Staring down the dark subway tunnel at 2 am on a Friday night, wondering when then train will come and knowing that when it does it will still be more than an hour before arriving at my own stop, I muse that my reliance on the subway is like being involved in codependent and not entirely healthy relationship with one very fickle lover.
As a starry-eyed small town girl who had only ever been involved with automobiles and highways, naturally I was at once swept off my feet by the subway's urban style and efficiency. I was passionate about the train; thrilled at the swipe of my Metrocard and clatter-clack of the turnstiles that admitted me to the busy subterranean transportation hubs of New York. I always stood anxiously near the edge of the platform so that I could feel the first faint currents that indicated a train's arrival lift the light hairs off my forehead to tickle my face and then experience the rush of air that blew all my hair back off my shoulders as the cars were propelled into the station to come to a screeching halt. I'd eagerly push my way aboard crowded cars and gaze around at the faces of all the other straphangers who doubtless were as enthralled that they too could use such a wonderful form of transportation on a daily basis. My love for the subway was at times overwhelming; how had I ever lived without it, and how could I ever return to a world that only relied on gridlocked interstates and gas-guzzling cars? My subway was such a beautiful thing; it took me everywhere I needed to go, kept me warm when it was cold outside, gave me shelter from the wind and rain, provided light for me to read and endless entertainment if I should choose to just sit back and observe. I thought about the subway all the time, couldn't wait for the moments when I could find myself reunited with it to explore its intricacies, prowl its hidden passages, gaze at the strangely-placed but nonetheless beautiful art and structures that would appear when I least expected them. I threw myself headlong into our new and wondrous relationship, knowing that this was something so real it just had to last forever.
Everything was nearly perfect for several months, but then cracks in our relationship started to appear. I started to notice that despite the initial appearance of overwhelming glamour and good looks, often my train was dirty, and indeed older than it first led me to believe. I began to notice that despite my promptness to our platform rendezvous, I was often left standing, waiting impatiently for long stretches of time. When it finally did show it was never apologetic, although my irritability always subsided after a few minutes of taking a seat. Still, what else could possibly offer me everything the subway had given me since we’d met?
As more time passed, our relationship began to degenerate further, and I began to lose patience. I began to find myself abandoned for longer periods of time, and later at night at that. There I’d be, alone, tired, and sometimes unnerved by the presence of strange and slightly unhinged people around me, and instead of promptly sweeping me to the safety and comfort of my home, the subway would leave me standing there in the chill darkness. Then there would be periods of days, usually weekends, when it just would not come at all; service was suspended and I was left stranded. Sometimes the MTA would give me notice and sometimes it would not; I would find out by being brought to a halt in my descent down the stairs by tape blocking them off and a sign that offered little information and no apology. At first, during these times I’d feel abandoned and nearly helpless; after all, I’d grown so reliant on the subway that I had never really considered other options. Later despair turned to anger, and those feelings of resentment that had begun to simmer below the surface finally exploded into fury. I'd curse, I'd rage and I'd cry until I swore that I was through with the train and its fickle, unpredictable ways. I’d find something else to satisfy my commutation needs, subway be damned. But always, always on Monday mornings I’d find myself, despite my better judgment but compelled by a need bordering on dependence, crawling back to the station and into the awaiting embrace of the train’s sliding doors.
I started to notice other girls around me happily coupled off with other means of transport. There were the handsome tuxedoed chauffeured limousines, the absolute royalty of transportation, clearly in a social class well above my modest means, but dazzling enough to make a girl dream. There were the prosperous-looking black sedans, sleek but not showy, that promised warmth, care, and security. There were the more blue-collar yellow taxi cabs that are in many ways the visual representation of both the city and the American dream; they work long and trying hours, but they have drive and determination, and at the end of the day they make a living and look forward to tomorrow’s promise. Then there were the old-fashioned city buses, which, although often slow, were dependable, steadfast, and offered a view of daylight and life at street level. I even was drawn to the granola-crunchy pedicabs, which promised an environmentally-friendly alternative and could efficiently and uniquely convey you through the toughest street conditions, even if you did arrive a little wind-blown and occasionally frost-bitten. And yes, there was still my old faithful, my personal automobile that sat mostly parked and dusty under the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, waiting patiently for me to come back to it and for things between us to be the way they used to be.
