It seems to be the case that more often than not, what many deem to be passionate and opinionated argument is simply quite a transparent window into the very personal battles the individual stating such things is enmeshed within. This, I believe, is a revelatory moment when one sees this, perhaps enough to cause a personal revolution in the ways in which one views his fellow human beings and his relationship to them. For what then is our relationship to others when we begin to see that much of what is said is merely others espousing those things which they themselves are battling against? It is a wonder then to me what the point of conversation is. Perhaps we must then come to terms with the idea that no one knows what they are speaking about but are rather continually attempting to “figure out”, allay their own inner fears or battles, or avoid them altogether. I believe this can either null the point of conversing at all. I believe it can also do dramatic things towards opening one up to being able to listen to other human beings without having preconceived notions painting the ways in which one experiences another’s speech or avoiding the bothersome intrusions of one’s ego.

This much is true: should we ever care to hear another human being, it is not far-fetched to begin to view their speech (whether verbalized, written, or made clear through other means) through very personal, and sometimes shared, influences. The myopic view. however, of believing that each person’s speech belongs to them and them alone must end for what is conversation other than either the direct or indirect attempt to convey one’s own position or mental state in the hopes that someone, somewhere may feel the same, may share the same sentiments? Conversation then, is a “reaching out” and even in the most vigorous and vulgar of approaches, must be listened to through a lens of understanding: that everyone, regardless of what they may be saying, is reaching out, perhaps for consolation, perhaps for much-sought condemnation, perhaps for insight, or perhaps for support. And perhaps (and likely this is true) there are a myriad of other reasons.

What then does it mean to converse? What then does it mean to listen?

Incessantly, the woman behind him spoke on the cell phone. It was less bothersome that she spoke. Rather, the irritation came with the speed at which she did so. Her words spilled over each other, a rolling wave of ants crawling one over the other, reaching towards some definite goal: to be understood and understood loudly. She accomplished neither and upon realizing this, spoke even louder in faulty attempts to outwit the device she held in her hand which was, through many molecules of air and cell phone towers placed strategically around the city, gargling her voice to resemble that of an irritated chipmunk.

It soon became clear to him that not only was the woman directly behind him speaking on the phone but the woman behind her was also chatting wildly on her cellular device. She was quiet though, her conversation punctuated only occasionally with comments. It was as if they were speaking to one another, the one wildly chatty, the other forced to listen to her rantings. At this thought he smiled for Edward would not be surprised were this to be the case. Two people having conversations through devices while in the same room 15 or 20 years ago would have seemed absolutely mad. Today it was a common occurrence, children texting their mothers downstairs to bring up chips and salsa, a friend texting her other friend who sits two seats away at a closed meeting, people chatting via Skype even though they sit not one seat from one another. It was the law of the spectacle: that once had, the only way to continue to experience something as the spectacle was to have it expand, become even more intrusive, even more over-the-top and robust. And quick. One must never forget quick for Edward knew better than anyone that today was ruled by how fast one could accomplish whatever it was that one was doing, regardless of its unimportance in the larger scheme of things. “And how little didn’t fit that bill,” he would think to himself.

As minds wandered beyond the confines of the cafe walls, Edward’s eyes began to glisten, a tearful reprise to the unending absence experienced in the city, an utter loneliness experienced in an inexplicable way amongst hoards of human beings. It was still strange to him to at once be with and yet, so distant, separated by unseen walls and lines of social discord and financial malfeasance. It was to his computer he was wedded, divorced from the larger society, relegated to easily understood and controlled forms of online discourse. He typed emails to himself and, upon receiving them, experienced as much satisfaction had a complete stranger or confidant sent him one for it was the receiving (and not the content) which excited him. His email was replete with self-sent correspondance which he filed neatly under “Notes from Me to Me Under the Guise of No One But Myself”. It was a long title to such emails which made him tired when applying it to new notes and he therefore referred to it as NFMTMUTGONBM and hardly could a more difficult abbreviation be created for poor Edward, prisoner to his own wild fancies.

A woman in her 80s entered the cafe and slowly approached the front counter. She wanted a cold coffee, not iced, with 2 mm of whole milk splashed with intention on the middle of her drink. There was to be no spillage. She explained this to the barrista slowly, methodically, as if through decades of practice she had now, finally, perfected the art of being a pain in the ass. The barrista grimaced and complied, no doubt gathering fodder for a story to tell her colleagues once the lady had left. Either this or she gathered steam and would unload this pent up rage on her unsuspecting lover much later in the night. The experience, no matter how one cut it, was unpleasant but the barrista, once done, took the woman’s money and sent her hobbling on her way. The emergence of rotund and spoiled energies came as waves upon the shore, leaving their imprints on the spaces they came through, sedimented layers upon the brows of those they touched. Edward would then picture this as a constantly undulating landscape of energies brought to and from the space and people, a tapestry of constantly-changing colors and hues. This made him smile for in that instant, amidst the churning chaos, he felt somehow in control as master viewer to the patterns emerging in front of him, most (if not all) inspired by the ghosts which dwelled in the confines of his mind.

