Currently browsing 'public space'
Dante’s Inferno, Perhaps Third Cirlce: The Gross Man
For those who don’t remember, the Dante’s Inferno series are reserved for rants and the literary banishment of those who offend Urban Odyssey bloggers. Watch out, because this post comes from the fury of Bianca. Only mildly censored so as not to ignite an internet riot.
“Dear God,
Why? Why I ask, why do certain people exist?
Picture it, a muggy Spring morning in late May. The 6:00am 2 train. Abnormally packed train for this early in the morning. Seating is limited. As I go into my usual morning trance during my 90 minute commute I am rudely interrupted by foul play. That foul play my friends is Body Odor. A 6′ 5″ inch male, approximately 40 years old, still rockin fubu hard as if they were ever cool or like they ever made anything of quality…or perhaps his Asian themed button down is a “Dragon Ball-Z” shirt. Nonetheless his shirt sucks. His jeans are visibly filthy and 2 inches too short. He is wearing crew cut socks (do they even make those anymore?) and his new balance sneakers look like his lawn mowing sneakers however somehow I doubt he has a lawn to mow. Too harsh? Well you try sitting down wind from this motherfucker standing over you with what I believe to be 2 days worth of underarm body odor. There is no escaping this. I tried plugging my nose, burying my face in my arm then my bag. Shallow breaths from my mouth did not do the trick. “Ding!” The train doors open after this 15 minute violation. He takes two steps toward what I believe will be my freedom to breath. NOPE sits right next to me. I thought for a moment the smell would die down since I was no longer right beneath his armpit. 5-4-3-2-NOPE. Dante’s Inferno, Perhaps Third Cirlce: The Gross Man – continue reading …
Guess who’s back?
Those who followed the Elusive White Tiger hunting in an abandoned lot in Inwood, which then became a blog on a Scorched Earth policy here that turned the lot (and hunting grounds) to a wasteland, will be happy to know that the grass grew back and…. the tiger is back, still hunting! See that white dot in the back? That’s the tiger walking ever so stealthy through a jungle.
Who knows what our little tiger ate while the earth was poisoned? Who knows what our little tiger is eating NOW from a poisoned earth…! What kind of crazy toxins are in those deceptively green everglades? How long before Thanos comes back with his ghostbuster’s toxin backpack for another scorched earth wave?
Despite this, the hunt continues.
Central Park as a Galápagos Island
Part of Urban Confessions Week
Like it or not, some New Yorkers treat Central Park like a Galápagos Island. It’s either a free pet store or an orphanage. We’ve racked up a dog, iguana and parakeet from its forests, all with the thrill of catching them with our own hands. How many of you will fess up to taking your Woolworth’s goldfish to a local pond to either to spare it the spin down the toilet bowl, or because you imagined that it would have a better life there? Keep it up and we’ll spawn some new weird urban species.
A dollhouse in Murray Hill
This building in Murray Hill, Manhattan, caught my eye as a work of art. The black windows climb haphazardly along the walls and look almost like you can slide them from here to there with your finger. Still, it has a harmony pleasing to the eye. The building has a clean, earthen color, contrasted by the almost toy-like colorful newsstands and signs out front.
The Phone Booth
There was a phone booth at the corner of an Inwood block, right beside a mailbox, trash can and a few newspaper receptacles that flash passersby morning news. The phone booth was the first thing I noticed when I walked up that block for the very first time. It immediately became a marker of home, and contributed to why I moved there. It felt right. The phone booth was a cozy fixture, its location seemed so perfect, so residential, so reminiscent of pre-cell phone days. I imagined its use- a lover calling to see if their object of desire was home, a phone in a surrounding apartment being answered as a face peeked through curtains, looking for the caller who is hunched in the phone booth to escape the rain. Surely this phone booth would do some good, and I smiled every time I passed it.
Its phone had a yellow handle that blended so nicely with the fallen autumn leaves.
I suppose the phone might have had other, more diabolical uses. I suppose the logical question is also, had I ever seen anyone use it, outside my romantic fantasy? Perhaps once, but even that is not something I can say with certainty.
So the other week I heard horrible machine noises, buzz saws munching into metal and concrete. I didn’t peek through a curtain to see what was happening- (though that would flow nicely with the story)- I happened to be walking outside and saw Verizon chopping down the booth like a tree. It took something like two vans, a fire hydrant spilling out crystal cold water, and a whole lot of men to down the little phone booth. It seemed an expensive operation.