Yes I looked, I flirted, and I even had the occasional affair, but in the end, I always came back, always looked past the flaws in the train, and went for another ride. I don’t know what kind of bonds it uses to hold me in its grasp, but I’m nearly helpless against them. Perhaps it’s because the lows are so low, so terrible, that in contrast the highs seem that much better—much better, in fact, than anything I could ever find with any other style of vehicle. Maybe it’s that I can see its potential, can see all that the subway could be if its flaws could be repaired, and I hope against hope that someday it will change, and that perhaps by loving it I can help it change. Deep down, of course, part of me knows that there is nothing I can do; it is what it is, and no matter how much you care, you can’t change a thing’s inherent nature. I wonder, though, if I will ever have the courage and the means to change myself and my dependence on our relationship, or if I will continue chugging doggedly along down those underground tracks, wishing and hoping for something better, until the end of the line.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Tidal Reflections
You breathe in and savor the salt and faint smell of sulfur that indicates your proximity to the marsh, one foot dangling over the edge of the floating dock, toes touching the water and curling slightly at winter’s first bite. You exhale and feel your muscles relax completely—perhaps the first time in months—as you relish the unseasonable warmth of the south Georgia December sun. The river flows out, sighing softly as water slips past wood, grass, and debris, over mud and out to sea.
You’ve lived your whole life next to the water, and you begin to contemplate how it has threaded its way through your years, weaving itself into the fabric of your being. When you were young, your parents would take you to the pool, teaching you to hold your breath and jump as far forward as you could, away from the side of the pool and into the shallow end, letting your natural reflexes take over from there. Your mother would explain how to cup your hands and kick your legs so you could swim a little farther and a little faster each time, and she would always be there to catch you when you jumped into the deep end. They would take you to the beach and you would stand waist-deep in the surf, waiting with breathless anticipation for the next big wave, and just as its force started to push you backward, you would jump, propelled over the wave of course by your father, who all along was holding your hand, waiting to lift you into your gravity-defying leap.
As you got older, you’d find yourself wandering down the river to sit on the wooden planks of the dock and gaze out to the horizon. You’d think about your small world in the context of the of the large world you could sense just beyond your realm of experience and dream about where you would go and who you would become. Once you could drive, you’d go to the ocean at any opportunity to plunge into the surf and float atop the waves, feeling like you were part of something bigger and that the world held something in store for you.
For a time you moved away from the coast to the low, rolling foothills of north Georgia to broaden your mind, but always you’d find yourself drawn back to the water. By some twist of fate you’d inevitably find your residence next to a creek, a lake, or a river, and you’d walk along their edges often as you contemplated how the choices you made today would affect your future, Later when you thought you’d lost your way, the sound of flowing water or crashing waves would bring you comfort, would re-center you, and would allow you to set off once again with reaffirmed confidence and values.
Bittersweet memories of past loves are reflected back from moonlit liquid surfaces—moments that helped define you and the things you hold dear in another can always be resurrected in damp darkness. You were wearing a gold evening dress at a silver pond’s edge when one of your closest friends leaned in and kissed you, then confessed his feelings for you. Years later you found yourself slipping down a river bank with your best friend and partner in mischief in the middle of the night to escape the oppressive heat of your un-air conditioned dorm room at the end of a deep south August. The still air hung heavy with humidity and some kind of unvoiced anticipation as you both groped your way down the forested banks of the Oconee, finally reaching the water breathless and giggling. At your imperative he turned his back as you stripped off your clothing and plunged into the shallow water, and you ducked under and held your breath until he joined you. You resurfaced, gasping for air and laughing because you felt young, free, and deliriously happy. The two of you splashed about and, bit by bit, you began to realize that you were in love with him. An accidental brush of bare skin under water left you breathless and overwhelmed with joy because in his eyes, across that respectful distance he’d again placed between you, you saw that he loved you back. Months after that, you found yourself at the same river, crying as though you’d never stop as he made his way across another ocean and you stayed behind to reconfigure your heart with the pieces he added and the pieces he took away.
Gentle surf was the soundtrack as later you lay next to another boy on a beach—the same boy who’d already once left you feeling as if you’d be better off dead, but who all the same you loved so much you took him back. A waxing moon illuminated the still Florida waters as he confessed to you he’d marry you now if you’d have him, and you clasped him hard against you and choked back tears because you knew you couldn’t, no matter how much you cared about him. Shortly thereafter he left you again, this time for a west coast girl, and you put as much distance as you could between him and yourself, seeking solace in a south Pacific sea. By that deep azure water you wrote him letters you never mailed and then you plunged headlong into the present, submerging yourself completely in that sun-drenched life. Months later, after wandering solo up an entire coast, you emerged from the clear Australian surf and returned home whole again.
