Staying in

The Bronx is a ten minute walk from where I live. I've yet to go there. I haven't visited the park near my apartment. I haven't eaten at the highly rated restaurants in my neighborhood.

Mostly I work or sleep. I'm a bit of an insomniac, so when exhaustion eventually drags me prostrate, I remain there as long as possible. Often I find myself waking up at noon or one. The only thing that lifts me from bed is work or outings with friends. The outings with friends are rare, so I get up for work.

Not to say I'm unproductive: during my sleepless nights I read good books and write.

Literature. I went to the Nuyorican Poetry Cafe on Friday night. I basked in the movement of people back and forth -- the men tended to slam about politics and the women about social injustice. I've just flipped through my music collection, looking for an artist with the passion or honest eloquence I saw on the Nuyorican stage. Bright Eyes may be the only comparison; but for his whiny scrawl, substitute the cursive rhythms of east coast rap.

Here's the poem I sketched the next night about one of the poets:

this is the persuasive
sermon ... this diatribe
from the bottle of this
Atlanta acreage, bared
like this woman's chest -- with
that honesty of address.

this is the finally
ill invalid facing
her demise with shocking
regard for these invalids.

her upheld hand cups a
lucent mantel ... and a
white knife she drives through her
leather coat. Her black-skinned
blood salves bored cancers -- red
coughs do not enrage by
vague triviality.
Her blood punctually
succors small kids and plants goats.

not for the lack of tithe
in her other hand, not
for the lack of glory
in blueprints and plans, not
even for my poems of
her anonymity
she slides to her knees, casts
the mantel of light -- she
crescendos. We, all and
I, hear as she bares her
palms righteously, holies
the mic. Her eyes beg. Her
tongue heaves. She breathes -- to old
tenements and invalids.

Random collisions

The day after I visited the Pig and Whistle Pub in midtown I explored an entirely different part of the island. A door opened in front of me and one of the bartenders from the pub walked right in front of me. I was so shocked to see him that I didn't even say hello.

With the vast, anonymous movement of people throughout this city, for strangers to chance upon each other twice requires serendipity. One kind girl I met on the subway rides the same train I do every day, but the chance of us actually crossing paths is very low odds. Our train runs every ten minutes, most of the day. Our schedules differ daily. Even if we happened to end up on the same train, each train has maybe twenty cars. Each car holds maybe 60 people during off-peak and upwards of a hundred during rush hour. We could be on the same car and never see each other.

But even with the improbability of accidently happening upon the same person twice, it's happened to me twice already. There is a social network that links people. Besides running into the bartender two days in a row, I met one of my roommate's old coworkers when Andrew and I went bar hopping. Then, when I started work today at the place Andrew manages, the old coworker came in to eat. Even that occurance required chance, as I could have worked a different shift and it may have been weeks before the coworker came in again. Yet, it's clear our connection through Andrew made it more likely we'd meet again.

My friend Emily explained New York as a big city made up of small communities. Likewise, one of the bartenders at my new job mentioned she liked working there because the community was full of locals who were regulars. Perhaps people go to the same places repeatedly for the familiar faces. Perhaps it's the way to make friends.

I tried out the local bar on my own tonight, which was blocks away. I felt so uncomfortable walking into what was obviously a close knit community that I left immediately. Bar hopping on my own was not a success. I couldn't get up the nerve to actually sit and wait and order drinks alone. I forgot how draining it is to make friends.

digame

On my first night in New York my roommate Andrew took me bar hopping.

On the way down I noticed talking on the subway is like watching silent movies: you can see their lips move, but you can't hear the syllables. It's an eerie disconnect. You have to shout, even face to face. If you don't, your words are garbled by the clunk and gimbling of the car. I dart my eyes between eyes and lips to try to read what I can't hear.

Sociology students should be required to take trips on subways. I rode the A train from JFK to my stop. At the last Brooklyn stop a young Chinese man hopped aboard. As he silently took a seat, I noticed he was the only non-black person on my car, besides me. However, the first stop in Manhattan, a few Slavic whites got on. By midtown the car was evenly mixed. By my stop, the car was predominantly Hispanic and Irish white. It wasn't the race that through me off, but the progression. Is the city ghettoed? Or was it the time of day? In a city so diverse, the delineations seemed too stark.

Not that race dehumanizes much in New York. Here, the divider between people (and there seems there's always a divider) is language. In my neighborhood you'll see very dark skinned people speaking Spanish to very light skinned people. The same will happen between those speaking English. There are white people dressed in the same attire as black people, and Hispanics dressed in the same attire as Irish or Jewish people. But it seems that two people speaking a Slavic language are set apart from the three speaking French and the two chatting away in Hindi or Swahili. Race doesn't make people inaccessible, but it seems language might.

Speaking of language, I went to the UN today. Not interesting at all. I imagine it would be fascinating if you could do more than stand in the lobby or examine the gift shop.

It's a lonely city, this city is. I walked for six hours today, yet I only spoke once briefly to passers-by and once to a girl on a subway to ask for directions. When she found out this was my second day in the city, she said, "Oh that's why you look wide eyed and innocent." We chatted for a bit and her advice to me was Don't tell people where you live. You don't know who you can trust, here in New York.

off guard

I arrived at 8:20am. The weather at JFK reminded me of Oahu -- balmy and sunny. On the subway, ten stops apart, two men boarded with umbrellas. I decided it was a fashion statement. Just this morning my Dad and I talked about my ability to predict the weather. Needless to say, it's hailing now and those two fashionable men are the dry ones.

I was going to go out for groceries. I didn't even bring a raincoat... or an umbrella.

The ineffable inner cheer

John Nemo Galt posted a response to my post which decried our correlation of economics and happiness.

If you read Galt's response you probably noted he sought very precise, objective answers to questions about measuring success. Is success making friends? What kind of friends? Is it not cutting in line? Is it children sharing? Is it the depth of conversations?

All of his questions were in response to assertions I made in my post. I listed alternative methods for measuring happiness. Galt's questions forced me to reconsider. I admit, he caught me saying something I didn't mean.

In attempting to fend of economic measurements I missed the core issue: it's not how we measure, it's measurement itself.

Success is subjective. To Maslow it was scaling a heirarchy to attain self-actualization. To Freud it was acknowledging the subconscious. For Nietzsche it was discovering one's will-to-power and chasing it down. To Aristotle it was achieving an end one was designed for -- the entelechy. Mill saw success as the most happy people possible, which depended on means of measurement. To Frankl success was the demand society or individuals placed on a person -- not fulfilling the demand, but merely a person realizing they are necessary. To Marx it was reconnecting the laborer to his product. To Gandhi it was living in harmony with people and environment. To the Hebrews and to Jesus it was a similar harmony with all beings and circumstances. To Carson McCullers, Albert Camus, John Steinbeck, etc, success was in the struggle.

Some of these subjective concepts of success can be measured objectively, especially Maslow's, Mill's and Marx's. However, many others are immeasurable.

In consideration for the various ideas of success, perhaps all measurement should be eliminated. The heralding of economic growth as success does not appear as success to me, nor perhaps to many others.

I would be saddened to see someone who held harmony as their success be disregarded because their success was not profitable. The trend is changing, as more often, successful harmony with our environment is lauded. The end results of the Green movement are measurable -- the temperature or the concentration of greenhouse gases in our atmosphere -- but the human element of collaboration and innovation is not.

I find myself identifying with Frankl, Nietzche and Gandhi (ironic, no?). I think the Western world identifies itself with Mill and thus we measure the economy to measure success as it provides the most good for the most people (theoretically, capitalistically, at least).