Where the paths some walk are so well laid,

Where the fortunate walk amongst the decrepit and trying,

As we may try to understand how this has all come to be,

We walk and consume those places around us which bespeak of a forgotten time,

Where we shared that which we all know:

That most of us, forgiven of our trespasses against one another in the pursuit of

that ever-elusive American dream

May one day remember that none of us, however brazen,

Have reached anywhere but the continual pathway of the pursuit

and the illusions that our struggle’s ends are close

are to be never met but within the idealistic dreams,

Yearnings that one day, somehow, against all odds

We will be better off than our parents, rub shoulders with the well-to-do,

And how little the costs, and how little the personal sales,

And how little we actually take the time to take it all in,

Immersed within our personal ecosystems and the myriad faces of the misconstrued,

Again we walk and lest we perceive

Perhaps this walk

Will simply be enough.

For what are we to do?

The personal revolt once singular bleeds into the stories of all those around us

And so perhaps it is best to talk,

That opening of the mouth perhaps the most trying moment

In some of our lives.

Shared, never forgotten

We ride those pathways well-laid by the multitudinous before

Yet to be recognized, they await resurrection

And perhaps it is to this hope that I walk these streets of Brooklyn.

And so I walk.

I came back to the United States just two days after 9/11 to a country I did not recognize, to words of revenge and hate coming from friends and family members that I had not heard before. Out of character, it was as if the country had drugged itself with blind rage and hatred, fomented no doubt by the 24/7 media hype, the war criminal politicians calling for mindless revenge, the promises that America would not rest until the perpetrators were brought to justice. And it was wild-west justice, America crying loudly and demanding that it be given some moral compensation for what has happened. And though tragic beyond belief, rare was the discussion made public that the widows America has itself created, stacked one upon the other, would no doubt blot out the sun.

And so last night and this morning, I read of how yet again those of my generation upon hearing the news of a man’s death, pour into the streets in jubilation. Imagine Obama’s delight last night, knowing that when this information was released, like well-trained and obedient citizens, many of the American people would dutifully take to the streets for a public performance of their bloodlust, the very same bloodlust that blinded the public with rage, allowed them to be taken into the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. I watch my fellow citizens perform this bloodlust and I do not understand how this has come to be accepted, do not understand how it is that some of us can yet again be so reactionary and simple-minded.

Osama is dead. And so what have we gained? It is naught but a symbolic occurrence within the ranks of the long-line of Osama impersonators. But perhaps for me the symbolism remains steadfastly fixed to the reactions of my fellow Americans and the political lackeys. The occasion marks the symbolic death of independent thought, marks the decline of reason to that of barbaric bloodlust and wantonness for a nation and world rid of justice and bent instead on blind revenge, operating under the guise of an eye for an eye. It marks that moment when, upon searching for an enemy endlessly, we realize upon killing him that it was the pursuit of revenge that gave meaning to our existence and not the act of revenge itself; that in fact, we wanted revenge so badly because unconsciously we deeply despised ourselves, feared the moment we would be left with no one but ourselves.

I do not mark this occasion with jubilation. I mark it with deep regret and sadness that the American people have devolved in such a way as to think it appropriate and welcome to celebrate the death of a human being, whatever wrongs he may have incited. The justice I know and want involves court rooms and trials, reasoned response to even the most horrendous of occurrences. It is in that act of reasoned response that we reveal ourselves to be stronger than the crazed impulses for blood and revenge, it is through reasoned response that we may reclaim truly-earned respect within the international community and amongst the American people, now more than ever disillusioned and privy to responding to hand-fed news stories as child would to shiny object or red balloon.

The bloodlust of those days following 9/11 has found new expression in America and I cannot help but wonder how it is that we believe that our satisfaction for revenge will not be met with others searching for the same revenge, that against all literature from time immemorial, within all the films whose main storyline works along the precipitous decline of revenge sought, we have somehow managed to escape the action-reaction dichotomy that revenge exists within. Simplistic and banal in our unmeasured and barbaric responses, it is today that an imagined enemy and driving force behind America’s mindless revenge has been announced dead and Americans will be faced with the harsh reality of living within a country that we have expediently propelled to destitution, lawless and child-like reactionary responses, and a poverty deeper than any monetary indications may measure.