Later you found yourself speeding east without destination, blinded by tears and rage, your body wracked by infection and disgust. You stopped at a deserted winter’s shore and stumbled your way down to the sand, letting the bracing north Atlantic chill dry the tears from your face and the pounding sound of the icy surf drive the sounds of betrayal from your head. You returned to your home much later that day feeling purged—and liberated.
After finally giving up on trying to find someone to spread sunblock on your back, you learned to do it yourself and spent many a summer’s afternoon covered in sand in the happy company of your own thoughts. Quite unexpectedly, you were startled out of your quiet state of contentment by a blue-eyed stranger with a raucous laugh, and you soon found yourself searching for starfish on the Jersey shore, unable to stop smiling. The late afternoon’s lingering warmth and entanglements of bare, salty limbs left you feeling intoxicated, and the conversations that continued well after the sun slipped below the horizon gradually allowed you to let down your emotional wall and learn to trust again.
Now just a photograph of a slanted palm adjacent to turquoise water is enough to bring back an entire sensory memory. You can close your eyes and inhale once more the saline sea air, the smell of wet sand, the organic mustiness of drifting seaweed and other vegetation and natural debris. Your skin tingles with the sensation of a warm breeze drying salt water from your bare shoulders, the tickle of sand as it pushes between your toes, the feeling of the sun’s rays gradually turning you brown despite the sticky layers of sunblock you applied and reapplied. Your tongue passes over your lips to taste slightly bitter brine mingled with grit, and the sound of the gently crashing surf as it bubbles and ebbs around your ankles edges any other noise from inside your head and leaves you feeling silently peaceful. Your eyes drink in the vivid colors; the cerulean, emerald, and silver of the water, the clean white of the powder-fine sand, the brilliant azure of the sky, and the golden glow of all your surroundings imparted by a tropical sun. Your emotions range from overwhelming joy to absolute contentment, and you neither think of the past nor worry about the future; all that matters is that moment.
As your wandering mind returns to coastal Georgia and your spot on the floating dock, you sigh softly and roll over onto your stomach so that you can dangle an arm over the edge and touch the surface of the water. You run your fingers along the submerged edge of the dock and brush against the soft and slightly slimy squish of the colony of sea squirts that grows there. Coming home has been good for you; you finally feel rested and at ease after several long months of nearly continuous activity. You also, however, feel nearly ready to head back out into your now broader and more urban world. In this respect, you again feel yourself linked to the river; you are periodically drawn back toward home, but even though you may rest there awhile, you always flow back out toward the vastness of the ocean.
You’ve lived your whole life next to the water, and you begin to contemplate how it has threaded its way through your years, weaving itself into the fabric of your being. When you were young, your parents would take you to the pool, teaching you to hold your breath and jump as far forward as you could, away from the side of the pool and into the shallow end, letting your natural reflexes take over from there. Your mother would explain how to cup your hands and kick your legs so you could swim a little farther and a little faster each time, and she would always be there to catch you when you jumped into the deep end. They would take you to the beach and you would stand waist-deep in the surf, waiting with breathless anticipation for the next big wave, and just as its force started to push you backward, you would jump, propelled over the wave of course by your father, who all along was holding your hand, waiting to lift you into your gravity-defying leap.
As you got older, you’d find yourself wandering down the river to sit on the wooden planks of the dock and gaze out to the horizon. You’d think about your small world in the context of the of the large world you could sense just beyond your realm of experience and dream about where you would go and who you would become. Once you could drive, you’d go to the ocean at any opportunity to plunge into the surf and float atop the waves, feeling like you were part of something bigger and that the world held something in store for you.
For a time you moved away from the coast to the low, rolling foothills of north Georgia to broaden your mind, but always you’d find yourself drawn back to the water. By some twist of fate you’d inevitably find your residence next to a creek, a lake, or a river, and you’d walk along their edges often as you contemplated how the choices you made today would affect your future, Later when you thought you’d lost your way, the sound of flowing water or crashing waves would bring you comfort, would re-center you, and would allow you to set off once again with reaffirmed confidence and values.
