Broken Windows and Silver Doorknobs

Bad neighborhood. Sketchy. Rough area. Borderline. Ghetto. Have you heard any of these descriptions, however offensive they may strike you? Have you heard either more negative terms or their euphemistic replacements?

Come, take a walk with me.

No. Right now. Don't be afraid.

Observe this block. Schuyler Street. Take in the parade of two-story, two-family houses, built in the 1920s and '30s. Lawns manicured, adorned with daffodils, mulch, shrubs, trees. No litter. Structures not thirsting for paint or carpentry. Across the street, much the same: different architectural styles, smaller, more modest. Up the block, historic Myrtle Hill Cemetery. Graves dating to the 1800s, including that of a Civil War Congressional Medal of Honor recipient. Several blocks distant, over on Milton Avenue, a house overrun by fallen maple limbs and uncut grass, by weeds, a house choked by its longtime neglect, its metal fence interweaved by sprawling hedge branches, an empty pack of Newport 100s, a discarded Brisk ice tea, a crumpled invoice for car repair, a lone latex glove. An official notice of condemnation posted on a window and door. Blue recycle bins, tires, broken trikes, and split-open trash bags on Herkimer and Emerson. And up the hill, on Pharis Street, overlooking city and suburbs, a pristine lawn with a sign warning against having your dog use the lawn as a private bathroom, in front of a pristine Arts and Crafts bungalow freshly painted yellow, brown, and black, with a shock of red on the door.

Care and neglect coexisting. Pride and privation. Gain and loss. A fabric of multicolored threads and textures, sewn and patched, stitched and shored up. Some more than others, some less, some not at all.

Let's walk some more, keep pace, stretch your stride, down the hill, toward the creek. Oh, you'd rather not, this is a "bad neighborhood"? Be brave. Suck it up. Trust me. Really.

True, that broken, rusted pickup in the driveway looks unsavory, so does the mosaic of tossed Burger King wrappers and soda cups. An eyesore. It makes my eyes sore.

But look across the street, that Victorian painted lady, emerald and cream with surprises of vermilion. Do you see its new siding, every storm window sparkling new, the shiny metal roof? The rebuilt porch? That house could pass for brand-new if you didn't know better.

I am sure this is obvious, but I can't help noting it: we are not dodging bullets, street-corner hustlers do not catch our eye, wondering if we covet their gaze and proffered wares.

Form your own conclusions, as you will. 

In my Age of Coronavirus walks, the gods and goddesses of surprise have been my tour guides.

Surprise, surprise.

If we look for broken windows, they appear. If we search for silver doorknobs, we find them.

p.s. Ever hear the expression "my mind is a bad neighborhood"? (It's popular in wellness and recovery circles and can possibly be traced to an Anne Lamott quotation, but its provenance is uncertain.) As with the physical neighborhoods described above, be careful what you look for. As Leonard Cohen suggested, "look among the garbage and the flowers." You never know what you will find.

a coinage

During his morning walk, he spotted a wet penny on the black glistening pavement as he walked downhill on Lewis and Clark Street. Only a thin crescent of the penny glistened; the rest was darkened by time and decay. He picked it up. He walked a few more steps. A trove of pennies. And one dime, shiny in the damp. He bent to pick them up. Was anyone watching him in the snowy rain? He stooped and rose, stooped and rose. Is this embarrassing? Is this what old men do on their morning walks? Twenty filthy pennies and one dime. Filthy to the point of non-recognition except by shape, diameter, and thickness. Not texture; disgustingly dirtied. He left one penny on the pavement. A statement. A question. A tease. An invitation. Thirty cents. Home. Washed with dish detergent, to little avail; cleanser, same results. Rinse. No. not the steel wool. Rest them on a paper towel. Rinse with finger rubbing. Pick them up. Put them in the coin jar. Will the machine take them? Was it worth it? Why? Worth exactly what? What was the point?

post scriptum: Two days later, I returned to the scene of the dime (and pennies). The penny I had deliberately left remained on the ground. Truthfully, it was impossible to say, because scattered on the ground was a constellation of a dozen or so pennies. Which penny was the one I had decided to leave there, as a "message"? Impossible to say. More disturbing is this notion: did I not see that many other pennies on my first go-round? Either way, on this coin-incidence I kept walking. I had no inclination to stoop to conquer said artifacts. Who would do such a clumsy, doddering thing?

