and we're now more than three weeks past solstice, and so paying close attention shows that the painstakingly slow crawl back to spring is already underway.
More than this, though, the sky was painted with a whole spectrum of colors thanks the setting sun, and if you paid close attention, you could see that the sky echoed every color you could see in the neon store signs reflected in the windows: blues, reds, indigos, oranges, yellows—in the far west, you could even see pale greens streaked across the sky that echoed the green of streetlights in "go" mode. The whole thing left you with a feeling of wonderful symmetry between the natural and manmade worlds.
This morning, rather than go to work in the darkness, I took a later bus, stopping first for coffee and the New York Times at the nearest Starbucks. As I read the arts section, I noticed a father and son sitting off in the corner. The son was perhaps 13 or 14 years old, and was struggling with unhappiness of some kind. It wasn't clear to me if the boy was perhaps ill——his face was slightly flushed--or if he was wrestling with some early adolescent angst of some kind. But at one point his father reached over and gripped the boy's wrist in comfort. Like most boys in early adolescence, the young man's face showed a mixed response to this public display of affection from a parent, but it pleased me to see this father ignore the rules of adolescent protocol and comfort his son in this way.
On the bus ride, one could see that the foggy night had painted the trees with a hoar frost that looked like the most delicate lace. The urban forest around the skating rink at Lyndale Farmstead park looked like something from the most fanciful set in a Tim Burton movie.
When I am in a productive stretch, I have sometimes found that a 30 or 45 minute bus ride will find 2,000- or 3,000- word business letters or blog posts composing themselves in my head between home and office, so that all I'm left with is transcribing what has mentally hatched. It's pleasant to realize, for this one morning at least, that a bit of that creativity has returned.
William James, the pioneer psychologist, wrote more than a century ago, that "the strain of attention is the fundamental act of will."
Perhaps transforming unhappiness into happiness is really just a matter of choosing what to pay attention to.
After two days in a quietly gray mood, I find myself this morning in a mood that is equally quiet, but most definitely happy. How exactly did this transformation occur? I wonder. It happened very subtly.
Perhaps it began when friend called me late yesterday, excited with good career news. She has an infectious personality, and it was pleasant to listen closely to her happiness.
When I left the office for the day, though, was when I noticed a definite uptick in my mood. Part of it was that at 5:15 pm, for the first time in recent memory, the sky was still light. At these latitudes, a cloudy overcast in the days just prior to the Dec. 21 solstice will see Minnesota night lasting from 4:30 in the afternoon until the following morning at 8:30 or so. But it was clear yesterday, and we're now more than three weeks past solstice, and so paying close attention shows that the painstakingly slow crawl back to spring is already underway.
More than this, though, the sky was painted with a whole spectrum of colors thanks the setting sun, and if you paid close attention, you could see that the sky echoed every color you could see in the neon store signs reflected in the windows: blues, reds, indigos, oranges, yellows—in the far west, you could even see pale greens streaked across the sky that echoed the green of streetlights in "go" mode. The whole thing left you with a feeling of wonderful symmetry between the natural and manmade worlds.
This morning, rather than go to work in the darkness, I took a later bus, stopping first for coffee and the New York Times at the nearest Starbucks. As I read the arts section, I noticed a father and son sitting off in the corner. The son was perhaps 13 or 14 years old, and was struggling with unhappiness of some kind. It wasn't clear to me if the boy was perhaps ill——his face was slightly flushed--or if he was wrestling with some early adolescent angst of some kind. But at one point his father reached over and gripped the boy's wrist in comfort. Like most boys in early adolescence, the young man's face showed a mixed response to this public display of affection from a parent, but it pleased me to see this father ignore the rules of adolescent protocol and comfort his son in this way.
On the bus ride, one could see that the foggy night had painted the trees with a hoar frost that looked like the most delicate lace. The urban forest around the skating rink at Lyndale Farmstead park looked like something from the most fanciful set in a Tim Burton movie.
When I am in a productive stretch, I have sometimes found that a 30 or 45 minute bus ride will find 2,000- or 3,000- word business letters or blog posts composing themselves in my head between home and office, so that all I'm left with is transcribing what has mentally hatched. It's pleasant to realize, for this one morning at least, that a bit of that creativity has returned.
William James, the pioneer psychologist, wrote more than a century ago, that "the strain of attention is the fundamental act of will."
Perhaps transforming unhappiness into happiness is really just a matter of choosing what to pay attention to.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Citizens of 4F, Jan. 11, 2010
When the work day promises to be especially hectic, I catch the early 4f bus at 6:15 in the morning. When it arrives at my downtown stop, the sky will be just hinting at sunrise, but the stars will still be in full force.
We're in the heart of Minneapolis winter, and although it is a relatively balmy 10 degrees this morning, the mood on the bus seems especially sober this morning. Of the six people alrady on the bus, three have their heads leaning up against the glass windows, either their eyes are shut, or they are looking forlornly at the morning night outside.
At the front of the bus behind the driver is a young man I think of as David, who looks, more than anything, like the common artistic representation of Jesus Christ, except wearing a worn hooded sweatshirt under a insulated denim jacket. He has long brownish hair and a reddish beard, and a slightly Roman nose. His eyes are closed. Logically, he is probably just fatigued after an active weekend, but there is something about him that suggests a somewhat more existential weariness.
I look at others on the bus, and I recognize one of those mornings where the gentle suffering of being human is quite evident. Not a happy face to be seen. No anguish either, but lots of very quiet borderline sorrow in the air. It's before dawn on a Monday morning after all. And it's winter. And it's MInneapolis. As more and more passengers board, the mood isn't lightened at all.
There is only one exception to this prevailing mood. Midway into downtown, two young adults get aboard at different stops. They clearly know each other, and carry on a silent smiling conversation with one another sitting across the aisle facing one another. Let's call them Luke and Heather. They look like a Luke and Heather to me. The carry identical gleaming silver coffee mugs, and smile at one another and mouth silent phrases to one another. But then Luke gets off the bus, and Heather's face falls into the same expression of quiet sorrow I see on all the other faces——myself included, I suppose.
This is all rather depressing, so I try to think up some lesson here, some encouragement with which to face the day. I think to myself, "Life isn't easy for anybody. Knowing that, we should try to be nice to one another. "
Not the pithiest motto. But for this Monday morning, it will have to do.
We're in the heart of Minneapolis winter, and although it is a relatively balmy 10 degrees this morning, the mood on the bus seems especially sober this morning. Of the six people alrady on the bus, three have their heads leaning up against the glass windows, either their eyes are shut, or they are looking forlornly at the morning night outside.
At the front of the bus behind the driver is a young man I think of as David, who looks, more than anything, like the common artistic representation of Jesus Christ, except wearing a worn hooded sweatshirt under a insulated denim jacket. He has long brownish hair and a reddish beard, and a slightly Roman nose. His eyes are closed. Logically, he is probably just fatigued after an active weekend, but there is something about him that suggests a somewhat more existential weariness.
I look at others on the bus, and I recognize one of those mornings where the gentle suffering of being human is quite evident. Not a happy face to be seen. No anguish either, but lots of very quiet borderline sorrow in the air. It's before dawn on a Monday morning after all. And it's winter. And it's MInneapolis. As more and more passengers board, the mood isn't lightened at all.
There is only one exception to this prevailing mood. Midway into downtown, two young adults get aboard at different stops. They clearly know each other, and carry on a silent smiling conversation with one another sitting across the aisle facing one another. Let's call them Luke and Heather. They look like a Luke and Heather to me. The carry identical gleaming silver coffee mugs, and smile at one another and mouth silent phrases to one another. But then Luke gets off the bus, and Heather's face falls into the same expression of quiet sorrow I see on all the other faces——myself included, I suppose.
This is all rather depressing, so I try to think up some lesson here, some encouragement with which to face the day. I think to myself, "Life isn't easy for anybody. Knowing that, we should try to be nice to one another. "
Not the pithiest motto. But for this Monday morning, it will have to do.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Citizen of 4F, Aug. 19, 2009
On the 4F bus into downtown Minneapolis today, the mood seemed strangely Mevillian to me.
One of Herman Melville's many strokes of genius was his ability to articulate mankind's struggle to behave in a universe where nature is often indifferent and even hostile to our wishes and preferences. That's the mood I felt on the bus this morning.
Yesterday, during a cool day-long gentle rain without thunder or lightning or wind of any kind, some upper level disturbance suddenly caused a small tornado to drop down through the cloud cover and tear up a small portion of south Minneapolis, about a mile from my home. In a retangular swatch roughly 2 blocks by 12 blocks in size, at least 100 trees were uprooted and flung onto cars and houses. Outside this area, there was literally no sign of wind damage of any kind, and the pattern of the debris tells the authorities that this was a freak tornado.
Fortunately, no one was hurt in any way, but we here in Minneapolis love our trees, and the sight of 100 destroyed elms, ashes, and lindens causes us much sorrow. All evening long, mournful sirens of emergency vehicles sounded in the near distance, as emergency workers tried to restore power and clear streets of debris.
