The Corner of 6th Ave and Central Park South - or reclaiming history.
28/05/08 13:34
New York, New York
indeed. The intensity is overwhelming. For every step
you take a cascade of light hits you, engulfing what
ever is left of the fragile identity that fights to
survive within this all consuming plurality.
It’s identity lies in the constant movement of a million souls - all roaming around with the goal of getting somewhere, not in the specific moment, not on the specific day - maybe, and only maybe, they’ll get there in a lifetime. They strive towards the abstract of something dictated by the unknown. They move to avoid the almost ritual devouring of whatever slows down.
As the remnants of the lost souls roam around at night trying to regain the footing of the once prideful existence amongst these predators of predators, the spirit watches in delight as zealots command the fearful initiates into the submission.
Movement is the religion on this secluded place. The spirit of Manhattan has been forced out by the all embracing spirit of the finite - a descendant of The ancient God of Time. In the blind worship of impressions it is hard not to lose yourself - not to be blinded by the light of the grandeur.
But the real art in this temple of multiplicity is to hold on to yourself. With the mind in a state of constant alert, and the senses always challenged by the flow of change, the steady contemplation - the quiet moments in which we define ourselves become as futile as the breath of fresh air.
The traffic is like a nest of snakes, worming its way in an unseen order. The yellow cars weave in and out of traffic with the easy of a lustful thought.
But I will not be blinded - I will not lose myself in the candid flare of this deceitful religion. I will stay true to my own history and leave respectfully. I will keep myself and my demons - in all its imperfectness, with the sole reason that it is mine. Impressed, yes - seduced, no.
It is my firm belief - and I might be an anachronistic, romantic, no good softie SOB - that a community with that little social interaction is not a community. How to you form bonds in the middle of a river, how do you form yourself when you have no time to see, taste or reflect?
It’s time to take back history.
It’s identity lies in the constant movement of a million souls - all roaming around with the goal of getting somewhere, not in the specific moment, not on the specific day - maybe, and only maybe, they’ll get there in a lifetime. They strive towards the abstract of something dictated by the unknown. They move to avoid the almost ritual devouring of whatever slows down.
As the remnants of the lost souls roam around at night trying to regain the footing of the once prideful existence amongst these predators of predators, the spirit watches in delight as zealots command the fearful initiates into the submission.
Movement is the religion on this secluded place. The spirit of Manhattan has been forced out by the all embracing spirit of the finite - a descendant of The ancient God of Time. In the blind worship of impressions it is hard not to lose yourself - not to be blinded by the light of the grandeur.
But the real art in this temple of multiplicity is to hold on to yourself. With the mind in a state of constant alert, and the senses always challenged by the flow of change, the steady contemplation - the quiet moments in which we define ourselves become as futile as the breath of fresh air.
The traffic is like a nest of snakes, worming its way in an unseen order. The yellow cars weave in and out of traffic with the easy of a lustful thought.
But I will not be blinded - I will not lose myself in the candid flare of this deceitful religion. I will stay true to my own history and leave respectfully. I will keep myself and my demons - in all its imperfectness, with the sole reason that it is mine. Impressed, yes - seduced, no.
It is my firm belief - and I might be an anachronistic, romantic, no good softie SOB - that a community with that little social interaction is not a community. How to you form bonds in the middle of a river, how do you form yourself when you have no time to see, taste or reflect?
It’s time to take back history.
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