double identity indemnity

Hey, aren't you . . . ?
No, yeah, no. Wait. Aren't you . . . ?
Who? I don't think so. I'm . . . 
Aren't you what's-his-name . . . ?
Heh, heh, anybody can be what's-his-name.
Huh huh, got you.
Like I said, I'm . . . 
Yeah, right. You look just like him. You know, he . . . 
I guess you're right. I do look like him.
Totally.
It's been a while, hasn't it.
It has. Truly.
You're good?
I'm good. You?
Been better.
What's wrong?
Nothing's wrong. The regular stuff.
The regular stuff.
Yeah, you know.
Yeah. But you can tell me. After all we've been through.
After all we've been through.
It's nothing.
Come on.
Naw, it's nothing.
I can tell it's something.
A minute ago you were acting like you hardly knew me.
Me? No way.
Yes. Remember?
Yeah, no. I don't know. Maybe. Whatever.
It'll pass.
What will?
It's nothing. Like I said.
I get it.
Yeah.
Hey, I gotta get uptown. I'll hit you up later.
Yeah. Me too. Yeah. Hit me up later.
Yeah.
Sounds good.
Shrill screech of subway brakes as train pulls in to station.

inattentional blindness

I failed to see the gorilla. Even after I was warned. Did you see your gorilla? I looked again. No gorilla. Gone. Was that a fox? I think I saw a fox, furtive and sly and quick. I was too busy concentrating on the other thing so I missed the gorilla. It's not a bad thing. It happens. Don't judge me for it. Or yourself. I wasn't afraid of the gorilla. Don't go there. I just didn't see it, or him, or her. How was I to know? I was told to concentrate on the other thing, the task assigned, the job at hand. Wouldn't you? The gorilla was harmless, in view for nine seconds. I missed it. Right before my very own two eyes. My glasses are fine, thank you. You say you saw it; you saw the gorilla. Good for you. You think it's some kind of accomplishment? So you saw it. Did you give it a banana? How about the gorilla: did anyone bother to ask whether the gorilla saw me? Or whether the gorilla saw you? Us? Those are fair questions. Don't snigger. Go ask the gorilla. The fox, you say? Where did the fox come from? They said the fox was a surprise to everyone. Nobody expected the fox to saunter by, not even the Gorilla Masters. What's that, I'm making up the bit about the fox? How can you say that, how dare you say that? I saw the fox. For a full second or two. Strolling by like a foxy boulevardier. That fox.

recalling the future

 ... and as I watched, with the stark lucidity of a future recollection (you know -- trying to see things as you will remember having seen them). 
Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita

In the bleachers during the World Series, October 2012, San Francisco. I will remember this. I will remember it like this, as starkly and irretrievably happy, as I am in this film being filmed right now. The smell of beer on the metal floor. Moody clouds as the sun set. The fans in front, back, and sides of me. The frenzy. The crack of the bat. Roars of the crowd. My coffee. The manic shouting (by me). My weeping as the Tony Bennett recording played. Texting back home. All of it. Framed. Sealed. Under glass.

Are such recollections a forced inevitability? Can you will this tape into memory edited in the way you prescribe? Or does that make it a foregone conclusion a self-fulfilling prophecy?

And was it really like that? There is no way to prove or disprove it, the subjective parts. Maybe by hypnosis. 

I would suggest we do this with Big Events: birth, death, marriage, hiring, firing, divorce, travel.

But now I'm confused.

It's never as you imagine you will remember it, not exactly. Yet sometimes it is, or seems to be. Is it like the Werner Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle, whereby the observer, the very act of observing, influences the outcome, the results, of the measurement? (I just butchered the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle. Never mind.)

I said we do this with Big Events.

I take it all back.

It's not so much a super-hyper-future recollection as a super-hyper-experience.

I don't even know what I'm talking about anymore. I don't even know what point I was trying to make.