This morning, the drizzle continues as the bus picks its way through the torn branches of south Minneapolis. The cloud cover starts barely 1,000 feet above us, and the tops of the downtown buildings are buried into ragged gray cotton. It's a somber day.
On the bus, Stephanie is having an off day. A stunningly pretty blonde woman in her early 30s, Stephanie normally is kind of a self-illuminating source of energy. Today, though, she's just plain off, and she knows it. Twice she checks her appearance in a hand mirror, and finally gives up in disgust. Pretty woman are probably more often the source of envy, but the burden to keep looking pretty is not something most of us really understand. A pretty girl having a bad day suffers more than usual.
A new passenger boards at the Super America filling station on 48th street. I'll call him Tom. He has just finished his morning grooming in the gas station restroom, and sips a small cup of cheap gas station coffee. No bus pass for him; the small change he drops into the till is real money to him. He tries hard to be cleaned and groomed, but he is very likely a member of the homeless community, and it's hard to stay presentable when you sleep on the ground several nights a week. His face has a haunted look to it that's hard to ignore.
I open the New York Times, and the first thing I see is an extended feature article about palliative care physicians——the folks who help people in the end stages of terminal disease, as they try to make that final transition with a minimum of indignity. The article has particular meaning for me, as a friend of ours is suffering from cancer that's invaded almost every part of her body, and what I'm reading is directly applicable to what she's going through.
It's a dark morning in every regard, and the only thing that brings me any optimism is the knowledge that nothing whatsoever ever stays the same for very long.
The weather report says the weekend will be a beautiful example of early fall weather.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Citizens of 4F, January 16, 2009
Another bitterly cold morning in Minneapolis, the third in a row. This one's 21 below zero. Across the bus, I see a young woman who is engaged in an elaborate toiletry ritual, applying her makeup with equipment drawn from her purse. This seems so odd to me on a cold, cold day when no one really cares what they look like, that I can't help but steal glances at her.
This isn't a simple touch-up of lipstick. She has a metal eyelash curler she uses to perform repeated surgery on her eyelashes, then goes through a very elaborate and complete ritual of mascara and eye liner and several applications of skin makeup, applied with careful caution while studying herself in a small hand mirror that is bouncing about with every movement of the bus. I am incredulous to see, as a finale, that she reaches up beneath her sweater to vigorously apply deodorant to her armpits. The entire process, curling eye lashes to treating the armpits, takes a full 20 minutes of bus ride.
Inside, I find myself slightly offended by this lack of respect for fellow passengers. I dislike that she has subjected us to this spectacle, one which most people would practice in the privacy of their own home. By all appearances, there is no developmental problem her that indicates the girl doesn't understand the social niceties. She seems to simply not particularly care that she is showing us this private activity.
My inner dislike of what I'm witnessing is something I recognize as unhappiness, although of a mild form. Examining the sensation, I realize that what make is making me unhappy is the personal disagreement I feel. I would like to negate what I'm seeing. I dislike it. I take issue with it. I'd like her to get off the bus, to leave this space. I don't want her to be.
Compounding this is the the fact that I also don't much like the fact that I'm quietly, arrogantly, judging this girl so harshly. My own judgmentalism is unpleasant to me, and this all by itself slightly increases my quiet unhappiness with the entire situation.
Then, though, I find myself becoming interested in the whole 'nowness' of the thing. I find myself curious about this girl—what must her inner world be like, for her to apply makeup and personal hygiene products in front of complete strangers on a crowded bus? Is her own workplace so oppressive and judgmental that she dare not venture in without being in full makeup? Is all this evidence of arrogance, or is it instead profound insecurity?
I"m also a little fascinated by the inner sensation of my own personal judgment, my own disagreement with the circumstances the world has presented me with today. The unhappy feeling is interesting, in some ways—it feels a bit like a negative electrical charge, or like magnets of similar poles thrusting against one another.
In the interest, in the curiosity and attention toward things as they are, I find that the rejection of things has now eased and is replaced by a more accepting feeling. And in the acceptance there is no longer unhappiness, but instead a feeling that can only be described as contentment and even a quiet happiness. It is faint, but none-the-less there. Unhappiness has given way to happiness.
This ebb and flow, this dance of happiness and unhappiness, is present virtually all the time, I realize.
Upon leaving the bus, a blast of cruel cold air feels for all the world like the burn of caustic lime.
This time, it's not so easy to find the acceptance.
This isn't a simple touch-up of lipstick. She has a metal eyelash curler she uses to perform repeated surgery on her eyelashes, then goes through a very elaborate and complete ritual of mascara and eye liner and several applications of skin makeup, applied with careful caution while studying herself in a small hand mirror that is bouncing about with every movement of the bus. I am incredulous to see, as a finale, that she reaches up beneath her sweater to vigorously apply deodorant to her armpits. The entire process, curling eye lashes to treating the armpits, takes a full 20 minutes of bus ride.
Inside, I find myself slightly offended by this lack of respect for fellow passengers. I dislike that she has subjected us to this spectacle, one which most people would practice in the privacy of their own home. By all appearances, there is no developmental problem her that indicates the girl doesn't understand the social niceties. She seems to simply not particularly care that she is showing us this private activity.
My inner dislike of what I'm witnessing is something I recognize as unhappiness, although of a mild form. Examining the sensation, I realize that what make is making me unhappy is the personal disagreement I feel. I would like to negate what I'm seeing. I dislike it. I take issue with it. I'd like her to get off the bus, to leave this space. I don't want her to be.
Compounding this is the the fact that I also don't much like the fact that I'm quietly, arrogantly, judging this girl so harshly. My own judgmentalism is unpleasant to me, and this all by itself slightly increases my quiet unhappiness with the entire situation.
Then, though, I find myself becoming interested in the whole 'nowness' of the thing. I find myself curious about this girl—what must her inner world be like, for her to apply makeup and personal hygiene products in front of complete strangers on a crowded bus? Is her own workplace so oppressive and judgmental that she dare not venture in without being in full makeup? Is all this evidence of arrogance, or is it instead profound insecurity?
I"m also a little fascinated by the inner sensation of my own personal judgment, my own disagreement with the circumstances the world has presented me with today. The unhappy feeling is interesting, in some ways—it feels a bit like a negative electrical charge, or like magnets of similar poles thrusting against one another.
In the interest, in the curiosity and attention toward things as they are, I find that the rejection of things has now eased and is replaced by a more accepting feeling. And in the acceptance there is no longer unhappiness, but instead a feeling that can only be described as contentment and even a quiet happiness. It is faint, but none-the-less there. Unhappiness has given way to happiness.
This ebb and flow, this dance of happiness and unhappiness, is present virtually all the time, I realize.
Upon leaving the bus, a blast of cruel cold air feels for all the world like the burn of caustic lime.
This time, it's not so easy to find the acceptance.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Citizens of 4F: July 29, 2008
This morning, I find myself wondering again at what I see: Is it desperation I see, or an example of the heroic human spirit of adventure?
I've watched it for a long, long time, and still I don't know for sure.
My bus commutes have become a laboratory for observing human behavior, and here's what's puzzling me lately:
Human beings have a very clear urge to say "NO" to the present, to escape the here/now and go elsewhere in their minds. A woman I saw on the morning northbound bus this morning was a poster child for the condition. Upon boarding the bus, she fiercely clamped stereo earphones around her head, then opened a novel and buried herself there. For the 40 minute bus ride she did not reside in the present at all, but was clearly doing everything in her power to be someplace other than where she was at that moment. I wondered what her senstations must be like at that moment, trying to read while music blared in her head at the same time. It gave me a headache just to think about it.
It's not as though the here-now was a terrible place, at least not this morning. This morning's air was balmy and nice to touch; a slight humid haze made garden colors in the passing homes almost luminescent. For anyone not buried in a book, or ensnared by I-pod music, the world was a pretty great place. Yet fully 90% of the commuters were doing pretty much everything in their power to be someplace other than where they were. Many had eyes closes as they listened to canned music. Others were buried in newspapers. One woman applied makeup; a young man busied himself with office paperwork.
This urge is pretty prevalent. It's a rare person on the morning bus ride who is isn't trying to distract themselves in some way, or to escape into some realm of imagination.
I vacillate between thinking this is a tragic human trait, and thinking that it's evidence of the herioic human spirit for exploration and reach. Do we try to lose ourselves in music, in the imaginary world of printed language, because we're unable to handle the quiet pain of the here/now? Or is this evidence of our adventurousness, our talent for exploring strange new worlds, or going where no one has gone before?
Ruefully, I recognize that my judgment depends on what I'm doing at the time. If I'm grooving to the here-now, I find myself pitying the folks with eyes and ears buried in other media. This morning, the woman I watched entirely missed the three young children who stood hugging one another a yard we passed along the way.
I'm an utter hypocrite, though.
If I'm enjoying a great novel myself, for example, then I'm celebrating the power of human imagination, and wondering if the folks staring blissfully into the distance are somehow incapable of loftier thought. The folks who stare into space....how sad that they don't roam the rich world of Thomas Wolfe's archetypal America in "Look Homeward, Angel", like I am.
