Text Messages From Gotham

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	Hello, Auntie. I’m in Times Square.  I like it here. Here’s what I see: A black man with earphones, in his late thirties, holds up an arm and shouts, “There is no word, fool!” A middle-aged white woman talks into her cell phone. “If you don't know,” she hisses, “just say you don’t know.”
I walk past the My Way Nails and Spa where a bearded man is getting a pedicure. A boombox in the doorway blares the latest Hip-Hop anthem.
A old couple wanders past. They’re plugged into separate iPods. Each has a different soundtrack for the moment they share on Gotham’s streets. I begin to wonder how people manage to meet and fall in love in this confusion.	A woman sitting at a restaurant booth waves a sheaf of yellow papers covered with rows of numbers. She lays them down and writes more numbers, dating each one as she does. You can tell she’s as crazy as a jay.
There’s a surfeit of consciousness in Times Square. One consciousness begins to push against another. People cope by transferring some of it into machines and other objects. As I write this, a woman in a trench coat and a headscarf looks up and talks to one of the buildings.

Comments

[ahfukit]

Swell words and pix.