Maybe you can help me out.

ghost in the machine

It is 2018. Election Day. The Feast of Choices. I voted, made my choices. I had uncharacteristically backed into the parking space outside the Hazard branch library. I won't hazard here a guess as to the 5Ws and an H of the hazard. Turn the ignition. No push button. The engine starts. Wait. Hold it. I'm not ready but I'm rolling forward, sliding as if on black ice. I'm pushing down, down, down, pumping on the brake. To no avail. Huh? Hold it. Can't stop the forward motion, the inertia. Panic. Sweat. Brake. Brake. Wait. The car is in park. What? Oh. What? Hunh? The car to my right, parallel to me, doing the sliding, the gliding, the creeping forward. Rapid heartbeat slows. Reorients. Back to normal. Things in their proper place and time. Back to normal, whatever that is.

It is 1956. I know it is 1956 because later in the journey, after Mom, Dad, Jack, and I, and the Kandas visited Washington Crossing State Park in New Jersey, a mysterious conversation ensued in the car. "Are you okay, Josephine?" The dialogue among the adults was confusing. I was 7 years old. The words "morning sickness" were uttered that summer day in the car, in New Jersey, where at the Kandas' for vacation I would enjoy buttered and salted corn on the cob that has yet to equaled in sweet and salty succulence, a trip so satisfying I saved sand in a Dixie cup from Ocean County Park in Lakewood after wading in its tea-colored lake water. After Bobby was born, in January 1957, did I hearken back to Mom's car-sickness obliquely discussed? Doubtful. It was more of a mosaic, a gestalt portrait painted in stages over the years since.

It is 1956. We are on a train in Stamford, Connecticut, bound for Trenton, New Jersey, for a family vacation. One could only hazard a wild guess as to the costly burden this put on our family. We lived in a city housing project, well kept, reasonably safe. We moved there in 1955, part of a seismic postwar transformation unknown to the scared and curious kid in the front passenger seat with cousin Joe Kanda driving. How did six of us fit in the car? No bucket seats, no seat belts. We are on the train ready to embark on our adventure. Some kid in school (for all I know, it was a teacher not a classmate) once told a story of someone being sucked under a train and dying. So, when steam burst forth from the arriving New York, New Haven and Hartford line (the New Haven line; oh, how I would long for a gorgeous serial comma inserted there, seifs or not) engine, what else could I ponder but swift death and extinction by locomotive vacuuming? A terrifying prospect.

Not sucked under but alive, oh, the excitement of sitting in a train chugging toward Manhattan, solid and rhythmic, stoic and hypermuscled, iron in its will and movement. Passengers on a train, human cargo -- living and breathing after not being mercilessly sucked into its abdomen!

We arrived at the terminus of Grand Central Terminal (not Grand Central Station, which is a post office). Presumably to change trains for the Pennsylvania Railroad, a coveted ownership property in Monopoly.

I am sitting near the window, the window is on the right. We start moving slowly, pulling out of the station. We are underground. Here we go. A gentle rolling sends us toward Trenton. Wait. Something is wrong here. What's the train on the other side of my window doing? Going backward? I don't get it. I stamp my feet on the floor, as if I could step on my own personal braking system to set things right.

"Mommy? Daddy? What's the train do -- ... ?"

Did they see it too?

Some kind of secular miracle. Movement not movement. We weren't moving, the other train was. What's going on here? Did you catch that? Was that for me to see or does everyone see it? As if my beloved Willie Mays wasn't tracking the ball over his shoulder in center field but instead the outfield and the stands and naturally the batted ball were conspiring to move while he was stationary.

And a seven-year-old boy doesn't know where to begin so he swallows his words and buckles up, so to speak, for the ride.

Who or what authored this vection vision of illusory movement? 

Tell me.

Don't tell me. 