Much as I'd like to think I have a bit of skill at here/now presence, the brutal truth is that I'm prodigiously capable of fleeing the present through gyrations of mind. When I read, I pretty much lose the world entirely.
This inherent penchant for distraction, for escaping the present....Is it a tool for our transcendence? Or a hindrance to it?
Even as I wonder about this, another answer suggests itself. Transcendence may be neither a matter of dwelling stubbornly in the present, nor escaping the present into other states of mind.
Perhaps freedom lies in the simple awareness of both faculties.
Awareness itself...there's a subject worthy of serious wonderment.
I've watched it for a long, long time, and still I don't know for sure.
My bus commutes have become a laboratory for observing human behavior, and here's what's puzzling me lately:
Human beings have a very clear urge to say "NO" to the present, to escape the here/now and go elsewhere in their minds. A woman I saw on the morning northbound bus this morning was a poster child for the condition. Upon boarding the bus, she fiercely clamped stereo earphones around her head, then opened a novel and buried herself there. For the 40 minute bus ride she did not reside in the present at all, but was clearly doing everything in her power to be someplace other than where she was at that moment. I wondered what her senstations must be like at that moment, trying to read while music blared in her head at the same time. It gave me a headache just to think about it.
It's not as though the here-now was a terrible place, at least not this morning. This morning's air was balmy and nice to touch; a slight humid haze made garden colors in the passing homes almost luminescent. For anyone not buried in a book, or ensnared by I-pod music, the world was a pretty great place. Yet fully 90% of the commuters were doing pretty much everything in their power to be someplace other than where they were. Many had eyes closes as they listened to canned music. Others were buried in newspapers. One woman applied makeup; a young man busied himself with office paperwork.
This urge is pretty prevalent. It's a rare person on the morning bus ride who is isn't trying to distract themselves in some way, or to escape into some realm of imagination.
I vacillate between thinking this is a tragic human trait, and thinking that it's evidence of the herioic human spirit for exploration and reach. Do we try to lose ourselves in music, in the imaginary world of printed language, because we're unable to handle the quiet pain of the here/now? Or is this evidence of our adventurousness, our talent for exploring strange new worlds, or going where no one has gone before?
Ruefully, I recognize that my judgment depends on what I'm doing at the time. If I'm grooving to the here-now, I find myself pitying the folks with eyes and ears buried in other media. This morning, the woman I watched entirely missed the three young children who stood hugging one another a yard we passed along the way.
I'm an utter hypocrite, though.
If I'm enjoying a great novel myself, for example, then I'm celebrating the power of human imagination, and wondering if the folks staring blissfully into the distance are somehow incapable of loftier thought. The folks who stare into space....how sad that they don't roam the rich world of Thomas Wolfe's archetypal America in "Look Homeward, Angel", like I am.
Much as I'd like to think I have a bit of skill at here/now presence, the brutal truth is that I'm prodigiously capable of fleeing the present through gyrations of mind. When I read, I pretty much lose the world entirely.
This inherent penchant for distraction, for escaping the present....Is it a tool for our transcendence? Or a hindrance to it?
Even as I wonder about this, another answer suggests itself. Transcendence may be neither a matter of dwelling stubbornly in the present, nor escaping the present into other states of mind.
Perhaps freedom lies in the simple awareness of both faculties.
Awareness itself...there's a subject worthy of serious wonderment.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Citizens of 4F, July 10, 2008
When I take the 6:47 am bus into downtown, I often find myself watching Frank, who almost always sits slightly ahead of me and on the right side of the bus.
Maybe the reason I think about Frank is because in some ways he's similar to me, in that he doesn't neatly fit into one of the stereotypical passenger categories. On most of the early morning buses, there are three of four general passenger types, none of which fit myself, or Frank.
For example, there are the Target Drones. These are the young adults, ages 25 t0 30 or so, who all can be identified by the neatly clipped Target Corporation key-swipe cards they all attach to their belts or lapels. The young men employed by Target invariably wear short-sleeved dress shirts and ties, and they remind you quite a lot of the old Xerox maintenance specialists, who used to travel about in business dress to crack open your photocopy machines in order to repair them.
My son for a time was considering applying to Target, but after seeing the lemming-like demeanor of the young people who work for the downtown Target corporate headquarters, I'm cautioning him not to worry too much about seeking a traditional career.
Other passenger stereotypes: office clerical workers (folks with neat but non-descript office attire, quite often wearing athletic shoes for the commute, which they will exchange for dress shoes once they hit the office); the service workers (largely hispanic, dressed in the blue custodial gear or neat, starched dresses of hotel housekeeping staff).
I don't really fit into one of the bus stereotypes, since my usual garb this time of year is a tropical print or camp shirt, comfortable linen slacks, mid-ankle hiking shoes. I rarely even carry a briefcase or portfolio, and the only indication I might be of the business executive class is the fact that I'm constantly checking E-mails on an I-phone.
And Frank doesn't neatly fit into any category, either. An African American gentleman in his early 70s, his dress and demeanor might hint that he's a baseball fan headed into downtown to catch an afternoon game. In reality, he has an early morning shift at Rudolph's Barbecue, a popular restaurant on the south edge of downtown. Perhaps he's a chef, though it's pretty early in the morning for the cooking staff to hit the restaurant. Or maybe his job is restocking the kitchen supplies for the day.
Frank has the lean grace of a former athlete. A large metal watch floats loosely on his left wrist, and I've noticed that he carries one of those large snap-close wallets attached to his belt with a fine chain--like the wallet the Schwan Ice Cream salesman used to carry when he delivered ice cream to the neighborhood.
Frank wears a simple khaki-colored ballcap on most days, and his front shirt pocket holds his smokes—Kool Menthol. Some days he gets off the bus a block before the restaurant, and treats himself to a slow walk while he enjoys a single cigarette. Even at 70, his gait could most accurately described as a saunter, with just a hint of strut. John Travolta could take lessons from Frank.
One morning, a white woman took the empty seat next to Frank, and I saw him grow momentarily uncomfortable. Frank is of an age where he certainly remembers the trouble that black men often invited if they so much as smiled at white women, and this makes me think that Frank probably grew up somewhere in the south. For all its flaws, Minnesota has never really had that insane sexual fear of the black man.
When Frank stands to leave the bus, his back is slightly hunched over, but for a man of his age he is surprisingly graceful. He moves with that kind of slow-motion elegance that I've noticed in world-class athletes, who often seem to move with exceeding slowness in real life, but are capable of explosive quickness at the flip of a switch. Frank is about 6 ft. tall, and looks like he might once have been a baseball shortstop, or perhaps a basketball point guard.
Or maybe it's a bit racist for me to think he is a former athlete. After all, don't all white people imagine that African Americans are athletes? Still, I can't get over observing the grace with which Frank moves, and it gives me pleasure to imagine him as a young man moving fluidly on the emerald green of an outdoor baseball diamond.
I'm now closer in age to Frank than I am to the Target Drones, after all. I don't think its so much a racist eye that views Frank, as an envious one. I'd give anything to wake up in 20 years to have the grace that Frank shows.
Glancing down, I see that I've once again spilled coffee on my shirt.
Physical grace, it seems, has long since passed me by. I really doubt that I'm going to develop it in time for my twilight years.
Maybe the reason I think about Frank is because in some ways he's similar to me, in that he doesn't neatly fit into one of the stereotypical passenger categories. On most of the early morning buses, there are three of four general passenger types, none of which fit myself, or Frank.
For example, there are the Target Drones. These are the young adults, ages 25 t0 30 or so, who all can be identified by the neatly clipped Target Corporation key-swipe cards they all attach to their belts or lapels. The young men employed by Target invariably wear short-sleeved dress shirts and ties, and they remind you quite a lot of the old Xerox maintenance specialists, who used to travel about in business dress to crack open your photocopy machines in order to repair them.
My son for a time was considering applying to Target, but after seeing the lemming-like demeanor of the young people who work for the downtown Target corporate headquarters, I'm cautioning him not to worry too much about seeking a traditional career.
Other passenger stereotypes: office clerical workers (folks with neat but non-descript office attire, quite often wearing athletic shoes for the commute, which they will exchange for dress shoes once they hit the office); the service workers (largely hispanic, dressed in the blue custodial gear or neat, starched dresses of hotel housekeeping staff).
I don't really fit into one of the bus stereotypes, since my usual garb this time of year is a tropical print or camp shirt, comfortable linen slacks, mid-ankle hiking shoes. I rarely even carry a briefcase or portfolio, and the only indication I might be of the business executive class is the fact that I'm constantly checking E-mails on an I-phone.
And Frank doesn't neatly fit into any category, either. An African American gentleman in his early 70s, his dress and demeanor might hint that he's a baseball fan headed into downtown to catch an afternoon game. In reality, he has an early morning shift at Rudolph's Barbecue, a popular restaurant on the south edge of downtown. Perhaps he's a chef, though it's pretty early in the morning for the cooking staff to hit the restaurant. Or maybe his job is restocking the kitchen supplies for the day.