Why do I find the loss of the phone booth so sad, like I lost a good neighbor? Despite my admiration of it, I never offered it a hello. All that remains of it is a fresh patch of grey cement and a warning bar not to step there, like a tombstone.
Havana Days: The 5 Senses
Note: The Havana entries are evolving reflections of Cuban odysseys. They should not be taken singularly… meaning they should not be taken as a generalized finality of experience. They should be viewed as a part of a continuum of experience, which includes reaction and ongoing reflection.
Arrival.
Sight
Rain. Shit and slime covered cobblestones. Oily green and brown pools of fetid water. Cracked crumbling roads, decaying buildings. Urban murals that are shrines to the orishas.
Sounds
Voices, singers, ping pong ball hit back and forth. Man coughing up his morning phlegm. Kids going to school. Motors. First edition ever 1980s home printer sound (prints with the sound of a laser gun on the paper with perforated sides). Rustling plants in wind by barred windows. Rain drops, metal clang of window chain knocking against the wood door shutters. I keep getting up to answer a wind ghost that isn’t there. The soft banal voice of the colleague, overridden by the cowbell, cantante, and piano… he’s been here for years but still his voice is overwhelmed by the music.
Smells
Raw sewage,vapors seeping from the stones of road into my room. Mildew walls and streets, dog shit. Never the smell of food.
Trapped with a group who speak a language of science, while all I do is dream the symbols of language. I care more about the movement of the potted plant behind my colleague than his instructions, more about the irony of the music drowning away his voice, and I cheer for it to overwhelm him.
Taste
Canned string beans, spam ham, morro, yucca… Eating is a means to satiate, not pleasure. One of the first food things to import if the embargo is lifted is Goya seasoning (or some simple pepper). Eating is enjoyable in someone’s home.
Touch
The least used sense for me in this trip. My memories of touch are only of hand sanitizers, to erase the memory of touch. Cuba, will you crumble if I touch you? Cuba answers: No, new arrival. I am stronger than the facade of my infrastructure. Touch me and learn.
Space Odyssey in Washington Heights
This installment sits in the secluded woods of Fort Tryon Park by the dog run. I think it is a cleverly disguised black monolith from the movie: 2001: A Space Odyssey. Instead of apes jumping up and down to its presence and hum, you have dogs barking around it, perhaps triggering some evolutionary spark in them so that dogs evolve into their anagram: gods. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, visit the black monolith link.
If it’s not a disguised black monolith, then it is an ode to the types of radiators we have in Washington Heights.
Your thoughts?
Scorched Earth Policy here at home
Last month, urban odyssey blogger C-mixto wrote an entry on the elusive white tiger of Inwood: a white cat that hunts pigeons in the grasslands of an abandoned lot on Broadway near Academy. Last week I passed by and saw a man with a chemical tank on his back hosing down the entire field. Didn’t look good. No chance of that being environmentally gentle liquid in that ghostbusters backpack.
So… how sad was it to walk by the lot today and see…. THIS!
Yes we have a scorched earth policy in Inwood, it seems. At first glance my heart glowed with a romantic hope that this vision was autumn’s hand painting the landscape a crisp gold. I told myself that it was a field of wheat swaying in the winds, not the corpses of a variety of plant life. Who would notice this, if you didn’t see that the field was green just a few days ago? Perhaps there is no relation between the man with the tank and the sudden death of every growing thing in that spacious lot, but chances are… It’s worth writing about.
Man-made apocalypse in an Inwood lot! Was it weeds he wanted to get rid of? The rats (as the sign advertises)? Sigh… should we now question every single natural beauty we see in our urban landscapes as being a man-made invention, a pot of contamination? Where will the white tiger hunt now?
The sidewalks of Buenos Aires
A trip to Buenos Aires is what threw me to the Urban Odyssey side. The city’s sidewalks were the most impressionable character that I left with. Besides wondrous Street Cookie, the most memorable part of strolling down the sidewalks of Buenos Aires was the dog shit. It’s everywhere; brown little shrines left here and there. Their shapes were varied, from perfectly round droppings that made you think of spilled chocolate gumballs, and (even grosser, get ready), when it was smeared it reminded me of the dulce de leche found in almost every BA dessert. The sidewalks of Buenos Aires – continue reading …
Miami knows what’s up
This Miami sign was submitted by JPLogan, passed along from others… More smart urban planning.