The strength lies in not having rather than spending one’s every waking moment attempting to have. There will always be those that do not have and we will always be in the majority (as we are more and more today) as troubles beset us all, including those that for years thought themselves beyond the scope of financial ruin. Many speak of the dangers of having such an either/or outlook on things and in the majority of cases, I would have to say I agree. However, in the case of the economic I believe an either/or mentality is not only possible but extremely useful in clearly demarcating those that subscribe to the have mentality and the rest of us that face increasing financial constraints. The more one is willing to stand back from all the noise and allow oneself to observe what is occurring within the societal theatre, the clearer this becomes. The result from this will be an anger insurmountable by media pundits, pay-offs and political consolations. There has come a time when we will demand our share. This will come not only through demands for money but meaningful jobs where we are allotted as workers a semblance of autonomy, able to direct our energies and labors towards the creation of things we deem meaningful to our lives. The days of alienation are limited and a new demand is arising. This is emerging in pockets around the world. It is guerilla class warfare fed through the idealistic yearnings of a youth dispossessed. So rises the re-creation.

There exist stereotypes about the financial world and the robots within for good reason as most of these stereotypes touch upon at least a few solid truths and try as one may, it is an impressive challenge for anyone to find the silver lining within this system of blatant accumulation unless of course this falls within the confines of a person’s own corporate, Capitalist mentality.

There sits before me as I type a very interesting scene of corporate theatre. The DA (Director Assistant) stands next to the SVP (my boss within this scenario simply as a result of the hierarchy proposed within the corporate body). Her head is tilted slightly upwards, her neck bent in a style of submission and longing. I am not even sure If people are conscious of their bodily movements and what they illustrate. This consciousness is a peculiar thing. It is to at once be alive and observer of life, a reflective living, as if conversing with one’s image in a pool of water. As a flaneur, it is an altogether common occurrence to be intensely aware of other’s movements and subjectively, what they represent within the tapestry of the context through which they move. It is just as common to be aware of one’s own movements and thoughts, so much so sometimes that one’s own body becomes another body to be watched and observed.  This has the possibility of creating a mental fissure, one of unease and distance from oneself. The age-old question of “Who am I?”suddenly becomes reinvigorated.

What does a recognition of this general malaise do? It is a problem altogether too large for me to offer a solution to or recommendations for. For it seems that others quite enjoy the security and comfort a job within the corporate world offers. It may be altogether due to my own personal makeup that I find abominable at times the general ecosystem of the goliath corporation. In folds of well-worn carpet, polished elevators, marble hallways and Blackberries, work has become a play of tightly-countenanced pretense.

This comment is so far beyond my comprehension I merely note it in the hopes that someone, somewhere can explain it to me in the current economic climate afflicting the majority of the world’s peoples. I sit not fifteen feet from a board room filled with members of the company that easily make over 100,000 dollars a year. I am observer to a world I do not belong and having just wrapped the remains of their company-catered lunch for my dinner, I am baffled at the current state of affairs, two worlds divided in this case as neatly as a carpeted corporate hallway in the corporate headquarters. To reflect then upon poverty in this setting becomes altogether unsettling and significantly challenging. For this is not merely a state of poverty, not merely a poor body immersed in a world of wealth. It is something more, something leaning towards the insidious. I know I have no money, I know that most of those around me do (and likely in abundance). This is the physical nature of poverty only; the haves and the have-nots, the timeless tale of material inequalities. There is something though about being face-to-face and yet completely out-of-reach of wealth. I would like to note jealousy at this point, note that I do believe part of me longs to have this wealth and out of jealousy, there emerges a disdain for those that possess that which I cannot have. This is but one aspect. The other is the conscious or unconscious presentation that the wealthy make of their wealth: the designer clothing, expensive shoes, gaudy jewelry, relaxed and care-free lilts within their voices, structured and cryptic language, hairstyles created by some of the most prominent and successful hairstylists in New York City, the way in which they walk, feet encased in pointed stilettos slicing forward, confident, in no need of double-guessing. The raised heads, booming voices, chests extended: their bodies present confidence. But I will state here that these are generalizations. Of course these corporate men do not wear stilettos but instead substitute well-polished wingtips. And of course amongst themselves, those lower in the hierarchy display signs of submission to those above them. Confidence as group of higher executives is good for the group in public situations as it builds a cohesive whole and reinstates the pecking order amongst other corporate bodies (i.e. we are here, at this level, and do not forget that you are not here). But placed in a private corporate board room, divisions arise, pecking orders become clear, like vultures the corporate higher-ups pick at each other’s bones, all the while navigating well-worn avenues of relation (I will speak to you with reverence you who are higher up. I can get away with more towards you who are lower). These generalizations emerge through distance, the flaneur-persona I am born into once placed in my current position. They can only be preserved through this distance as one becomes bogged down with particulars when too close, too intimate, too entwined. And I would like to state that although my past bespeaks of overly-critical stances when it came to the corporate, I am now more intrigued than anything and it must be said that there are many very amiable, intelligent, and able people within the corporate structure. But, however amiable, the juxtaposition of wealth and lack thereof remains and remains more fervent than ever.