Frank has the lean grace of a former athlete. A large metal watch floats loosely on his left wrist, and I've noticed that he carries one of those large snap-close wallets attached to his belt with a fine chain--like the wallet the Schwan Ice Cream salesman used to carry when he delivered ice cream to the neighborhood.
Frank wears a simple khaki-colored ballcap on most days, and his front shirt pocket holds his smokes—Kool Menthol. Some days he gets off the bus a block before the restaurant, and treats himself to a slow walk while he enjoys a single cigarette. Even at 70, his gait could most accurately described as a saunter, with just a hint of strut. John Travolta could take lessons from Frank.
One morning, a white woman took the empty seat next to Frank, and I saw him grow momentarily uncomfortable. Frank is of an age where he certainly remembers the trouble that black men often invited if they so much as smiled at white women, and this makes me think that Frank probably grew up somewhere in the south. For all its flaws, Minnesota has never really had that insane sexual fear of the black man.
When Frank stands to leave the bus, his back is slightly hunched over, but for a man of his age he is surprisingly graceful. He moves with that kind of slow-motion elegance that I've noticed in world-class athletes, who often seem to move with exceeding slowness in real life, but are capable of explosive quickness at the flip of a switch. Frank is about 6 ft. tall, and looks like he might once have been a baseball shortstop, or perhaps a basketball point guard.
Or maybe it's a bit racist for me to think he is a former athlete. After all, don't all white people imagine that African Americans are athletes? Still, I can't get over observing the grace with which Frank moves, and it gives me pleasure to imagine him as a young man moving fluidly on the emerald green of an outdoor baseball diamond.
I'm now closer in age to Frank than I am to the Target Drones, after all. I don't think its so much a racist eye that views Frank, as an envious one. I'd give anything to wake up in 20 years to have the grace that Frank shows.
Glancing down, I see that I've once again spilled coffee on my shirt.
Physical grace, it seems, has long since passed me by. I really doubt that I'm going to develop it in time for my twilight years.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Citizens of 4F, July 1, 2008
During rush hours, the citizenry of metro transit line 4F is interesting, but still a relatively main-stream group. Thirty minutes or more outside of official rush hour, though, and the crowd can get positively surreal.
I have a pretty prodigious imagination, but I couldn't possibly have scripted last night's vignette, which reminded me of a story line from some bad counterculture comic book story-board.
Sitting on the first forward facing seat, I had a clear view of the little club of inward facing bus seats lining the front segment of the bus. On the left were two gentlemen. Farthest from me was a rotund little man wearing a grey Cub Foods polo shirt and ball cap. He seemed like "Boyd" to me. Bloyd's black jeans were rolled up at the bottom, and the lower 8 inches of his trousers were speckled with what seemed to be meat byproducts. I estimated that his 5-ft. 3" frame was packing 280 pounds or so. For most of the next half hour, he appeared be sleeping——at least he was snoring audibly.
Nearest to me on the left side was Frank, 65 years old or so, wearing fleece bedroom slippers, a Minnesota Twins club shirt, and a ball cap that said "NUmber 1 Grandpa" on the front. In his lap, he balanced a 30-lb. bag of Kingsford charcoal. From the way his jaw moved up and down, it was clear that he was missing his dentures.
On the right-hand row of inward-facing seats, furthest from me sat a cross-dressing man about 60 years of age, who I'll call Sean. Sean was wearing a blue dress that ended about 9 inches above the knee, with black fishnet stockings that did little to hide the thick leg hair which he hadn't bothered to shave away. Black patent-leather high-heels completed the lower half of the ensemble.
Sean could have used a little help with his gear, for his well-stuffed bra rode very high on him, so that his simulated breasts seemed to jut out at roughly the level of his collar bones. The ear-rings and makeup, however, were tasteful and well selected.
Sean chose to sit near the front to flirt with the bus driver, a 50-year old hispanic man who was profoundly uncomfortable with the attention. Sean talked pretty much non-stop, both to the bus driver and to those sitting around him. Life is a little challenging for Sean, I imagine.
The other inward-facing seats on the right side were full, but the characters were non-descript.
Then a new passenger, Louise, boarded the bus. Louise was a young woman carrying a small cage holding a fluffy yellow cat that hissed instantly and incessantly. The only seat available was one between Boyd and Frank on the left row of seats, which Louise took.
Sean's attention was instantly drawn to the caged cat across the aisle from him, and he began to poke his fingers through the cage trying to play with the animal. Louise repeatedly warned Sean that the cat was mean and prone to attack. Sean loudly insisted that he didn't care at all, and continued to agitate the animal with his finger poking into the cage.
"So is your kitty a boy or a girl?" He asked. Louise indicated that the cat was male.
"Ah, a little boy," Sean said. By this time Boyd and awakened, and seemed to have spotted Sean for the first time. To my discomfort, Boyd seemed to by trying to peak up Sean's dress.
Sean continued. "A little boy kitty," Sean said, adjusting his fishnet stockings. "I wasn't sure. Sometimes it's not always easy to tell the difference between boys and girls."
To the credit of the bus passengers, no one laughed out loud at this straight line delivered on a platter. There were only some quietly amused glances exchanged, and I was proud of their restraint. My pride in my fellow passengers wouldn't last long, though.
Sean continue to poke at the cat in his cage; the hissing grew louder; Louise kept warning Sean about the potential danger.
Frank then spoke up, and I was surprised to here him articulate in a very clear Australian accent, even though he had no teeth.
"This woman has asked you time and again," he sternly said to Sean sitting across the aisle, and a little ripple in the fabric of the cosmos told me that another shoe was about to fall.
Frank shifted his back of charcoal. "Listen, now, you," he said to Sean in a voice loud enough for sidewalk pedestrians to hear. "This woman, she DOES NOT WANT YOU TO FINGER HER PUSSY."
All passengers on the bus looked down at their feet. It was quiet enough to hear a pin drop.
I"m going to confine my bus rides to the rush hour from now on.
I have a pretty prodigious imagination, but I couldn't possibly have scripted last night's vignette, which reminded me of a story line from some bad counterculture comic book story-board.
Sitting on the first forward facing seat, I had a clear view of the little club of inward facing bus seats lining the front segment of the bus. On the left were two gentlemen. Farthest from me was a rotund little man wearing a grey Cub Foods polo shirt and ball cap. He seemed like "Boyd" to me. Bloyd's black jeans were rolled up at the bottom, and the lower 8 inches of his trousers were speckled with what seemed to be meat byproducts. I estimated that his 5-ft. 3" frame was packing 280 pounds or so. For most of the next half hour, he appeared be sleeping——at least he was snoring audibly.
Nearest to me on the left side was Frank, 65 years old or so, wearing fleece bedroom slippers, a Minnesota Twins club shirt, and a ball cap that said "NUmber 1 Grandpa" on the front. In his lap, he balanced a 30-lb. bag of Kingsford charcoal. From the way his jaw moved up and down, it was clear that he was missing his dentures.
On the right-hand row of inward-facing seats, furthest from me sat a cross-dressing man about 60 years of age, who I'll call Sean. Sean was wearing a blue dress that ended about 9 inches above the knee, with black fishnet stockings that did little to hide the thick leg hair which he hadn't bothered to shave away. Black patent-leather high-heels completed the lower half of the ensemble.
Sean could have used a little help with his gear, for his well-stuffed bra rode very high on him, so that his simulated breasts seemed to jut out at roughly the level of his collar bones. The ear-rings and makeup, however, were tasteful and well selected.
Sean chose to sit near the front to flirt with the bus driver, a 50-year old hispanic man who was profoundly uncomfortable with the attention. Sean talked pretty much non-stop, both to the bus driver and to those sitting around him. Life is a little challenging for Sean, I imagine.
The other inward-facing seats on the right side were full, but the characters were non-descript.
Then a new passenger, Louise, boarded the bus. Louise was a young woman carrying a small cage holding a fluffy yellow cat that hissed instantly and incessantly. The only seat available was one between Boyd and Frank on the left row of seats, which Louise took.
Sean's attention was instantly drawn to the caged cat across the aisle from him, and he began to poke his fingers through the cage trying to play with the animal. Louise repeatedly warned Sean that the cat was mean and prone to attack. Sean loudly insisted that he didn't care at all, and continued to agitate the animal with his finger poking into the cage.
"So is your kitty a boy or a girl?" He asked. Louise indicated that the cat was male.
"Ah, a little boy," Sean said. By this time Boyd and awakened, and seemed to have spotted Sean for the first time. To my discomfort, Boyd seemed to by trying to peak up Sean's dress.
Sean continued. "A little boy kitty," Sean said, adjusting his fishnet stockings. "I wasn't sure. Sometimes it's not always easy to tell the difference between boys and girls."
To the credit of the bus passengers, no one laughed out loud at this straight line delivered on a platter. There were only some quietly amused glances exchanged, and I was proud of their restraint. My pride in my fellow passengers wouldn't last long, though.
