(no subject)
Riding the bus this morning, latitudinally towards the Lake, I was naturally taken aback by the solid flat gorgeous grey of the skyline, backlit by early-morning wide open sky in golden pink and mist and glow.
Even twenty years down the road, I am sure I will feel the same way, this startled soft breathy 'wow' issuing forth from my sleepy head as I turn from my bus people-watching to look out the scratched-up plexi to the world outside.
This morning, as I watched the city turn and change perspective, layers sliding against each other as the bus moved further east, the low-slung drab brick buildings of the projects came into the foreground and obscured my view for a minute or two. That seems to be the way of things, here. The beauty and sparkle and dynamic nature of the city's culture is punctuated and interrupted by the unfortunate, the homeless, the smell of urine in the subway, the reminder that we are all here for only a short time. It's incredible how many people in this city ignore the interruptions. They pretend, through venti triple lattes (extra hot, no foam, half caf, shot of hazelnut) that their city just needs a few more condos and parking spots for SUVs.
In the meantime I drink in as much as I can with my eyes. Dirt and sparkle alike.
At the train station, I can smell bus exhaust and garbage and dirt and perfume and freshly-shampooed hair. Covering it all was a blanket of cheap incense, burned by the man sitting in his little train station booth, covering up his own interruptions.
Even twenty years down the road, I am sure I will feel the same way, this startled soft breathy 'wow' issuing forth from my sleepy head as I turn from my bus people-watching to look out the scratched-up plexi to the world outside.
This morning, as I watched the city turn and change perspective, layers sliding against each other as the bus moved further east, the low-slung drab brick buildings of the projects came into the foreground and obscured my view for a minute or two. That seems to be the way of things, here. The beauty and sparkle and dynamic nature of the city's culture is punctuated and interrupted by the unfortunate, the homeless, the smell of urine in the subway, the reminder that we are all here for only a short time. It's incredible how many people in this city ignore the interruptions. They pretend, through venti triple lattes (extra hot, no foam, half caf, shot of hazelnut) that their city just needs a few more condos and parking spots for SUVs.
In the meantime I drink in as much as I can with my eyes. Dirt and sparkle alike.
At the train station, I can smell bus exhaust and garbage and dirt and perfume and freshly-shampooed hair. Covering it all was a blanket of cheap incense, burned by the man sitting in his little train station booth, covering up his own interruptions.