Solitary Existence
Solitary existence isn't so bad when you learn to yearn for less and to appreciate the little things you have.
In my four wall cell of 600 sq ft, life is quiet. The basics are available. The luxuries are yet to come. I hear the muzzled murmurs of my two neighbors, while the third is ready to pass on from this world. Her name is Ms. Levine. I have an unidentified male Jew living above me that sings in Hebrew. I have a obese family to my right that bickers the weekend away. I have no one below me, except for the passing of cars in the garage. I have windows on one side of my cell which faces south. I don't get much of the sun. My light sensitive nightlight stays on 24-7. Which I'm thankful for. It's the only welcoming source in the cell when I return and the last thing that I see when I close the cold metallic door behind me each morning. It stays on all night lighting my way in the dark. It no longer flickers. I suppose it knows that I need light when alone and I suppose Curious George needs the light too. He sits quietly on my sofa next to a portrait of Donald.
I greet one of four doormen each morning as I leave the lobby to enter the courtyard. And in return, I'm greeted by an old lady that pushes a small red shopping cart around. She's about 5 feet tall, 100 pounds, white hair, white... 90 years old? She always has on a pair of brown tinted sunglasses, no doubt that they're for protecting her eyes from the sun and not for looking cool. I need a pair of sunglasses too. She's always happy and smiling. No doubt that she lives alone. She shops alone with her little red cart each morning as if to beat the afternoon mad rush of housewives. She always tells me, "Have a good day" except this morning when she told me, "Have a good weekend". It's Thursday. Perhaps she's eager to see the weekend too? Perhaps she has plans for the Labor Day weekend? I don't.
Reaching the end of the block, I greet the security guard with a wave of my right hand and a nod of my head in respect. I nod my head a lot to show respect at work. Perhaps it's an Asian thing? I continue down East 17th Street breathing in the smell of fresh cut grass. I live in a relatively wealthy neighborhood where the home owners are mostly Jewish and keeping their lawns manicured is the thing to do. The lawn manicurists tend to be Mexican, like any other neighborhood I suppose.
The quiet and the stillness quickly morphs into a mad rush as I swipe my monthly Metrocard. Only the roaring of the train breaks the silence on the platform. Solitaries all around me. Perhaps they live as I do too? After saying a little prayer for family, friends and strangers, I begin retreating into one of my fantasy worlds and drift off in contentment.
So the day goes on... day after day... maybe the Chinese Ching Gwut Shiu ("Bone Weight Book") was right, I was a monk or a priest in a previous life and will be so in this one.
In my four wall cell of 600 sq ft, life is quiet. The basics are available. The luxuries are yet to come. I hear the muzzled murmurs of my two neighbors, while the third is ready to pass on from this world. Her name is Ms. Levine. I have an unidentified male Jew living above me that sings in Hebrew. I have a obese family to my right that bickers the weekend away. I have no one below me, except for the passing of cars in the garage. I have windows on one side of my cell which faces south. I don't get much of the sun. My light sensitive nightlight stays on 24-7. Which I'm thankful for. It's the only welcoming source in the cell when I return and the last thing that I see when I close the cold metallic door behind me each morning. It stays on all night lighting my way in the dark. It no longer flickers. I suppose it knows that I need light when alone and I suppose Curious George needs the light too. He sits quietly on my sofa next to a portrait of Donald.
I greet one of four doormen each morning as I leave the lobby to enter the courtyard. And in return, I'm greeted by an old lady that pushes a small red shopping cart around. She's about 5 feet tall, 100 pounds, white hair, white... 90 years old? She always has on a pair of brown tinted sunglasses, no doubt that they're for protecting her eyes from the sun and not for looking cool. I need a pair of sunglasses too. She's always happy and smiling. No doubt that she lives alone. She shops alone with her little red cart each morning as if to beat the afternoon mad rush of housewives. She always tells me, "Have a good day" except this morning when she told me, "Have a good weekend". It's Thursday. Perhaps she's eager to see the weekend too? Perhaps she has plans for the Labor Day weekend? I don't.
Reaching the end of the block, I greet the security guard with a wave of my right hand and a nod of my head in respect. I nod my head a lot to show respect at work. Perhaps it's an Asian thing? I continue down East 17th Street breathing in the smell of fresh cut grass. I live in a relatively wealthy neighborhood where the home owners are mostly Jewish and keeping their lawns manicured is the thing to do. The lawn manicurists tend to be Mexican, like any other neighborhood I suppose.
The quiet and the stillness quickly morphs into a mad rush as I swipe my monthly Metrocard. Only the roaring of the train breaks the silence on the platform. Solitaries all around me. Perhaps they live as I do too? After saying a little prayer for family, friends and strangers, I begin retreating into one of my fantasy worlds and drift off in contentment.
So the day goes on... day after day... maybe the Chinese Ching Gwut Shiu ("Bone Weight Book") was right, I was a monk or a priest in a previous life and will be so in this one.
posted by Sparky X | 5:00 PM
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