Sean continue to poke at the cat in his cage; the hissing grew louder; Louise kept warning Sean about the potential danger.
Frank then spoke up, and I was surprised to here him articulate in a very clear Australian accent, even though he had no teeth.
"This woman has asked you time and again," he sternly said to Sean sitting across the aisle, and a little ripple in the fabric of the cosmos told me that another shoe was about to fall.
Frank shifted his back of charcoal. "Listen, now, you," he said to Sean in a voice loud enough for sidewalk pedestrians to hear. "This woman, she DOES NOT WANT YOU TO FINGER HER PUSSY."
All passengers on the bus looked down at their feet. It was quiet enough to hear a pin drop.
I"m going to confine my bus rides to the rush hour from now on.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Citizens of 4F, June 25, 2008
Some mornings I head for downtown especially early, either because there's important work to be done, or because I've slept especially well and just like the feel of downtown in the period just after dawn.
When I do this, I often run into another type of citizen when I step off the 4F bus onto the still-damp streets of downtown Minneapolis.
As I walk to the office from the bus stop, I frequently see two or three of the Wanderers coming up the street. From the freight rail right-of-way gully that runs through the heart of the warehouse district, these isolated men come rising up like puffs of fog into the downtown area. They will dissipate very soon—long gone by rush hour— so the only time to see these phantoms, with their backpacks and lean, hard countenances, is in the very early mornings.
I suppose these men technically could be referred to as homeless, but there is a distinct difference between these men and the beggers and schizophrenics you see in every big city—the ones who are usually referred to as "homeless" in most demographic studies.
A tragic percentage of homeless single men in large cities are Vietnam vets who were never re-embraced by society. This makes me fear greatly for what we're going to see from the current generation of Gulf War vets, for if anything we are now even more callous to the needs of veterans.
But the Wanderers I'm speaking aren't really in this group, though it is possible that here too a goodly number might be war veterans. This group, though, isn't very likely to ever be seen begging or doing hallucinatory mumbling on the midday streets of a city. The rugged Wanderers I see in the morning are more akin to the classic hobos or traveling cattle wranglers who once were so prevalent in the 1920s and 30s.
I'm told that it's now pretty hard for anyone to jump freight trains and ride cross country, but it's still true that the railway right-of-ways are the routes by which many of these modern hobos choose to travel. In our metropolitan area, some of the civilized bicycle paths occasionally run alongside the railway beds, and sometimes you will see the tent of some traveler pitched within 20 or 30 yards of the rails.
This continues to be a kind of no-man's land, where foot wanderers are rarely molested by policemen or other authorities. Nobody with political sway ever owns the land adjoining a railway bed, so it is one of the only truly free areas left in America.
Often the Wanderers look exactly like modern cowboys, with stetsons and cowboy boots, and it is entirely possible that they have traveled into this area on their way to seasonal agricultural jobs in the big farm lands in the southern part of our state. When I was a boy, the neighboring farmer hired a wandering Texan in exactly this way to do dairy chores for the better part of a year. Or maybe these fellows come into town simply take temporary manufacturing or construction jobs, just enough to make money for a few weeks at a time, before hitting the road for another city.
I always feel something like nostalgia, and a little bit of envy when I see this particular type of homeless wanderer. It's a hard life, I'm sure, but it also reminds me of the restless ingenuity and independence that settled this country originally. I'm quite fond of my own life, but I also very much enjoy lonely wandering from time to time.
This morning, a Wanderer in a battered felt stetson and faded Levis was sauntering up 5th street with a worn Limberland backpack over his shoulders. He was taking the last few drags off a cigarette (I imagined it to be an unfiltered camel), and as he tossed the butt into a city trashcan, he spied some other trash on the sidewalk, and paused for few seconds to tidy up the street a bit before heading onward toward the bus station.
He touched the brim of his hat to me just before I turned the corner and lost him to sight.
When I do this, I often run into another type of citizen when I step off the 4F bus onto the still-damp streets of downtown Minneapolis.
As I walk to the office from the bus stop, I frequently see two or three of the Wanderers coming up the street. From the freight rail right-of-way gully that runs through the heart of the warehouse district, these isolated men come rising up like puffs of fog into the downtown area. They will dissipate very soon—long gone by rush hour— so the only time to see these phantoms, with their backpacks and lean, hard countenances, is in the very early mornings.
I suppose these men technically could be referred to as homeless, but there is a distinct difference between these men and the beggers and schizophrenics you see in every big city—the ones who are usually referred to as "homeless" in most demographic studies.
A tragic percentage of homeless single men in large cities are Vietnam vets who were never re-embraced by society. This makes me fear greatly for what we're going to see from the current generation of Gulf War vets, for if anything we are now even more callous to the needs of veterans.
But the Wanderers I'm speaking aren't really in this group, though it is possible that here too a goodly number might be war veterans. This group, though, isn't very likely to ever be seen begging or doing hallucinatory mumbling on the midday streets of a city. The rugged Wanderers I see in the morning are more akin to the classic hobos or traveling cattle wranglers who once were so prevalent in the 1920s and 30s.
I'm told that it's now pretty hard for anyone to jump freight trains and ride cross country, but it's still true that the railway right-of-ways are the routes by which many of these modern hobos choose to travel. In our metropolitan area, some of the civilized bicycle paths occasionally run alongside the railway beds, and sometimes you will see the tent of some traveler pitched within 20 or 30 yards of the rails.
This continues to be a kind of no-man's land, where foot wanderers are rarely molested by policemen or other authorities. Nobody with political sway ever owns the land adjoining a railway bed, so it is one of the only truly free areas left in America.
Often the Wanderers look exactly like modern cowboys, with stetsons and cowboy boots, and it is entirely possible that they have traveled into this area on their way to seasonal agricultural jobs in the big farm lands in the southern part of our state. When I was a boy, the neighboring farmer hired a wandering Texan in exactly this way to do dairy chores for the better part of a year. Or maybe these fellows come into town simply take temporary manufacturing or construction jobs, just enough to make money for a few weeks at a time, before hitting the road for another city.
I always feel something like nostalgia, and a little bit of envy when I see this particular type of homeless wanderer. It's a hard life, I'm sure, but it also reminds me of the restless ingenuity and independence that settled this country originally. I'm quite fond of my own life, but I also very much enjoy lonely wandering from time to time.
This morning, a Wanderer in a battered felt stetson and faded Levis was sauntering up 5th street with a worn Limberland backpack over his shoulders. He was taking the last few drags off a cigarette (I imagined it to be an unfiltered camel), and as he tossed the butt into a city trashcan, he spied some other trash on the sidewalk, and paused for few seconds to tidy up the street a bit before heading onward toward the bus station.
He touched the brim of his hat to me just before I turned the corner and lost him to sight.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Citizens of 4F, May 2008
It's late in the Spring in my first year of commuter ridership on the Minneapolis Metro Bus line, route 4F. I've rather liked my experience on the city bus thus far. I began riding last November. Commuter transportation gives you a pretty broad picture of humanity's breadth, and I enjoy the fact that I"m as likely to see a young reggae musician carrying an amplifier as a lawyer in three-piece suit with briefcase.
The 4F is a very real society.
One thing I like about living in this cold climate, though, is that the presence of killing frost from October to May keeps the pests at bay. No stinging scorpions or centipedes or malaria in these parts. Too damn cold for serious pests to really get a foothold. What pests we do have—mosquitoes, horseflies, etc.—are confined to the warm months of summer.
In the last couple of weeks I've noticed that there are certain classes of humanity, too, that seem to have come out of the sidewalk cracks to infiltrate the city bus lines during this warm weather. I'm a fellow of strong enough Buddhist leanings to want to believe that every human has value, every person has merit and something to contribute.
I hope I'll be able to hold onto this through next October, when cold drives this phylum of humanity back into hiding against the winter. Experiences on a city bus in warm weather may make it difficult.
Consider these scenarios overheard recently:
• Three young white woman in the back of the bus. Amazons, all. I"m no lightweight, but any one of these woman could beat me to a bloody pulp. Two of them have jailhouse emblems, tatooed crosses imbedded in the backs of their hands. Wearing wife-beater t-shirts, their upper arms are considerably larger than my thighs. The only seat has me facing away from the biggest of the behemoths, and this frightens me, because it seems quite likely that she is packing weaponry.
"Fuckin' aye," says the biggest, and apparently the oldest.
"Fuckin right, fuckin' aye," agrees the second.
"Whatcha talkin' about, bitches?" says the third. This causes no offense whatsoever, though. The third girl appears to possibly be the daughter or younger sister, and such address seems to be a term of endearment. All three begin to cackle, like witches in a really bad performance of Macbeth.
"She won't be fuckin' with me no mo" says the ringleader.
"Fucking A, that's for goddamn sure.
"Shit, yeah."
This goes on for 50 blocks, as the three shout their conversation so that everybody on the bus can hear them. I am horrified to discover that these three gorgons are getting off on my block. How can this be? Mine is a quite nice neighborhood. As I turn the corner, they continue walking, though, towards the city boundary up the road. where a couple of seedy residential hotels exist. Not the direction in which I'll be walking tonight on my evening constitutional.