Slowly emerging now on my fourth day within the ecosystem of the corporate body is the eerie feeling that a knowledge is in danger of being lost. I believe this to be the state of poverty under assault by the prospects of money upon the horizon. The danger perhaps lies within the lackadaisical, within that of the comfortable. For if there is one thing of persistent poverty it is the constant activity of the mind in scheming of new ways to hustle to make a dollar (that is, if not impeded by large consumptions of alcohol or other-mindedness). This scheming loses its purpose when presented with the mind-numbing freedom that an abundance of money presents.

One day, $.25 is all I can attribute to my name. The next, I am here, immersed in a world where I am still exceedingly poor and yet, something has changed, a weight has been lifted, access to things such as food, drinks, comfort exponentially increased. This again has something to do with vision, a shifting of the limitations we see ourselves within, the limitations that are both real (I can only buy a bag of chips today because I do not have enough money for a full meal) and imagined (events of importance created by oneself which then emerge as cause for discomfort or increased stress levels, self-inflicted). While I am in nearly the same monetary bind, I no longer feel the heavy constriction of lacking a means of survival, of wondering what will happen tomorrow. And so it is that time is affected. It is expanded. My vision no longer becomes of the day, the minute, the hour but becomes that of the week, the month. The future is a benefit of those with the means to look into the future, the present that of those both restricted to the worries and concerns of the day, the past something those of us excessively poor have no use for and that the rich seem to avoid or use as a means of bolstering their position should it be a positive past.

There is a release in knowing that payment is to come, that the time I must hold out now is limited whereas before it rolled out endlessly, the stone-studded expanse of a horizon I seemed I would never reach. This is both calming and anxiety-producing for on the one hand, my head and body tire of the constant worries related to money but on the other, there is a present-ness, a consciousness of each step throughout the day which I fear will be lost as money-troubles wane.

Solidarity and Legitimacy

I step onto the train and whereas before I feel camaraderie and solidarity with those I ride with (all of us in some manner immersed in monetary woes I tell myself), I now feel defensive, as if I should reach out and tell people that look at me, “I am only wearing this sports coat because of where I am going. I only wear these pressed trousers because they help me play the part. It is a costume and nothing more.” But I remain silent and I imagine a disdain directed towards me. This is likely not coming from anyone on the train. It is likely coming from myself. To be poor and feel oneself in solidarity with the millions of others who are poverty-stricken in America and across the world is a gift within the rough and tumble lifestyle of the tumultuous life of poverty. It is something which can be taken away, a feeling that exists only in a particular moment, in a particular time, dependent on a number of complicated and constantly-moving parts. One cannot feel this and truly understand it without having experienced poverty for an extended period of time or being currently immersed in it. It is because of this that others should not speak of the poor as if they were a topic for discussion. We have our own voice, quite particular, each unique, the state of being run through with commonalities which can be explored through some of the aforementioned points in Poverty Chronicles I and II. The question then becomes, “How poor is poor enough to speak of the poor?” and I do not have the answer to this question. What I can say is that as one speaks of the poor (and any other topic outside of oneself really) there is a feeling which arises in the heart, a warmth and quiet that is an indication of a genuineness, a true knowledge, a legitimacy. Alternatively should a feeling arise in the stomach or gut, a twisting turn, it is a sign that one should keep one’s mouth shut as one is literally “speaking shit”. This, I believe, happens often in our societies here in America and around the world and will no doubt persist for as long as human beings exist.

Relativity of Wealth

The relativity of wealth emerges as a complication as I see my monetary problems easing in the future. Whereas before it was quite simple to state, “So and so has the ability to buy a pair of jeans or flippantly buy a full meal at a sit-down restaurant and therefore have money,” a new complication emerges: money, once obtained, never fulfills a purpose of meaning. More is always needed, any amount is never enough. There is then an ease in working to the bottom. Somehow knowing I have $10 to my name and that this $10 must last me for 3 days has a much more fulfilling purpose to it. There is an anxiety in having excessive amounts of money and this is the anxiety of want. One then seems trapped in a cycle of anxieties, that is until one can devise a way to avoid entering into the cycle in the first place, transcending these complications to experience the wider view of the world, the “big picture” so often referenced and so little actually seen.

Sidewalk Windows

The sidewalk window has  a different meaning to me as I am immersed in the state of poverty. No longer is this a window for looking-in. Rather it is a glaring representation of what I cannot have. It becomes an outward projection, the internal stage transposed onto my eyes and mind, my body, my dreams. People sitting comfortably at restaurants laughing with friends or loved ones emerge as aggressive caricatures, the careless and short-lived meeting of our eyes through window panes filled with a distant void. As if watching animals in a silent zoo, the scene plays as an unreal moment in a movie, a greeting card. And for them too, I imagine my voiceless body means little, if anything, at least nothing worth breaking a dinner to ponder. In looking through the window, I am both onlooker and looked upon and both parties are temporarily voiceless, silent caricatures. Unpleasant in its projections, the window then becomes something for me to avoid. Walking past without looking in then becomes an act of resistance. The window then allows for the following: to be shown what one cannot have, to look in to buy or ponder a purchase, to look in to dream of what one could have but don’t, to walk past in defiance of the window’s aggressive projections to deny its entry into one’s body, eyes, dreams.