Bittersweet memories of past loves are reflected back from moonlit liquid surfaces—moments that helped define you and the things you hold dear in another can always be resurrected in damp darkness. You were wearing a gold evening dress at a silver pond’s edge when one of your closest friends leaned in and kissed you, then confessed his feelings for you. Years later you found yourself slipping down a river bank with your best friend and partner in mischief in the middle of the night to escape the oppressive heat of your un-air conditioned dorm room at the end of a deep south August. The still air hung heavy with humidity and some kind of unvoiced anticipation as you both groped your way down the forested banks of the Oconee, finally reaching the water breathless and giggling. At your imperative he turned his back as you stripped off your clothing and plunged into the shallow water, and you ducked under and held your breath until he joined you. You resurfaced, gasping for air and laughing because you felt young, free, and deliriously happy. The two of you splashed about and, bit by bit, you began to realize that you were in love with him. An accidental brush of bare skin under water left you breathless and overwhelmed with joy because in his eyes, across that respectful distance he’d again placed between you, you saw that he loved you back. Months after that, you found yourself at the same river, crying as though you’d never stop as he made his way across another ocean and you stayed behind to reconfigure your heart with the pieces he added and the pieces he took away.
Gentle surf was the soundtrack as later you lay next to another boy on a beach—the same boy who’d already once left you feeling as if you’d be better off dead, but who all the same you loved so much you took him back. A waxing moon illuminated the still Florida waters as he confessed to you he’d marry you now if you’d have him, and you clasped him hard against you and choked back tears because you knew you couldn’t, no matter how much you cared about him. Shortly thereafter he left you again, this time for a west coast girl, and you put as much distance as you could between him and yourself, seeking solace in a south Pacific sea. By that deep azure water you wrote him letters you never mailed and then you plunged headlong into the present, submerging yourself completely in that sun-drenched life. Months later, after wandering solo up an entire coast, you emerged from the clear Australian surf and returned home whole again.
Later you found yourself speeding east without destination, blinded by tears and rage, your body wracked by infection and disgust. You stopped at a deserted winter’s shore and stumbled your way down to the sand, letting the bracing north Atlantic chill dry the tears from your face and the pounding sound of the icy surf drive the sounds of betrayal from your head. You returned to your home much later that day feeling purged—and liberated.
After finally giving up on trying to find someone to spread sunblock on your back, you learned to do it yourself and spent many a summer’s afternoon covered in sand in the happy company of your own thoughts. Quite unexpectedly, you were startled out of your quiet state of contentment by a blue-eyed stranger with a raucous laugh, and you soon found yourself searching for starfish on the Jersey shore, unable to stop smiling. The late afternoon’s lingering warmth and entanglements of bare, salty limbs left you feeling intoxicated, and the conversations that continued well after the sun slipped below the horizon gradually allowed you to let down your emotional wall and learn to trust again.
Now just a photograph of a slanted palm adjacent to turquoise water is enough to bring back an entire sensory memory. You can close your eyes and inhale once more the saline sea air, the smell of wet sand, the organic mustiness of drifting seaweed and other vegetation and natural debris. Your skin tingles with the sensation of a warm breeze drying salt water from your bare shoulders, the tickle of sand as it pushes between your toes, the feeling of the sun’s rays gradually turning you brown despite the sticky layers of sunblock you applied and reapplied. Your tongue passes over your lips to taste slightly bitter brine mingled with grit, and the sound of the gently crashing surf as it bubbles and ebbs around your ankles edges any other noise from inside your head and leaves you feeling silently peaceful. Your eyes drink in the vivid colors; the cerulean, emerald, and silver of the water, the clean white of the powder-fine sand, the brilliant azure of the sky, and the golden glow of all your surroundings imparted by a tropical sun. Your emotions range from overwhelming joy to absolute contentment, and you neither think of the past nor worry about the future; all that matters is that moment.
As your wandering mind returns to coastal Georgia and your spot on the floating dock, you sigh softly and roll over onto your stomach so that you can dangle an arm over the edge and touch the surface of the water. You run your fingers along the submerged edge of the dock and brush against the soft and slightly slimy squish of the colony of sea squirts that grows there. Coming home has been good for you; you finally feel rested and at ease after several long months of nearly continuous activity. You also, however, feel nearly ready to head back out into your now broader and more urban world. In this respect, you again feel yourself linked to the river; you are periodically drawn back toward home, but even though you may rest there awhile, you always flow back out toward the vastness of the ocean.
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