• Early morning. This family is young, but not so young as the occasional trio of high school boy, girl, and infant child that you sometimes see. Teenage kids with their own children are so common in the inner city schools that high schools have day care provisions that let the young parents drop their kids off so they can go to algebra and home economics and gym class.
These parents, though, are well into their 30s. The child is perhaps two or three, and cute as a button. He pays no attention to his parents, but makes eyes at me, playing hide and seek behind his palms.
"I tol' you, just let it goddamn be," says the husband/father to the wife/mother. "Don't talk about it no more, if you know what's good for you."
It is a family dispute I'm coming in on half-way through.
"I'll damn well talk about what I want to talk about, you piece o' lazy shit," she says. "Don't you be tellin' me what to talk about or not talk about."
"Don't you never learn, woman? " he replies. "It's like you wanna get hurt."
"Hurt me? Hurt me?" she says. "If yo' fist no harder than yo dick, I' ain't very scared, pecker head."
"F@#$, I'm tired o' your bitchin' " he says. The volume of the conversation is now loud enough that all the early morning passengers can hear it. Even the busdriver.
"C'MON,' comes an amplified voice through the bus's loudspeaker. "WATCH YOUR LANGUAGE. THIS IS A BUS."
There is dead silence for a moment, then the husband and wife break into laughter, suddenly united in their opposition to the young female bus driver who has scolded them. "Did you hear her?" chuckled the husband to his wife. "We're supposed to watch our language, on a BUS!"
His wife giggles, and when they step off the bus at Lake Street, their arms around round each other and they are still laughing.
"Have a good day," says the bus driver, and she means it. This particular bus driver holds no grudges, ever.
• On one weekday evening, a mother with three sons board the southbound 4F at 5:30 at Franklin Avenue. The mother isn't very old, perhaps 30, 35. Her sundress is faded and a bit old, but it's in good enough condition, and she's made some attempt to curl her hair. She wears fingernail polish and I get a faint whiff of perfume. It's a special event she's going to, in the late afternoon. I'm touched by her effort, initially. The two older boys are perhaps 16 and 12, and are dressed like all boys their age—untied sneakers, long cargo shorts, faded T-shirts. Their shaggy heads bend over hand-held video games. They mutter to one another, but I can't hear the conversation.
The youngest boy, though, is strangely dressed in a perfect little pin-stripe suit with vest. His hair is slicked back, and his face glows from recently being scrubbed clean. He and his mother sit opposite the other two brothers. I get enough of their conversation to understand that this family is traveling to some sort of church or school function in which the youngest boy is participating. Perhaps it is a confirmation ceremony, or some kind of recognition event for a local school.
"I've got a lot to do tonight," I hear her say to the youngest son. "So afterwards, when I say it's time to go, it's time to go. Okay?"
The littlest boy nods. Thus far the scene is just another one of those mildly interesting vignettes that are so common on the bus rides.
Then I catch a glimpse of the 12 year old boy sitting opposite. He glances up at his mother fussing over the baby of the family, and rolls his eyes. The mother's demeanor instantly changes.
"You keep eyeballing me like that, boy, and I'll smack you so hard your eyeballs will fall out of your goddamn head," she says, with a viciousness that startled all who sit nearby. "And I won't be picking up those loose eyeballs for you. You'll be on your own."
The boy is resigned, matter of fact. Not angry, not hurt. "I don't care anymore," he says, in a dead tone.
The 4F is a very real society.
One thing I like about living in this cold climate, though, is that the presence of killing frost from October to May keeps the pests at bay. No stinging scorpions or centipedes or malaria in these parts. Too damn cold for serious pests to really get a foothold. What pests we do have—mosquitoes, horseflies, etc.—are confined to the warm months of summer.
In the last couple of weeks I've noticed that there are certain classes of humanity, too, that seem to have come out of the sidewalk cracks to infiltrate the city bus lines during this warm weather. I'm a fellow of strong enough Buddhist leanings to want to believe that every human has value, every person has merit and something to contribute.
I hope I'll be able to hold onto this through next October, when cold drives this phylum of humanity back into hiding against the winter. Experiences on a city bus in warm weather may make it difficult.
Consider these scenarios overheard recently:
• Three young white woman in the back of the bus. Amazons, all. I"m no lightweight, but any one of these woman could beat me to a bloody pulp. Two of them have jailhouse emblems, tatooed crosses imbedded in the backs of their hands. Wearing wife-beater t-shirts, their upper arms are considerably larger than my thighs. The only seat has me facing away from the biggest of the behemoths, and this frightens me, because it seems quite likely that she is packing weaponry.
"Fuckin' aye," says the biggest, and apparently the oldest.
"Fuckin right, fuckin' aye," agrees the second.
"Whatcha talkin' about, bitches?" says the third. This causes no offense whatsoever, though. The third girl appears to possibly be the daughter or younger sister, and such address seems to be a term of endearment. All three begin to cackle, like witches in a really bad performance of Macbeth.
"She won't be fuckin' with me no mo" says the ringleader.
"Fucking A, that's for goddamn sure.
"Shit, yeah."
This goes on for 50 blocks, as the three shout their conversation so that everybody on the bus can hear them. I am horrified to discover that these three gorgons are getting off on my block. How can this be? Mine is a quite nice neighborhood. As I turn the corner, they continue walking, though, towards the city boundary up the road. where a couple of seedy residential hotels exist. Not the direction in which I'll be walking tonight on my evening constitutional.
• Early morning. This family is young, but not so young as the occasional trio of high school boy, girl, and infant child that you sometimes see. Teenage kids with their own children are so common in the inner city schools that high schools have day care provisions that let the young parents drop their kids off so they can go to algebra and home economics and gym class.
These parents, though, are well into their 30s. The child is perhaps two or three, and cute as a button. He pays no attention to his parents, but makes eyes at me, playing hide and seek behind his palms.
"I tol' you, just let it goddamn be," says the husband/father to the wife/mother. "Don't talk about it no more, if you know what's good for you."
It is a family dispute I'm coming in on half-way through.
"I'll damn well talk about what I want to talk about, you piece o' lazy shit," she says. "Don't you be tellin' me what to talk about or not talk about."
"Don't you never learn, woman? " he replies. "It's like you wanna get hurt."
"Hurt me? Hurt me?" she says. "If yo' fist no harder than yo dick, I' ain't very scared, pecker head."
"F@#$, I'm tired o' your bitchin' " he says. The volume of the conversation is now loud enough that all the early morning passengers can hear it. Even the busdriver.
"C'MON,' comes an amplified voice through the bus's loudspeaker. "WATCH YOUR LANGUAGE. THIS IS A BUS."
There is dead silence for a moment, then the husband and wife break into laughter, suddenly united in their opposition to the young female bus driver who has scolded them. "Did you hear her?" chuckled the husband to his wife. "We're supposed to watch our language, on a BUS!"
His wife giggles, and when they step off the bus at Lake Street, their arms around round each other and they are still laughing.
"Have a good day," says the bus driver, and she means it. This particular bus driver holds no grudges, ever.
• On one weekday evening, a mother with three sons board the southbound 4F at 5:30 at Franklin Avenue. The mother isn't very old, perhaps 30, 35. Her sundress is faded and a bit old, but it's in good enough condition, and she's made some attempt to curl her hair. She wears fingernail polish and I get a faint whiff of perfume. It's a special event she's going to, in the late afternoon. I'm touched by her effort, initially. The two older boys are perhaps 16 and 12, and are dressed like all boys their age—untied sneakers, long cargo shorts, faded T-shirts. Their shaggy heads bend over hand-held video games. They mutter to one another, but I can't hear the conversation.
The youngest boy, though, is strangely dressed in a perfect little pin-stripe suit with vest. His hair is slicked back, and his face glows from recently being scrubbed clean. He and his mother sit opposite the other two brothers. I get enough of their conversation to understand that this family is traveling to some sort of church or school function in which the youngest boy is participating. Perhaps it is a confirmation ceremony, or some kind of recognition event for a local school.
"I've got a lot to do tonight," I hear her say to the youngest son. "So afterwards, when I say it's time to go, it's time to go. Okay?"
The littlest boy nods. Thus far the scene is just another one of those mildly interesting vignettes that are so common on the bus rides.
Then I catch a glimpse of the 12 year old boy sitting opposite. He glances up at his mother fussing over the baby of the family, and rolls his eyes. The mother's demeanor instantly changes.
"You keep eyeballing me like that, boy, and I'll smack you so hard your eyeballs will fall out of your goddamn head," she says, with a viciousness that startled all who sit nearby. "And I won't be picking up those loose eyeballs for you. You'll be on your own."
The boy is resigned, matter of fact. Not angry, not hurt. "I don't care anymore," he says, in a dead tone.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Citizens of 4F
subbtitle: Straight Eye for the Gay Guy.
