2002-10-25 19:26:16 ET|
**written in my journal shortly before picking up digit and anima infirmary from grand central**
Bryant Park, NY NY
Against my better judgement, I have forfieted cybercafe to try and work on a storyline. A man in a suit and a tan trenchcoat and his five year old son are running like maniacs around the field in the middle of the park. The electric green of the grass is an exclamation point in the mildly stated grayness of concrete structure.
The pair tear across the green, circling around each other, falling to their knees and giggling. He picks the child up, legs flailing and swings him around, the child squealing with joy and after they stop, dad holds him tight as he whispers some amazing secret into his father's ear. The man looks so relaxed and utterly happy, as if the suit he's still wearing is just the last scrap of a bad dream. They're pretending to be boxers and he lets th ekid, who is easily one third his size, pummel him into the ground before hanging him upside down by his ankles.
the cold October air numbs my writing hand and makes me feel slightly shaky, as if i just stopped crying an hour ago. i wish i had a camera right now. The thing that stands out the most about them is how tiny they are, isolated in the middle of this sprawling rectangle of bright green walled on all four sides by skyscrapers, caught in the middle of a formidable canyon of glass and steel. the pair are absolutely dwarfed by their surroundings, tiny specks of joy in the heart of this machine.
-it makes me realize that there is a reason for everything i do and everything i gave up or put up with, and everything i work towards. because, for a moment, it seemed like th ewhole reason for this city being built, for these man made mountains and the centuries of clutter surrounding them all worth it.. the veins and arteries of human energy pulsing at a dim roar in the distance, it all came together to form a stage of sorts in which two human hearts could experience what it means to fall down laughing in each others arm and know being alive.
Words cannot express such things, but words can try. The experience flashes bright as a photocopy lensflare and leaves a xerox afterimage of words and ideas in its wake. These words are the leftovers but not the light, the evidence but not the crime, the recorded, but not the real. In the face of Beauty, the words surrounding them fade and grow dim like the distant roar of the city as a child whispers a secret.