 |
GROUND OF ALL ZEROS This is Not Here
By Meera Francois
|
|
| QUARANTINED BY THE INDUSTRIAL WASTES of the continent of New Jersey, and shrouded by the black clouds of smokestacks and the fumes of poisoned waters, is veiled the microcosm of New York City. It cannot rightly be called "New York City, New York", because that is to defy what New York is--a complex universe standing on its own right, elite, detached, besides which everything else is indeed simply Everything Else. Some say that there is something snobbish about New Yorkers, as though New Yorkers feel that being so makes them superhuman. This was my first visit to the city, and I think I've been convinced that there is indeed something superhuman--intensely human, transhuman, about New York and its inhabitants. Each formed a mirror of the other; in the structures of New York, I came to see the faces of the people, and in their faces the stature and uplift of their skyscrapers. I was visiting New York on a field trip with my high school journalism class. My vacation was surreal; part of me is unsure whether I attribute the power of the city to the place itself alone, or also in part to the way I handed myself over to it so thoroughly. I thought of little outside the city, and thus little in my day to day life beyond it while I was there. New York consumed my psyche. New York is often portrayed as glamorous: always steered vaguely by the enticement of elitism, money, power, and beauty, I was cured of this original delusion upon my arrival; my hotel after all was on a lovely street in the "good" part of the city, lined with whorehouses and stinking of pot. It really was a good part of the city though! This truth was reflected magnificently by the frank neon sign above one of the dilapidated brick structures I could see out my window: "Wonderful Town", it stated. New York was not a glamorous place after all. I spent the first night becoming "lost" with the group I was traveling with. Seven of us were told that if you went in a straight line in either direction from the hotel, you would hit Times Square, and this is where we were to go. It occurred to me these directions were ridiculous! If you could go either way, there must be a turn somewhere. We had three hours, and Times Square was five minutes from the hotel. In the third hour we did indeed see Times Square. In the first two, we saw the rest of New York City. Consciously, openly, we gave into our pretenses; even to the point of having to ignore what each other said about how unreasonable it was to walk ten blocks straight, to go half an hour without seeing the Square or any sign of it. None of us considered the alternate solutions that we were busy proposing. All of us talked without thinking, because none of us really wanted to think; to think would've restored rationale, and killed the thing in us that was driving us forward, onward, into the snow and wind and cold. The confession "I think we got lost on purpose" wouldn't be uttered until the following afternoon. That night, all we would state was confusion, swiftly turning a blind eye towards statements to the contrary. Getting lost was our pretense for finding New York; we needed an excuse to court the city. We were still caught up with responsibilities and obligations, to be here or there at some point of time, to keep the scheduled itinerary. Our minds busily consumed in where we were or should be in the next hour. Gradually the cold and the lights, the steady movement of the streets and stores flowing past us drove this obsession out of me; as time progressed my awareness of it began to recede. I forgot a site after it passed, though a few images would permanently imprint on my mind. Firstly there was a center for the arts that we passed; the courtyard and the building with its glass windows seemed shockingly lucid in the frigid air, the snow coalescing in the glistening of the fountain out front. This kind of stark, contrasting beauty did not represent New York. But it showed me that in this place, there was beauty after all, something ascendant, hidden within the surrounding decay. The second image that stayed in my mind was that of a homeless man. This was when I began to watch the New Yorkers themselves. He was the first indication I had that they, like their city, were not what I had expected. He was not begging; he was dead calm, placid, but distinctly present, the first time we passed him. When we passed him again on our way back, he was vehement in denouncing the city itself. Through both of these displays, he asked for nothing, but maintained something that could only be called an exceptional and unexpected dignity. I also could see an intense charisma in him, and thought if someone had given him a podium, money would have been thrown to him, not out of pity but out of admiration. When we reached Times Square, the twenty blocks through the frozen air had gnawed away at our minds and numbed them out. So we entered a world vibrant with lights and fluid motion, with colours and forms not quite comprehensible in our state of practical unconsciousness. We walked through this maze of lights, in and out of stores that were almost absurd in their size and content, aware of our inability to focus on much other than light, colour, and sound. People held open doors for me--New Yorkers. I was beginning to learn how to recognize the natives from the tourists. It was the same thing I had seen in the homeless man: some dignity untouchable by either their surroundings or their own failings. I'd heard all my life that New Yorkers were rude; on my trip, no one attempted to rob me, but plenty of doors were held open. This stereotype was way off the mark. I had expected to get some homework done on this trip; instead I spent the night trying to sleep through my roommates' MTV obsession. I don't have