Dreams and Nightmares of Money: it is not uncommon to have dreams related to money. It is just as common to have nightmares that one’s already horrid state becomes worse. Unrealistic dreams that one wakes to find a mysterious check of a great sum, that some break occurs and that money begins rolling in, that one’s debts are suddenly forgiven: these and more seem to occur more and more the deeper one’s life tumbles into the black hole of poverty. Nightmares of sudden expenses, unexpected health-related crises, the death of a family member and the inability to attend their funeral as one cannot afford the airfare or train ticket: these too are just as common.

Religion: long known to those who have taken the oath to spread their respective religion, those immersed in a state of poverty are particularly prone to the promises of religion. To escape, the promise of a better life beyond this one, the idea of forgiveness, care, and all-encompassing love: these become very difficult to not listen to when one sees no sense of relief ahead. Some of the greatest proponents and stalwart believers of their respective religions seem to be those immersed in the harshest states of poverty. This is completely understandable it seems.

Lottery: enter into any corner deli in New York City in a “less favorable” neighborhood and one will notice that those buying lottery tickets are doing so fervently. It is the promise of the big win, the chance of immediate relief from one’s monetary concerns, the dream-turned-reality. State lottery organizations are extremely aware of this and this can be seen in the ways in which they advertise within the subways and on television channels widely available to anyone with a television set. The lottery is the relief in the here-and-now, religion the relief in the promised afterlife. I see very little difference in the drive between these two things except for the times involved, the former based in the present, the latter based in the future.

Scams: promises again of immediate relief, scams of all sorts abound within areas afflicted by poverty. Preying upon the longings of those immersed in states of poverty, these scams offering the promise of relief can be found on the internet, in mass mailings, in posters littering the streetlight poles around poverty-stricken neighborhoods. Their continued existence and proliferation in times of economic depression only speaks to the fact that more than just a few people immersed in poverty have fallen for their promises. And again, who can blame them?

More to come.

And while some of the visible results of poverty bring even the hardest of individuals to shocking revelations about the state of the world, people immersed within poverty have not lost their agency by any means but, I would argue, are more agentical and creative in the ways in which they figure out how to survive. I say figure out because in most instances, it is a constant game, a constant hustle, a series of difficult decisions as to what one will eat, where one can move to, and for how long one can go without particular things which, to many, are considered necessities.

A few things become clear when immersed in a state of poverty which are worth noting:

• Time: has a tendency to constrict with poverty, constrict as in the sense of choking, cutting off a supply of air. It also refers to a condensation, a bringing closer, an intensification, a shortening of one’s view from years or months ahead to days, perhaps hours in severe cases of poverty-existence.
• Boredom: one becomes acutely aware of the freedom of movement and choice that money allows. Not having money or the means to entertain oneself, the state of poverty can be mind-numbingly boring. For those with over-active minds and fanciful imaginations, it can lead one to madness, deep-set or temporary, which can often be sensed through the eyes. It then becomes customary to look away, wear sunglasses, or keep oneself from public view altogether.
• Nutrition: if one has 10 dollars for the day (a king to some immersed in severe poverty), one is left with a select number of choices as to what one will eat on any given day. Particularly in America, nutritious foods (as one would find in abundance in a high-end retail store such as Whole Foods) are hard to come by at decent prices. Thankfully in New York City, there are bodegas on many street corners which allow for cheap meals to be had, a fairly hefty deli sandwich costing around $4.50 or less if one is lucky. For many though, this is still too much to pay for one meal, and one can survive for only so long on processed meats and cheeses, white breads, and iceberg lettuce.
• Pride: for anyone that has had money and then lost it, poverty is an immediate affront to one’s pride. It becomes customary then to prevent others from knowing of one’s hard-up state at all costs. One will notice that those immersed in a state of poverty will, on the whole, attempt to dress and present themselves in a clean, well-shaven manner while it is not uncommon to see those with money present themselves as slobs, veritable homeless caricatures dressed in rags which have cost them a pretty-penny (this changes when people with money are surrounded by other people with money, the game then becoming who can out-do one another in expenditure on dress or gaudy accessories). This can be seen in the case of any number of artists or public figures that used to exist within the societal limelight but is an affliction of many “haves” turned “have-nots”. This seems to be very prevalent in New York City but is perhaps common to most areas in America and across the world.
• Anger and Frustration: it seems that class warfare is born somewhere along the lines of poverty when one realizes time and again that all that which surrounds one does not belong to them and is a far distance from ever becoming a possible purchase or part of one’s life. The service worker or blue collar worker is forcibly confronted with these harsh realities nearly every single day of working or, in the case of a city such as New York, by simply riding the subway. Surrounded by people that visibly parade their excess wealth to build or maintain status consciously or unconsciously, it is not unfair to assume that some resentment will be born by those that have, through circumstance or personal doing, constricted choice through poverty. Why it is unreasonable then to feel anger towards those that parade their wealth is beyond my comprehension. Perhaps this results from a sense of jealousy, a wishing to have, a want to have few worries in the realm of the monetary.
• Alcohol and Cigarettes: escape, however momentary, seems to become more appealing when one’s day is marked by constant worries of money, constant worries of how one will make ends meet at the end of the day, week, month. The paradox is that while wanting to escape, one spends money in doing so, money which could arguably be spent better in digging oneself out of one’s current situation or at least saved to ease the challenges one faces on a daily basis while immersed in poverty. The escape, costing money, then compiles to make one feel a greater the need to escape. It should come to no surprise then that addictions are born through existing within a state of poverty as they feed upon one another, a symbiotic dance into oblivion.
• Stress: a constant companion of anyone immersed in a state of poverty. Food, shelter, clothing, rent, how and where one can literally move one’s body to (do I walk or can I afford to ride the subway?): all of these things are constant negotiations with the limitations of one’s wallet. To “go out” with friends then becomes a luxury. To order water instead of a drink becomes common. Questions of, “You’re not going to have a drink?” are often met with, “”Oh, I am not drinking anymore” or “I just got over a sickness” or “I have to work tomorrow” or any other creative manner of avoiding having to shell out money for something that will not offer any form of escape but simply add to the already mounting stress of not having any money. Tabs, as forms of credit, become temporary reliefs of this but bind one to a future filled with even more stress.
• Vulnerability: whether in the form of a natural disaster, a personal or familial sickness, or unpaid debts, to one immersed in the state of poverty, it remains clear on a moment-to-moment basis that one is completely vulnerable to any external changes requiring money that one is not in control of. A simply monetary bump of getting a simple check-up at the doctor for most becomes a luxurious expenditure. The goal is to exist, not to exist well. To exist well becomes a clear luxury. Health, in the simplest of terms (check-ups, teeth cleanings, headache medicine, etc), becomes of secondary importance to sustaining one’s life. How so many of us immersed in poverty in America today do not revolt against a health care system that is broken and useless is beyond me but can only be explained through keeping in mind all of the aforementioned points. To revolt is to be even more vulnerable than one already is but perhaps this will become a more viable option as things get worse and worse for the majority of Americans. This revolt can be seen sweeping the world currently and has arisen in pockets around the United States. It is when these pockets of unrest coalesce that the top 2% of Americans that own most of this country’s wealth may begin to honestly worry.
• Solidarity: to get one through one’s day, it helps to know that one is not alone. In fact, millions upon millions of people across the world live within state’s of absolute poverty. I believe the state of poverty to be universally recognizable. The particulars of people’s states are of course different. But to know that one is poor within a growing pool of Americans that are facing dire poverty is somehow soothing and gives shape and context to one’s worries, concerns and daily stresses. Poverty then becomes a story, a narrative, that can be shared with one’s fellow people immersed within the same state. This narrative is powerful, the resentment built up by years upon years of poverty a force to be reckoned with if well organized. The state (wherever it may be) recognizes this and works diligently to distract people immersed in a state of poverty or insidiously builds conflict between groups of people that, in moments of clarity, would realize their similarities greatly outweigh their differences and that the difference exists rather between those that have (often those weaving the very narratives of difference and divisiveness played out by media outlets) and those that have not. And one should never delude oneself into thinking that the haves ever outweigh the have-nots. Particularly in America, the have-nots have always been far greater in number and force.

There are many more points to note. These will come.

I have come home, where all are from.

I have come home, and live but to live

Upon the streets, upon the floorboards,

Within that subway, upon your brow.

I have come home.

This process began as one induced by poverty, as the result of not having a coffee machine, not having a can opener. But there are things to learn through stretching out time, waiting for things to steep. The Earthy flavor of these moments intermixes with a getting-to-know of the daily objects we so often use and discard. The strainer, worn and chipped, becomes priceless. The pot’s marks upon its shiny exterior no different than the liver spots of an old man. It is through touching and taking time that one enters into a new realm of knowing, a deeper sense of what one’s life is comprised of. They are moments of contemplative meditation, simple and pure.

Note: These are samples which will hopefully lead to a larger project of collecting sounds from around NYC, mixing in original written material and having an original score tied to each soundscape and spoken piece. Ideally, an older English or South African woman or man will be reading the written pieces.

