On the streets of Harlem a man singing on old jazz standard, a woman whistling a Disney tune. On the train this morning a vocal quartet, on the train this evening a story-teller with a bongo. All these people throwing their sound and ideas out to the world around them. Everyone is judging, the wash of paint is neutral, and a dollar, an interesting interaction might emerge from a raincoat.
I met another person today that spoke of the exoticism of the midwest. There is no reason to go there and so no one does. She thought it would be mind blowing if she saw it, except that there is no real reason to go. Yes, the sky is big there, but just like it is everywhere in the world, even like it is in New York, though hidden. Yes there are fields, and drive-through fast food restaurants, and space, and time. It is remarkable in its unremarkable-ness. It looks to the rest of the world, an unassuming silent gem in the middle of it all, flown over.
The population is much less dense in the midwest. It would be terrible to offend the people around you. You might see them again, you might need them. In New York, the chances of either of these things are very low. Even if you do see someone more than once, the chances you will both remember are slight. Even if you do need someone, you don't, because there are so many niches in which to live here. So people are people.
I am curious to see the way that people love in New York. I'm curious to learn how they fear. I imagine both are here, just as I found them in Japan, just as I lived them in my many years in the midwest. But to my midwestern eyes, New York appears to be so open and indestructible. The sadnesses of poverty are muted by the efforts to eradicate them. The city seems to know its woes, celebrates its beauty. But still it isn't cold, when shoulders protect the heart and backs turn away.
I gave away two dollars today to people who brought music to my train ride. I love this openness, this audacity, this spirit to share in order to live.
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