cable; I didn't know that MTV only plays about ten songs, over and over and over ... if one more thing could've broken my mind out of functioning, it was this: the repetition became like a mantra, even through sleep, invading even on dreams. My removal from time increased; the homework left my interest. Did it matter what was going to happen tomorrow, or what my life had been up until now? For once--no. I never knew what time it was. Drugged out on cold and bad music, not caring about my life--this should seem the most escapist thing in the world. Part of it, no doubt, was. But within it was brought out a poignant reality; that of the Now. My mind was engaged, if anything, with the present. While the present is not the timeless, it was a step closer than the future and the past, remembrance and projection, the eternally caging aspects of mind that pull us away from true recognition of the divine. And at intervals, even that present dissolves into presence, timeless beyond time. Engaged totally in the present reality of New York City, I was able to understand a couple things. First, there was the insistent statement I'd seen on a sign in the Hard Rock cafe there: "This is not here." Secondly, there was what was here, cloaked in but almost expressed through the corrosion. I saw it expressed again and again. Amidst the ruined landscape (New York is not just a city within a landscape; there is only New York, the crumbling, toppling, soaring landscape itself), an intense, but subtle, greatness, the likes of which I have never encountered elsewhere. Something ascendant within surroundings of descension. You'd have missed it if you were in a hurry, or not looking closely. You wouldn't see it if you weren't totally present: it was there in the sheer immensity of St. John's, if not evident in its corroding exterior. It was there in the powerful declaration of the statue of an angel that stood to one side beyond the high fence, dwarfed by the cathedral’s monstrosity. It was evident in the facade of a building that, if I'd not looked twice, I'd have thought nothing of: on closer examination, I could see that the entirety of it was positively drenched in stone engravings of incredible intricacy and artistry. The New Yorkers were recognizable because they too, one with the city, reflected this intense and mysterious quality that was perhaps that--quality. Greatness. Like cells within an organism driven by a collective unconscious, they neither slowed nor sped up for anything; the pedestrians crossed streets without glancing, and rarely had to speed up or slow down--they simply intuitively knew not only when to cross, but when to arrive at the street to cross it. They had a detachment that bespoke of exceptional awareness. Yet this wasn't to say that they were not individual. Anywhere else I go I see about ten different haircuts worn by everyone, and a couple specific choices in fashion, these people simply had their hair and clothing reflective of whatever they wanted; there was no attempt to mimic one another, and apparently no understanding of why anyone would try. They carried themselves differently as well--they strode with purpose (perhaps only because in New York you have no choice if you want to live--I once hesitated and actually had an attempt made on my life for it!)--but need can breed awareness as well as anything else. And how often do you enter a city where even the homeless people are dignified? I am sure there are plenty that were not, as much as anywhere there are always those who fall outside the norm. But what I remember was these two homeless people I saw sitting against a wall, sharing a blanket, and laughing, talking, looking happier than anyone else I'd actually seen in the city. I remembered the homeless man I’d seen the first night of my wanderings, while “lost”, who had been charismatic and present. Classism was more evident here than anywhere else I'd been--on one hand you had starving homeless people, on the other, the wealth of the city--Donald Trump. Yet the homeless man I'd that first night of my arrival had held the same charisma and dignity as Trump, and the two others that stuck in my mind had seemed more joyous. Whatever profound awareness I seemed to witness in these people was, like their dignity and artistry, just beneath the surface--beneath that deteriorating facade of ordinary consciousness. I have no idea if New York is even aware of this greatness, this ascended aspect, as a whole, or if it just subconsciously surfaces in the reputed snobbery (which I didn't really witness), the manner of their stride and posture, their collective individualism. Frequently, however, there are those in the city that become increasingly conscious of this understated grandeur. Like me they find their lives pushed aside for a moment within the Now—even more present than present--wherein their awareness penetrates the concrete ugliness and alights on this timeless greatness. New York City, the landscape and microcosm, the universe of disintegrating towers and spires, corrodes into the dust of "This is not here." What remains is the awesome beauty of what Is, what is untouchable and indestructible and lies at the core of this place and its inhabitants: that greatness that is divinity's expression within the manifest world. Those who become conscious of and within this write, speak, think, paint, sculpt, and perform from the depths of this divinity--the spark for all true creativity. This is why New York City is the home of artists. [TM editor Paul Salamone would like to give a shout to Justin B., keepin' it real in Brooklyn, NY. This one's for you kid.] |
||
| 17-year-old Meera Francois is a key player in The Manifest empire. She resides in the D.C. area and digs goth music and Dune. Also by Meera: West Side Stories. |
©2003-2004 The Manifest E-Zine