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Saturday, June 21, 2003

Bah. Still raining in CT, +, according to Buttons, finally in Seattle as well. Sick to the death of it, truly. Hate driving in it, hate people constantly talking about it, hate the fascination it holds over the populace.

Plus, every idiot in the Tri-State seems to lose the ability to drive in any way normally once the rain starts to fall. I dunno what's wrong with these people. It's rainy, they crash. It's sunny, they crash. It's cool + overcast, they crash. It's bright + hot, they crash. It's just population, I guess. So many people living separated lives in such close proximity. I don't think they can even see each other anymore. Other people are just blockages in the arteries of their lives, blood clots + plaque buildup causing bottlenecks, getting ready to become embolisms.

This is the kind of thing that sends NYC'ers over the edge. It's what almost sends me over the edge when I'm stalled out in Greenwich, looking at miles of inert rolling iron in front of me. When the realization hits that there's no other way to go, that you've explored your options, and this crowded, deadlocked road is the best of all possible paths. + the chain is so easy to create at that point, all the links clicking together so perfectly:

I am a unique + beautiful snowflake + I need to get to point X = everyone needs to get to their point X = I'm no different from any of these people = I have become just another warm body in the mob = I am faceless, nameless + distinctly pointless = I need to break out + make myself known as an individual = I am going to buy a high-powered hunting rifle + climb the nearest clock tower.

There's a pristine logic in there that, I think, explains a WHOLE bunch about NYC, its population + the inherent attitudes. The city beats you up so badly, takes away so much of the grace + tranquility that a soul demands. A rational being rejects the city's impact, considers it to be anamolous, transitory. Moments of quiet are sought in the natural parts of the landscape, the parks, the banks of the rivers + by extension, those places created to capture those same intentions. Museums, monuments. Somewhere you can feel, however briefly, as though the other ten million people in the boroughs don't exist so much as they often seem to.

The irrational souls, though, those are the interesting ones. The ones that don't know anything else. The ones that grew up in the midst of it, who know sirens + hollering drunks as natural night noises, who know melting asphalt as summertime + polluted slush as the snows of winter. The evolved ones, the new ones. Homo sapiens urbanis. Smogbreathers, dogeaters, feral from womb to coffin. A new breed that can feel individual without the benefit of tranquility or grace. Ants with brains.

NYC. Biggest damned anthill on the planet.


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