Unhindered

Soundscape: Battery Park, New York City

Music by: Max Richter

Butterfly Home

Soundscape: Broadway and Wall Street, New York City

Music by: Max Richter

Talya Chalef and the Space(s) of Theatre

Gia Rapasadi and Developing Corporate Responsibility

Nikki Froneman and the Latin American/African Theater Dialogue

Simon Griffiths and Consumer-Driven Philanthropy

Station: Marcy Avenue

Character: Tortoise Lizard

Old man in his 70′s staggers onto the train. He wears a thick frown that droops down over his body, morphs into a navy blue trench coat like rancid putty. His  sordid face is flanked by tufts of white hair, the top of his head smooth, shiny, reflective in the florescent moonbeams of those caterpillar lights lining the subway car ceilings. Hanging in folds from his layered chin, a series of turkey-like protrusions, folds of past frowns gathered at brow and too heavy, have fallen to a sway below his chin. Wearily he moves forward, his head bobbing up and down, his back bent, his eyes sharp and searching. He eyes his fellow passengers on the train as if attempting to levitate them, throw them to the side for the promise of a more comfortable journey. But no one moves and he is forced to navigate down half of the train, towards me, until he spots a seat wedged between one rather plump lady and a skeleton of a girl dressed all in black. He turns his back to them, slowly bends at the waist. He defensively presents his posterior to the ladies on either side, dares them to protest his incoming cheeks and not surprisingly they say nothing and move quite quickly to the side with their own resulting discomfort.

I watch as he settles in, beady eyes firmly set in darkened eye sockets. As tortoise now, he turns his head, each movement a strain to the taught fibers strung along a long-used neck nestled in hunched-up shoulders. With lizard-like subtlety he glares at the skeleton girl, as if admonishing her for not getting up completely. The angry old tortoise turns his head to the front and with a deep sigh, hangs his head and closes his eyes. The beast sleeps and the train continues on.

Station: Atlantic Avenue Terminal

Character: Gruff Beaver

Get into the train and get settled. Meet the character that will take me to my destination: older man in his late 50′s with a worn face, bulging eyes, light brown and white beard. He’s reading the Daily News with fervor. At his feet, a red Jansport backpack with a light brown leather top and dark black straps. Khaki pants, blue hooded sweatshirt with a shiny gray zipper slightly undone near the neck. A tuft of white and light brown hair springs forth from under the sweatshirt.

His movements are slow and sloth-like. He reads the paper, each page daintily gripped at the far corner with his index finger as if he wishes to later preserve this paper, frame it and place it above his bed or in the bathroom along the the hundreds of other framed Daily News papers which line the walls. I imagine him a hoarder, the type of man that stuffs sugar packets and toothpicks into his sweatshirt pockets not because he enjoys picking his teeth or sweetening his drinks but rather, enjoys the company of objects, particularly small ones that can easily be manipulated by the human hand. Bedside, he has stacked layer upon layer of tissue papers, each one pulled from its box, laid flat, and places them directly on top of the other. When the occasional wind blows them from their concrete location, a conniption fit ensues. He papers all the windows and tapes all the cracks that could potentially result in this horrific accident of misplacement once again. He listens to the Beatles but on LPs which he plays backwards. He listens for hidden messages, finds none, and quickly concocts his own. Lennon wants him dead by poisoning. Ringo swears he will kill him in his sleep. He enjoys the Beatles for their soothing tones and jovial lyrics.

He thinks about homeless people a lot, wondering how it is that they came to be in their present positions. He no longer feels sorry for such people for he knows that the lines of separation between himself and them is a fine line, one easily transversed given the right set of misfortunate circumstances. In his current situation, it would be a matter of weeks before he could find himself in the same position as that woman near his doorstep. Homeless people is an amorphous label of a group of people as varying in stories and psychological propensities as the rest of us walking the streets and Thomas thought it would do us well to rid of it altogether. In many ways Thomas thought it to be a marketing tool. Falsely group a number of people together under a given term such as homeless and one can make charities to raise money for such people, make people feel sorry for them. To label anything and have such a label stick requires enormous amounts of energy as anyone that knows that history of labeling knows. Additionally it requires an almost pathological urge to exert this energy daily, concocting creative and innovative means to enforce such concocted labels. Thomas felt this to be the case with ideas of race, natural classification, objects of varying sorts (for what, really is the difference between a table and a chair other than a historical energy exerted to divide up such objects?), and colors. There were more and these included homelessness.

