SLAM!

"Sleepwalking In Manhattan" 

River to river it's a straight shot if you avoid distractions, though what else could one expect on such a festive evening when sidewalks echo footfalls like encoded texts for the blind to translate and laughter conceals a shiver, a cold breath on the back of your neck whispering words in languages never spoken, past empty sand lots where buildings once stood and cold wraiths barter rags for lives. In a different era we measured time by the glass and slipped through back doors to catch the last act. You wondered how to break it off without hurting anyone. Maybe we could stay friends was an option, but friends have nothing to do with it these days. Certainly no evidence suggests that overlaying ideas like colors on a canvas makes it any clearer, or that endless discussion will crack open the truth of it. That's the way with friends, especially ones from out of town, always thwarting expectations, wandering off on different routes, stopping to take in the sights, then a promise to meet up later.

There's a hint of terror in the air and on Broadway they're towing cars at random and no one takes appointments seriously. A surface of activity thrives, but we're no longer involved; though we read about it in the papers, it's just a diversion while we go about the real business of the city, burying stone markers that one day will generate confusion, like litter. What did they believe? What did their day look like? Well, here's a sandwich wrapper, and a ticket stub. Weave a tale from that. While you're at it, don't forget to tip the doorman or he'll turn you in. You know he's been watching all those comings and goings; he's probably put the whole thing together by now, each person a star in their private conspiracy theory. The questions will cover these topics, but don't worry, no answers are expected, and if you try anyway, no one thinks they will be true.

What if time really isn't continuous, she mused, just another set of digits to count up, pieces to arrange, with no guidance on what to do with the ones left over after the glue dries and the outer shell is fixed in place? Sounds to me like you'll have a few spare minutes afterall, so maybe we'll stop for coffee and a donut, chat about the weather, how often we repair the damages, seek a postponement, file a complaint. There are other things in the city, but they are small and fill the spaces in between, not like the signs on Times Square that keep selling you stuff, larger than your life, anyway. The porn shops are gone, the stains scrubbed off the buildings, the winos working security... but the lists of names, the ones who are dead, those we'll leave standing, out on the edges, where control is ambiguous and expectations are open to negotiation.

This is a newer, more modern myth, the city as recursive loop, a reflection of itself, where each person becomes a mirror for the one standing in line behind him, each separate point on the map finding itself drawn into the center so that every point is the same point, each historical entry blotted out, which is a good thing, keeping our focus on the future and how exciting it will be when we get there. By that time, of course, we'll no longer recognize each other. The streets will have different names, and new faces will fill the front page. But that guy on the corner, the one with the grungy deli— he'll slip through by keeping his head down, and when you're tired of talking to yourself, he's the one who'll have all the answers.

___________

I am convinced that we were put here to help others.
As to why those others are here, I couldn't begin to say.
---W. H. Auden