Wednesday, June 08, 2005

If that’s not a destination, I don’t care.

There's a street in the middle of a particularly gross part of midtown Manhattan, not far from the Port Authority Bus Terminal and the construction disaster known as the future site of the New York Times.

It’s a filthy street, choked with people and traffic, scaffolding, subway entrances crammed onto much-too-small corners, and as is the case with many blocks in the area, an abundance of people pushing large, unwieldy carts piled high with reams of fabric and/or dozens of dresses, gowns, suits, and various other trappings of the “Fashion District.”

It is a street composed entirely of concrete and car exhaust, lacking any real warmth or color. Plenty of heat and humidity for sure, but no discernible warmth.

And yet in the middle of this street, obstructing one of the sidewalks, is planted a single tree. It’s a sad, scrawny thing—a small swatch of green that slices through the palette of that particular block like a bolt of lighting across a cloudless sky.

Sometimes I feel like that tree.

And sometimes, I feel like that block.


Blogger Lostinspace said...

I'm trying to picture that it near 34th? I haven't been to NYC in ages. I used to live in Hell's Kitchen one summer.

4:48 PM  
Blogger Mr. H.K. said...

I know the area you mean... When I feel like that, I walk into Central Park... and think about that instead!

4:46 PM  

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