Thomas and William get on the northbound 7:12 am 4F bus about five blocks apart. They are aging gay men in their mid 60s, of modest means. They clearly know one another, though I don't take them to be close friends. It is perhaps simply that they are acquainted from years of riding the same bus, or perhaps they have mutual friends in the neighborhood. They converse with smiles, but without the closeness of good friends.
I judge them to be gay mostly because I perceive in them a kind of superficial precision of appearance and style that I associate with gay men, a precision that I, like many men, secretly admire. There is perhaps just a bit of the effeminate in their speech and hand gestures, but it is a subtle thing. They are not politically, stidently gay.
Thomas has the appearance of a modern monk. The color pallet of his clothing is always in browns and cream colors. He has a carefully clipped gray beard, and a circle of brown-gray hair floating around a bald spot on the center of his head. He always wears a calm smile that never seems to vary, no matter what the circumstances. No matter how hideously slushy the spring morning, Thomas is always—always—immaculately neat. I have no idea how he accomplishes this.
William has something tenderly comical about his appearance. His badly worn shoes are always polished to a sparkling gleam. Oddly, he wears an expensive knit cap pulled down so low that it hides his ears, but the edges of the cap are very carefully folded twice, in opposite directions. It is a clear fashion decision, one that might have worked just a bit better on a younger man. William wears an earring in one ear, highly unusual in a 65-year-old man who is not Harrison Ford. William's trousers always have a carefully pressed crease down the front.
They are both gentle men. Gay gentlemen have it a little easier in the modern world of modern women, for it's my observation that when a gay man leaps to his feet to offer his bus seat to a women, it is rarely interpreted for anything but polite etiquette. Young professional women, in particular, sometimes resent the inference that they are weaker; but this resentment seems to be quickly set aside if the man offering the seat appears gay.
Mostly what I admire about gay men is their fluency with personal style. William and Thomas are men of extremely modest means, yet they find quiet elegance and satisfaction in the simple acts of good grooming and maintaining their clothing. There is nothing trendy about their wardrobes, yet they somehow look far more stylish than I'll ever manage.
Some time back, I realized during an important board of directors meeting that I had dressed that morning with a sweat sock stuck to the inside of my sweater vest.
On my very best days, I wouldn't even be allowed in the land of metrosexuals.
It's why I generally prefer the wilderness.
Thomas and William get on the northbound 7:12 am 4F bus about five blocks apart. They are aging gay men in their mid 60s, of modest means. They clearly know one another, though I don't take them to be close friends. It is perhaps simply that they are acquainted from years of riding the same bus, or perhaps they have mutual friends in the neighborhood. They converse with smiles, but without the closeness of good friends.
I judge them to be gay mostly because I perceive in them a kind of superficial precision of appearance and style that I associate with gay men, a precision that I, like many men, secretly admire. There is perhaps just a bit of the effeminate in their speech and hand gestures, but it is a subtle thing. They are not politically, stidently gay.
Thomas has the appearance of a modern monk. The color pallet of his clothing is always in browns and cream colors. He has a carefully clipped gray beard, and a circle of brown-gray hair floating around a bald spot on the center of his head. He always wears a calm smile that never seems to vary, no matter what the circumstances. No matter how hideously slushy the spring morning, Thomas is always—always—immaculately neat. I have no idea how he accomplishes this.
William has something tenderly comical about his appearance. His badly worn shoes are always polished to a sparkling gleam. Oddly, he wears an expensive knit cap pulled down so low that it hides his ears, but the edges of the cap are very carefully folded twice, in opposite directions. It is a clear fashion decision, one that might have worked just a bit better on a younger man. William wears an earring in one ear, highly unusual in a 65-year-old man who is not Harrison Ford. William's trousers always have a carefully pressed crease down the front.
They are both gentle men. Gay gentlemen have it a little easier in the modern world of modern women, for it's my observation that when a gay man leaps to his feet to offer his bus seat to a women, it is rarely interpreted for anything but polite etiquette. Young professional women, in particular, sometimes resent the inference that they are weaker; but this resentment seems to be quickly set aside if the man offering the seat appears gay.
Mostly what I admire about gay men is their fluency with personal style. William and Thomas are men of extremely modest means, yet they find quiet elegance and satisfaction in the simple acts of good grooming and maintaining their clothing. There is nothing trendy about their wardrobes, yet they somehow look far more stylish than I'll ever manage.
Some time back, I realized during an important board of directors meeting that I had dressed that morning with a sweat sock stuck to the inside of my sweater vest.
On my very best days, I wouldn't even be allowed in the land of metrosexuals.
It's why I generally prefer the wilderness.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Citizens of 4F
On Sunday night before St. Patty's day, Bruce Springsteen's concert encore in St. Paul ended with a rousing Irish sing-along called American Land. It's a Woody Guthrie-inspired of the immigrant heritage of American, and among it's lyrics are these:
What is this land America so many travel thereThis morning on the northbound 4F bus, I saw this young family that clearly came from somewhere far, far south of here, originally. It was likely an important morning trip, since at this time of day it costs $10.00 for a family of five to ride the bus. Perhaps they are going to the clinic; one of the children has a bad cough.
I'm going now while I'm still young my darling meet me there
Wish me luck my lovely I'll send for you when I can
And we'll make our home in the American land
The story I visualized for them was entirely from my imagination, but in all likelihood is precisely the story of some immigrant family, if not this one.
The young parents are among the most proud and ambitious and hardworking of their extended families somewhere in central Mexico, south of Mexico City. They would have to be among the best and brightest, to pull up all stakes and travel 3,000 miles north, to a land of bitter snow to seek their fortune.
Like many of their fellow central American immigrants, they have taken exceedingly low paying and physically demanding jobs. The mother cleans rooms at one of the high rise hotels; the father works on one of the residential roofing crews, which in this area work all winter long, the workers clothed in thick insulated canvas bib overalls against the bitter cold. Come late summer, he may travel down to the Green Giant vegetable fields in southern Minnesota and Iowa to work 5:00 am to 10:00 pm harvesting peas and beets and green beans for the big commercial canneries, leaving his family behind in Minneapolis. The work is back-breaking, but unlike some of the jobs he's had in the city, the company doesn't take advantage of non-resident workers by stiffing them on the paycheck after squeezing two weeks of labor out of them.
The parents' paychecks will have taxes withheld for federal and state income tax; yet should they ever fall into difficult times, many citizens around here will resent the fact that they receive a bit of public assistance. And they also pay social security taxes, and medicare taxes, even though they will never receive any benefits whatsoever, unless they manage to naturalize as citizens, a feat that has become increasingly difficult in recent years.
The three children are approaching school age, and although their parents pay taxes, there are those that will regard the education of these kids as larceny. Like many such family, it may be the children learning English in the schools who translate for their parents at parent-teacher meetings. It likely will be from the children that the parents perfect their English. Like many central American children, these kids might prove themselves to be terrifically hard-working in the schools. My wife, a middle-school employee, has seen this again and again: Peruvian or Mexican or Tibetan of Somali kids triumphing against all odds.
If the parents and children work very hard, in 15 years or so the oldest of the kids might qualify for college—an accomplishment that would move this family from third-world status into modern times. But the governor of Minnesota, frantically trying to position himself as a Republican Vice Presidential candidate, has promised to veto a bill that would allow non-residential foreigners who have gone to local highschools for at least two years to go to college at residential tuition rates, rather than paying out-of-state tuition.
So these kids, if they're lucky enough to qualify after 15 years of hard work, will pay more to go to college than the privileged white kids from Wisconsin, who happen to enjoy reciprocity with Minnesota.
This kind of mean-spirited policy is shrewdly concocted by Governor Pawlenty, since he knows it will cast him as being tough on immigration with the Republican party machine.
Soon before the family departs the bus on Lake Street, the little girl sitting on the end catches my eye, and her face lights up in a beautiful shy smile as she buries her face in her mother's sleeve. As they leave the bus, the little girl looks back and waves at me.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Reality on the 4F
Last night I left the office promptly at 5:00, and this combined with the fact that it was the first evening of daylight saving time meant that I commuted home in broad daylight for the first time in months. It's been a long, long lonely winter here in Minnesota, but now, even when the temps are a mere 20 degrees, the sun is beginning to burn away the glaciers heaped over the curbs and sidewalks. We've yet to have that glorious evening when the temperatures stay well above freezing all night long, but even so the crusty mounds of ice are now shrinking by the hour. Soon, they'll have vanished entirely from the visible city streets, and it will only be deep in the back alleys in the canyons between tall buildings where the ice will continue to live. Most years, a bit of ice lives back there until early June.
The 6:00 pm city this time of year looks much different in broad daylight. But although clearly Spring is coming, what I saw as I looked out the bus windows in detached reverie last night is not pure growth and renewal, but a strange sort of dance between the energies of creation and of decay.
Everywhere I look there is creation and decay existing side by side. New buildings are sprouting while other buildings are corroding away. On some of the existing buildings, new roofs or siding are coalescing, even as the old materials are sloughing away. In some of the buildings, businesses have decayed and died, while new businesses take shape and move in. This is true of all businesses. Even Microsoft will one day fade away, as did TWA and other monster corporations before it.
