I step out onto the street. On the ground someone has spray painted the word “cunt” in capitalized black letters. The word looks up at me as I look down at it, my strappy black high heels next to the word cunt. I wonder who put this here. I wonder so fiercely about them that it rattles my brain. It will drive me crazy that I will never know. That the reason behind an action will never be revealed to me.
I put my headphones on and hit shuffle on my music library. I sometimes have a specific song I want to listen to, over and over again on repeat, but other times I would rather not know whats about to hit my eardrums, I enjoy the surprise and unpredictability. All the choices one has to make in a life, the responsibility, the contextualizing of outcomes that can’t€be predicted, sometimes it’s€all so burdensome- it exhausts me. I’m okay with not knowing, this not knowing brings me peace of mind. “Bang a gong”€ by T Rex starts to play and I stand on the corner, my long dress slightly moving in the breeze from a metro bus that just hurled itself past me, covering me in the smell of fumes and exhaust. It reminds me of taking elementary school field trips and the smell makes me feel slightly nauseas.
I cross the street and arrive on the other side where a man wearing no shoes sits slumped against the wall in the sun. His head falling to one side, the bottom of his feet black and calloused. I think of this man’s mother, I can’t help it. I’m imagining him as a newborn, purple and screaming, completely helpless. And my eyes brim with tears I will let myself cry later, when I’m alone. A group of well dressed business men pass me, their eyes all over me, not noticing what my attention is focused on. They don’t see the crumpled up man at all, or if they do, they ignore him.
I walk, carefully, my heels threatening to take me down with each step. But carefully maneuvered, my heels, the added height to my already tall, thin frame, the elegance they give to my swishy dress, make me impossible not to notice. I know this. I feel the eyes follow me from the cars when I move through a crosswalk. I see the glances that quickly advert when I meet them with my own eyes. I wonder why people want to look at me without me looking back at them. It makes me hate myself in a way I don’t fully understand.
Next to me is an old woman. Hunched and slow, she’s waddling with her tote bags, completely separate from anyone else. Thin grey hair and wrinkles, dressed in a shapeless frumpy smock and orthopedic shoes, the old woman weaves through people who nonchalantly move around her without even a glance. I realize that peoples eyes on me connects me- to them, to the street, the city, to life. Even if no one meets my eye’s, I am still there- a player in the game. The old woman is invisible and therefore the streets are solely hers. I know that one day I will be a ghost too. I wonder if that old woman finds great peace in moving unseen on the streets, if she is unbothered by not being noticed by others because at the end of her walk is another old ghost, who is waiting for her, waiting to turn her back into a main character.
I wait to cross the street next to a young girl wearing tight stretchy workout clothes, the color of lilac. The material is like a second skin, the curves of her body moving through the crowd adding shape and color to the street. When they cross, I slow my pace, falling out of step with her and watching as people react to the girl. Eyes follow her too, hungry eyes- eating her up, staring so long that she’s forced to look at them. They unabashedly look back at her- they want her. It feels unnerving and scary and suddenly I’m thankful for people looking away when I meet their eyes with my own.
A dog is struggling to relieve his bowels next to a tree, the one square of unpaved metropolis the sidewalk offers, it’s owner tugging at his leash hurriedly- rushing the poor animal as swarms of people maneuver around them. The dog’s eyes look strangely human, worried and embarrassed, and I feel so terrible for it. I wish the dog could relieve himself in privacy and peace. I wish the dog didn’t have to wear canvas shoes over its paws to protect it from the grime of the city sidewalks. I wish the dog could live freely on a farm, or somewhere safe where it could run.
I pass buildings, a coffee shop with tables scattered along the sidewalk, people teetering on uncomfortable but stylish wrought iron chairs. My eyes scan the tables looking for books or journals, pens and pencils, but there are only cellphones and laptops. Everyone is accompanied by their technological devices- plugged in. Every ear adorned with a headphone, allowing people to disappear even though they are right in front of you. I takes my headphones off, stashing them away in my purse.
I pass a bar, packed already even though it’s only six pm, people holding large glasses of Chardonnay and yelling to each other over the noise. I can see the bartenders, a man with his hair tousled on top of his head in a messy bun and a woman with a full sleeve of tattoos moving up and down the bar like synchronized dancers. Each knowing who to help, slicing a lemon, pouring a glass of water for a red faced woman swaying on her chair, running a credit card, throwing ice in a glass, balancing bottles- they move together in harmony and almost look like doctors in the ER. The weathered old security guard, perched on a beat up wooden stool outside the door, makes eye contact with me and I wave thankfully, “hi” I say. He smiles, “hi,” he says back.
I pass windows that reveal empty spaces, nothing but potential and dirty concrete inside. I imagines the empty spaces a thousand different ways. A bookshop with wooden mahogany shelves, an art gallery full of unknown artists work, a small cinema that only plays old movies. I imagine owning the entire building and creating cozy, simple apartments, with a memorable, friendly doorman who feels like family waiting to welcome you home. I imagine the crumpled up man on the sidewalk living there with clean feet.
I pass a barber shop, the floor to ceiling windows revealing classic grooming stations with plastic chrome seats, men chatting to one another. My reflection passes through them in their mirrors and I like to see men talking to one another in this way. The act of one man cutting another man’s hair while having a conversation feels compassionate and gentle, intimate in a way men are always running from.
Coming towards her is a delivery robot. A small square box with wheels and a flag. The robot looks human to me and I’m worried about it. I watch as it moves around things, as people look at it, and I can’t help but assign innocence to this machine. All day delivering iced coffees and for what? The machine making it possible for people to receive an act of service without having to say thank you. Its existence inadvertently causing us all to be more entitled and unappreciative. I wonder where the robot goes when the day is over. I wonder why I feel so sad for this machine. Why I feel so sad for everyone.
I sit down on a bench outside a shiny polished building with suits going in and out of it. I light a cigarette and a woman wearing tattered, ripped clothes asks if she can have one. I take another cigarette from the box and hand it to the woman sadly. The woman leaves without asking me for a light. I watch her move up the street, the unlit cigarette hanging out of her mouth, a gift from a stranger.
There are people all around me, but I feel lonely. Surrounded by mysterious interior worlds, I feel disconnected from everyone. Noticing everything but unable to participate in any of it.
Word Vomit 