If one got even the slightest bit philisophical about the topic of being home-less instead of taking the term at face-value, Thomas thought, one would almost immediately come upon the vexing problem of defining what it means to have a home in the first place, let alone lose that home to become home-less. For Thomas knew that it was often the case that so easily people refer to their homes, common sayings being, “Home is where the heart is,” “There is no place like home,” “Welcome home,” “I’m home.” Stated with such conviction and so often it is no wonder that human beings often do not stop to think of what this term means to them. For anyone that has “lost” a home, it becomes immediately apparent that “home” need not be a physical space, that there is something altogether internal about this concept of home. As Thomas knew, this term was not static, not simply to be found within a cupboard or a stairwell, a kitchen table, a picture. These were accompaniments, colors upon a broader fabric, encased within them the signals to remember particular things and moments in a particular way. Just as important as the internal conception of home (for the two fed off of each other) these objects could be replaced, re-created, new energies injected into the dialogue of the body and the material world. So too could the internal conception of home be re-worked, reconstituted, renovated, reborn. Thomas was no closer to understanding what “home” meant but wondered if it was not the case that the majority of human beings spent their lives in search of this conception of “home”, whether it be in the bosom of a lover, the smile of their children, their jobs, cars, drugs, or religion. The quest for home, Thomas thought, was born of a spiritual crises, a search for meaning. To be home-less then would be to be in quest of meaning, perhaps a quest to give the body and mind up to a conception greater than oneself. “Your father worked hard day in and day out for this home and all of us in it,” would not be surprising to hear. This “giving up” of oneself then requires finding a concept to “give up” to and perhaps, Thomas thought, this is what we are all searching for more often than not.

He passes a man on the corner asking for change, feels nothing more or less than he would seeing anyone else on the street. He notes this as progress, continues on his quest.

Station: Prince Street

Character: Romantic Queen

Romantic Queen reads his novel near the exit doors opposite of where I sit. His hair, brown with blond highlights haphazardly thrown in speaks to the cover of his trashy romance novel, a busty black woman spread eagle on the shiny new cover. He has brushed his hair over to the left in s dramatic gesture to the 1980s, wears baggy black pants, a puffy goose feather down jacket, and poorly-polished black penny loafers. A darkened puff of thundercloud, slightly overweight chipmunk meets marshmellow man meets Truman Capote.

Adorning his nose, thin wire-framed glasses. His right leg is lifted gingerly, placed across his left knee. He seems to be a jolly man, a man who knows that on a Winter’s day in New York perhaps there is nothing better than a trashy romance novel on a steamy underground subway with hordes of strangers listlessly standing about.

He reads as if savoring a delicacy. I leave the train as a dribble of drool falls from Romantic Queen’s mouth, falls on page 46, glides lubriciously along the phrase, “…with a pounding scream”.

Station: Atlantic Terminal

Character: Hooded Timberlake

I stand at the platform. The D train arrives and walking in I am immediately hit with the stench of stale socks and Cheez-its. A homeless man, bundled in tattered rags, sits alone on a four-person bench, a nest of crunched crackers and pretzels at his feet. His shoes have been removed, his black-stained white socks wet, leaving spider-web trails of water behind as he slowly moves them back and forth against the gritty black plastic tiles. Almost immediately I exit, changing cars.

The new car carries within the normal and expected smell of stale air one tends to associate with mass transit vehicles, although it seems rare that such staleness-as-neutrality is ever encountered. I stand (as often I do) and diagonal from me and one person down sits a rather well-built man, each appendage forceful, spatial. His body, unlike most bodies, demands space. He is far from obese. His fingers trail downwards endlessly, each finger the size of a medium sausage link. On his left hand a gold ring. On his right index finger another ring, this one gold with silver etchings carved into its face. His feet are adorned with perfectly-clean, high top Timberlakes, tied with loose bow knots three empty holes down from the top. His jeans are tightly-pressed, loose around his calves, tight around his thighs. On his torso, a gray, loose-fitting hooded sweatshirt, the zipper slightly pulled down from the top. The hood is pulled up and over his head which he cocks downwards so as to hide his face. The hood builds to a point above the crest of his head. I will never see his eyes.

I watch him as he slowly takes out a miniature bottle of lotion. The bottle seems lost within his paws, a doll house accessory, a bottle in the possession of a giant Alice. He opens the lid, dabs some lotion on his hands, places the bottle slowly back into his pocket and methodically rubs his hands together. On his right wrist, a golden bangle, a thin silver watch, a black linked chain. Around his neck hangs a loose gold chain, medium in thickness. He is a Senator exploring the dregs of the American metropolis, of scattered dreams along winding tracks, a sports star avoiding attention through cloaked underground, undercover movement. I imagine him throwing back his hood, nothing but air revealed and the clothes expand and then collapse into a crumpled pile upon the subway car floor. As the D crosses over the Manhattan bridge, filtered light shuffles in from the snowy air outside, lights his chin which is covered slightly in stubble. I see this only for a brief second as he lowers his head further, shrouding his face fully in darkness.

The train stops at Canal. Hooded Timberlake stands, brushes his fingers lightly against the rough fabric of his jeans, straightens his sweatshirt, pulls the zipper up slightly to just under his chin. His head shoots skyward, nearly touching the subway car ceiling, his arms nearly stretching from car door to car door. His head remains tilted downwards as he exits and in seconds, he is gone. Those left in his wake panic for the air has temporarily been sucked out of the car with his exit. We look at each other, wide-eyed and worried, immersed in a vacuum. But with a hiss, the air returns, the doors close, movement resumes, the only trace of Hooded Timberlake the faint smell of aftershave on a bed of stale air.