The sun itself is decaying beautiful ice formations, even as it is warming the flesh of trees and prompting them toward new buds. We pass by a beautiful brick building that is being gradually eaten by the new creation of thick vines that have sprouted up and are enveloping the structure with greenery that will gradually devour the mortar.
We pass by a small park on Bryant Avenue, and on the sidewalk a bright young mother pushing an infant in a stroller briskly passes by an ancient woman walking with a cane in tiny steps, her bowed head nearly hidden by a thick scarf tied beneath her chin. I am struck by the fact that these two women are closely related, that they depend on one another for the reality of who they are at this very moment.
The dance between decay and creation is so close, so intimate, that it is virtually sexual. The two energies could not possibly be separated.
There is nothing whatsoever qualitative about this truth. It simply is what it is, and for that reason is completely noble and elegant. All our judgments and preferences for creation over decay are human conceits alone, and have no bearing on the truth of the world. The fact that human beings often are pleased by newness and freshness and repulsed by decay is entirely irrelevant. The fact that we may be attracted to a fresh young baby and repulsed by the specter of aging and death says nothing about one being preferable to the other.
At most, this human preference is merely a manifestation of the universe's creative energy. The fact that we like newness is nothing more than the universe's creative energy channeling through us. The energy of decay also flows through us, since it may also be common for us to decry change, to prefer seasoned age over plastic newness. Perhaps even our occasionally self-destructive behavior is nothing more than a natural expression of the energy of decay.
The world takes on a different appearance in this frame of mind. There is a certain beauty in decay, as it is the natural forerunner to creative newness. A building facade ornamented with a vandal's colorful grafitti is not inherently much different than the same store front painted with the admonishment of a store owner to COME IN AND BUY. A pot-holed, cracked street isn't particularly ugly, but a promise that some day the earth will reclaim the tarmac and cover it over with meadows. An elderly gentleman, stooped with arthritis, causes me to imagine his possible grandchildren, who at this moment may be growing at the same rate this old fellow is fading.
There is no reason to pass judgment on this fact. It is what it is, and is hence beautiful and perfect.
The 6:00 pm city this time of year looks much different in broad daylight. But although clearly Spring is coming, what I saw as I looked out the bus windows in detached reverie last night is not pure growth and renewal, but a strange sort of dance between the energies of creation and of decay.
Everywhere I look there is creation and decay existing side by side. New buildings are sprouting while other buildings are corroding away. On some of the existing buildings, new roofs or siding are coalescing, even as the old materials are sloughing away. In some of the buildings, businesses have decayed and died, while new businesses take shape and move in. This is true of all businesses. Even Microsoft will one day fade away, as did TWA and other monster corporations before it.
The sun itself is decaying beautiful ice formations, even as it is warming the flesh of trees and prompting them toward new buds. We pass by a beautiful brick building that is being gradually eaten by the new creation of thick vines that have sprouted up and are enveloping the structure with greenery that will gradually devour the mortar.
We pass by a small park on Bryant Avenue, and on the sidewalk a bright young mother pushing an infant in a stroller briskly passes by an ancient woman walking with a cane in tiny steps, her bowed head nearly hidden by a thick scarf tied beneath her chin. I am struck by the fact that these two women are closely related, that they depend on one another for the reality of who they are at this very moment.
The dance between decay and creation is so close, so intimate, that it is virtually sexual. The two energies could not possibly be separated.
There is nothing whatsoever qualitative about this truth. It simply is what it is, and for that reason is completely noble and elegant. All our judgments and preferences for creation over decay are human conceits alone, and have no bearing on the truth of the world. The fact that human beings often are pleased by newness and freshness and repulsed by decay is entirely irrelevant. The fact that we may be attracted to a fresh young baby and repulsed by the specter of aging and death says nothing about one being preferable to the other.
At most, this human preference is merely a manifestation of the universe's creative energy. The fact that we like newness is nothing more than the universe's creative energy channeling through us. The energy of decay also flows through us, since it may also be common for us to decry change, to prefer seasoned age over plastic newness. Perhaps even our occasionally self-destructive behavior is nothing more than a natural expression of the energy of decay.
The world takes on a different appearance in this frame of mind. There is a certain beauty in decay, as it is the natural forerunner to creative newness. A building facade ornamented with a vandal's colorful grafitti is not inherently much different than the same store front painted with the admonishment of a store owner to COME IN AND BUY. A pot-holed, cracked street isn't particularly ugly, but a promise that some day the earth will reclaim the tarmac and cover it over with meadows. An elderly gentleman, stooped with arthritis, causes me to imagine his possible grandchildren, who at this moment may be growing at the same rate this old fellow is fading.
There is no reason to pass judgment on this fact. It is what it is, and is hence beautiful and perfect.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Citizens of 4F
On the 7:00 pm southbound 4F bus the other night, three young black men, strong and tall, boarded at Hennepin and 5th St. in downtown Minneapolis just as night was falling. At the end of rush hour, the buses are no longer densely packed, and this one had a few empty seats and no one was standing.
A number of white passengers tensed noticeably when the young men boarded. Time was that Minneapolis was just a large small town, but no more. The town has its share of racial tension these days, and for many white citizens, young black men traveling together is reason for nervousness.
White women sitting near the front of the bus drew their knees together and clutched bags closer. Some of the white men frowned, their lips pressed in tight lines. The three young men were clearly Warriors, and this unsettled the middle-class white folks headed for the southern residential neighborhoods and the inner tier suburb to the south.
Much as I wanted not to, I also felt a bit of unease when two of the young men sat close to me on either side of my center-facing seat, and the third sat directly across from me. They literally towered over me.
Like virtually all fear, though, its reason for being evaporated almost immediately upon clear seeing. These young men were indeed Warriors, but it was because their black stocking hats proclaimed it. Their "gang" was the DeLasalle high school basketball team, and it appeared that the three had simply been having a bit of fun downtown after school before going home. They talked quietly among themselves, joking about their coach and basketball practice. Their eyes were dark and beautiful, and each young man had that faint haze on the upper lip, common to all boys who aren't quite old enough to shave.
"Your coach, is he a real hardass, or is it just his coaching act?" I said to the boy sitting next to me. There was a moment of dead silence; they were, I think, surprised to hear me talk to them. Then they laughed warmly and told me some stories about their basketball coach. They seemed genuinely tickled that this middle-aged white guy would eavesdrop on their conversation and talk to them. It doesn't happen all that often, I imagine.
They began to talk about their physics class then, and I respectfully left the conversation, since I had no desire to be obviously stupid in front of 17-year old boys.
The young man across from me was carrying a small shopping bag from the Hallmark store, and I wondered if under the flowering white tissue paper there was a gift for some sweetheart, or perhaps a sister or his mother. A sheet of paper peeked up out of the bag, and I saw that it was a job application. In addition to being an athlete- scholar, the young man was looking for a part-time job.
The three young black men left the bus on 46th St., and I heard several of the passengers sigh and give reflexive laughs of relief.
It's a pity they hadn't really seen these young men.
A number of white passengers tensed noticeably when the young men boarded. Time was that Minneapolis was just a large small town, but no more. The town has its share of racial tension these days, and for many white citizens, young black men traveling together is reason for nervousness.
White women sitting near the front of the bus drew their knees together and clutched bags closer. Some of the white men frowned, their lips pressed in tight lines. The three young men were clearly Warriors, and this unsettled the middle-class white folks headed for the southern residential neighborhoods and the inner tier suburb to the south.
Much as I wanted not to, I also felt a bit of unease when two of the young men sat close to me on either side of my center-facing seat, and the third sat directly across from me. They literally towered over me.
Like virtually all fear, though, its reason for being evaporated almost immediately upon clear seeing. These young men were indeed Warriors, but it was because their black stocking hats proclaimed it. Their "gang" was the DeLasalle high school basketball team, and it appeared that the three had simply been having a bit of fun downtown after school before going home. They talked quietly among themselves, joking about their coach and basketball practice. Their eyes were dark and beautiful, and each young man had that faint haze on the upper lip, common to all boys who aren't quite old enough to shave.
"Your coach, is he a real hardass, or is it just his coaching act?" I said to the boy sitting next to me. There was a moment of dead silence; they were, I think, surprised to hear me talk to them. Then they laughed warmly and told me some stories about their basketball coach. They seemed genuinely tickled that this middle-aged white guy would eavesdrop on their conversation and talk to them. It doesn't happen all that often, I imagine.
They began to talk about their physics class then, and I respectfully left the conversation, since I had no desire to be obviously stupid in front of 17-year old boys.
The young man across from me was carrying a small shopping bag from the Hallmark store, and I wondered if under the flowering white tissue paper there was a gift for some sweetheart, or perhaps a sister or his mother. A sheet of paper peeked up out of the bag, and I saw that it was a job application. In addition to being an athlete- scholar, the young man was looking for a part-time job.
The three young black men left the bus on 46th St., and I heard several of the passengers sigh and give reflexive laughs of relief.
It's a pity they hadn't really seen these young men.
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