Not yet.

perspective

Funny how solid objects "move." Intriguing how angle and perspective alter everything. The five emerald onion domes of St. John the Baptist Ukrainian Catholic Church seem to sit just above the railroad bridge as you proceed west on Erie Boulevard toward West Genesee Street. But in my mind I think of them as residing a ways to the left, up the hill, Tipperary Hill. The iconic (literally and figuratively) church is to the left -- from certain angles. As the road bends or turns, you bend or turn with it. Each turn or bend presents a different perspective. An aerial view offers a whole different angle. Up close, far away, above or below, all different perspectives. Perspective is perception. Hashtag metaphor. 

umbrage

Alas [such an archaic word, which is apt in this discourse obliquely touching upon a land with an archaic language; cf. earlier post], there are some who take umbrage at the idea that I [that I in particular, not "I" generically or as a nondescript impersonal personal pronoun] should have the bravado, the chutzpah, to gallivant off northward to ice-laden shores (i.e., Iceland), given my alleged or perceived or declared financial circumstances and my perceived duties, roles, and obligations. Ah [another archaic term], there's the rub. Perceived. As the Buddha asks us, can we trust our perceptions? [You know the old saw that when you "assume" you make an ass out of "u" and "me"; amen.] For these naysayers, doubters, and umbragettes [good one!] assume much in matters financial, fiduciary, spiritual, circumstantial, motivational, mental, physical, metaphysical. Which is perfectly fine, and to be expected. Is the so-called equation [are all things calculable?] altered if, say, a diagnosis of terminal illness enters the fray, posing a last fling, reckless and hapless? What if a traveler were on the verge, the Arctic ledge, of quasi-caregiving breakdown, craving, needing, begging for a respite, a literal re-creation? What if a wealthy benefactor is subsidizing this Icelandic journey, as someone generously did for my trip to the World Series in San Francisco in 2014? Who knows, perhaps our would-be Reykjavik wanderer lent himself money by using one of those low-interest "convenience" checks that come in the mail, or maybe our prospective boulevardier dipped into his 401k. What if. What if our putative sojourner sees utterly no need or cause for explanation (relatively speaking or not speaking), no reason whatsoever to defend, explain, or justify -- especially to an umbragette? (As in less than zero need.) Back to umbrage. It is the gorgeous delicious word for this monologue (or dialogue or trialogue for those who went to chime in aided by the north wind cleansing our souls). Umbrage denotes fancied (as in imagined) slights or insults or resentments and comes from the word for "shadow," which is utterly pertinent because the shadows shrouding perception spawn conclusions spurred by suspicion and what-not. Which is fine. We all do that. And Iceland is the lush, dramatic, and stoic cure for all this and all that, its northern lights, stark terrain, volcanic volition, crisp cleansing, and bubbling pools percolating with history.

Man Down

He was sitting on what might be termed a grassy knoll, not far from the arboretum. Sitting on a patch of grass between the curb and the sidewalk. A man with a dark beard, and glasses. Maybe in his forties. Or fifties. Or sixties. Who can tell anymore? Sitting, almost reclining. Not looking ill but possibly so. Not looking anxious; but possibly so; looking tired. Looking like someone with COPD who can only take so many steps. I was driving by. I was on the way to the bank, already late for an appointment scheduled after my stop at the bank. (Actually, my appointment was scheduled for 10, but I was late by virtue, or vice, of squeezing in this bank visit, a visit later deemed beneficial owing to the fact I paid with cash.) I gave a glancing thought to stopping, at least to ask if Man Down was okay. He wasn't writhing. He looked almost comfortable. (What do any of these ludicrous adjectives or perhaps a participle mean or imply? And who is to say?) Still, I fought back feelings of guilt. I even sternly lectured myself, in imaginary, half-comical fashion: "Sure, if it were a lovely damsel in distress you'd stop, wouldn't you?" Would I? What would I say or do? I drove to the bank and conducted my bit of business. I then drove up the hill, in the same vicinity where I had spotted Man Down. This time, however, he was sitting down, almost reclining, looking tired but not injured, on a grassy knoll on the golf course, meaning he had advanced, perhaps a quarter-mile at most. He had seemingly progressed in his journey (was it a purposeless stroll? or a challenging walk toward a destination?), leaving me with a half-ounce less guilt.

'read deleted'

So, is "read" in the imperative mode, commanding the reader? Maybe it is past tense, pronounced to rhyme with "red" or "bed" or "dead" and so on. If the former, is one being commanded to read something deleted, or something with that title? If the latter, it implies: "I read [past tense] your message and have subsequently deleted it from my in box." Some may substitute "consequently" for "subsequently," replacing causality for chronology.  Does such causality smart? No, it evokes a chuckle, as in, "Whoa! That's it? Gone? Erased?" Even so, I may be erroneous. The perpetrator of "read deleted" may be super-efficient and reserving the right to reply. But I doubt it. And why should it matter to you?

handicapping perception

The Silverado pulls up into the handicapped parking spot to my right. The truck is big enough to eat my Rabbit in one gulp. The very truckness of my neighboring vehicle arouses an undercurrent of resentment. Its intimidating presence summons an echo of the grammar-school bullying I sometimes endured. (No, it doesn't. That's overstated, too overt. I only say that upon reflection afterward.) Instinctively I look for, and find, the handicapped parking tag hanging from the rearview mirror. Legit. (Isn't that grand of me, to approve?) The driver and the passenger in the back seat look whole and fit and able. They don't look handicapped to me. You're right. Maybe the driver or her passenger who loom above me are legless or eyeless or paralyzed or subject to seizures or handicapped mentally (does that qualify one for the parking privilege?) or dually addicted to drugs, alcohol, gluten, and trans fats. Maybe the vehicle transports someone in a wheelchair who is at home or at a rehab facility. Maybe. And what is it that really nettles me, anyway? The fat, gas-guzzling vehicle? The perception of entitlement? The appearance of injustice? Why should I care? Why should one who says he espouses the simple life, who asserts all manner of progressive values, bother to notice this harmless status, alleged or posed or sanctioned or otherwise? Questions worth pondering. Answers pending.

A few hours later, up at the University, I saw a Mini Cooper (or is it Cooper Mini? I always forget) drive by. I spotted a handicapped parking tag. A young driver, perhaps a student, zipping down the street, seemingly "whole and fit and able." Ah, what about her? What about that sporty car and its occupant?

And what about me?

Same self-imposed questions worth pondering. Answers still pending.

blank look

I made a comment, one that was intended as a compliment, if you will. In return, he gave me what I would call "a blank look." He returned a look without comment, seemingly indifferent. Note to thin-skinned, oversensitive, "attached" self: you truly do not know what his response or reaction is or was. So, before you get all pouty and resentful, consider that the recipient of your remark may have been puzzled, perplexed, in agreement, in disagreement, either/or, both/and, neither/nor, thinking about his great aunt, suffering constipation, calculating an equation that could lead to a cancer cure, meditating on Descartes, have a hearing problem, not like me, like me, formulating a diplomatic response for another time, processing other data, undergoing a TIA or stroke, entertaining erotic and lurid thoughts about Marilyn Monroe (or Marilyn Manson), forgotten what I said immediately after I spoke it, ad infinitum, ad nauseam. And nausea is the point here. It is nauseating, what paces we put ourselves through when we are all up in our heads. The sickness unto self, as Kierkegaard put it. Cui bono? To what good?

'you don't understand'

I'm afraid I don't understand you (or you, either) and I dare say no one understands another. Not completely, not inside the skin, within the neural system, not entirely. Doesn't neuroscience confirm this more and more with every study? (I don't know. You tell me.) What I mean is, "what I want you to understand is," we think (enough with the italics already!) we know what another person feels and thinks. We claim we understand the other person's perspective. We feel we share a perception. We say this especially for those who are related to us by blood (parents and children and siblings and so forth). We say this about those we love. Or hate. Therapist and patient claim it. Business partners. Clients and associates. Intimate friends. Lovers. But it's silly, really, to think two infinitely different universes of experience can somehow overlap or merge or align perfectly. It's absurd to imagine that the river of solipsism can be so fordable. These are not cynical assertions. True, when we have glimpses of this "understanding" of another, they are rewarding, even exhilarating. There are such moments, or we at least perceive them as moments of shared illumination. Wonderful. I celebrate that, I salute it. And isn't this what art, music, literature, poetry, ballet, painting, sculpture, film, even sports do? Yes. But these are fleeting glimpses, glimpses we are thrilled by. We are grateful for such moments. But they are rare, in my view; if not rare, not commonplace. I suppose there is no way to prove or disprove this conclusively. But I posit that "you don't understand" is the norm among humans, except perhaps for conjoined twins. Hence, the study of semantics, semiotics, diplomacy, sociology, linguistics, psychology, philosophy, neuroscience, anthropology, et cetera ad nauseam ad infinitum. Mirabile dictu. Mirabile visu.