Washington Square Park

So this really exciting thing happened to me on the train, where I realized that I can type and write on my laptop. I mean, I guess I should have figured that it was a possibility extended to me by the sheer nature of laptops, but I’d never done it before. Aside from the occasional panic that someone might swipe it out from under my tapping fingers and take my precious macbook, and (vainly thinking) my precious writing, I was able to write fairly well. And just think! I can even write in the park after class! I can tell you about the man with the video camera and the little boy frustrated in learning to tie his shoes. I could tell you about the smoker perched on the fountain in perfect symmetry with the arch.

What the hell is that arch anyway? “ Let us raise a standard to which the wise and the honest can repair. The event is in the hand of God" - Washington. I wonder why the heck he said that. And why someone decided it was the most important thing he ever said and chiseled it into the arch at the park. I heard that Washington Square Park was once a graveyard for the poor. What are those pauper’s mass graves called? Oh, I think they are called pauper’s graves. But, where are they now? Where do the nameless and poor go to die these days? There isn’t enough land in the city anymore to keep them. See, we need parks for lesbians to meet after work and girls with bad hair to walk their tiny tiny dogs.

Someone is strumming a guitar and someone is loosing at chess. But not too long ago, someone died cold and alone and was thrown in a pit right here where I sit with my macbook and watch the woman with the large breasts and the Prada bag. Isn’t it funny to think that those who died alone ended up spending the rest of eternity in such close quarters to so many others lovingly entangled, bones intertwined, rotting away together forever? So, you’re right. It’s not surprising that I am the one to think of them. I don’t feel lonely in this city, anymore. But I often think about dying alone. Which, I’ve always thought was a stupid thing to say, because doesn’t everyone die alone anyway? I mean, it’s a rather personal journey. Someone pointed out recently that I push people away for fear of being trapped. Someone else pointed out that I seem to be playing a game with the people I date, just to keep myself busy and maybe moreover, to keep myself from being happy.

An old man with a baseball cap is taking a pictures of strangers with his cell phone and the man who was wandering around with the violin case might actually have a ukulele in there instead. I wonder how many of them are carrying umbrellas in their bags, just in case it rains. Someone pointed out the other day when I was caught in the rain that adults think a head and carry umbrellas whether it is raining or not. I am not an adult. A man is playing a coffee can like a drum on the cement in rhythm with the man playing guitar and the couple in the striped shirts, hers red, and his blue, are in love.

The children are applauding at the black man and the fat lady is getting her photo taken in sexy, sexy way. The woman with the long braids is rooting in her purse for something she has lost. And there is a girl who is typing on her computer, somewhat ferociously and not looking at any of the spelling mistakes she’s made on her screen.

I should come to the park to write everyday, even if I only write a little bit, even if I only tell you about the woman in the white blouse whose shoulder blades stick out like the fins of a fish, and sad middle eastern man with the cowboy hat.

Now, the man with the ukulele, which is actually a ukulele is tuning it and sitting near the man with the guitar and the man with the homemade drum. They don’t seem to know each other. Two men with baseball caps cross their legs and listen. They don’t know each other either. They are shouting about which chords are best as the man with the ukulele interferes. The man with the coffee can has now found a tambourine, but decided to use an umbrella instead. Perhaps he prefers the sound of the umbrella to the sound of the tambourine. Maybe this is why adults carry umbrellas when it isn't raining. I wonder if the man with the ukulele decided when he had finished his supper that he was going to tuck in his shirt and head to the park in hopes of finding some men who don’t know each other to play with.

A man walked by completely dressed in navy blue, he is talking on his cell phone and smoking a cigarette. He limps a bit when he walks. He is telling someone that he won’t be able to make it. He is not laughing, but he looks completely drenched from the waist down as if he has walked deliberately into a fountain. Usually when a man is completely drenched he is laughing. But, ah. The foutain. I imagine him doing this purposefully and with conviction. I assume that he doesn’t find anything funny about having to do this, not in the least. He went into the fountain because he had decided to. Recently the man in navy blue doesn't feel like he does enough of the things he decides that he wants to. He is very serious about making a change. He will acheive his goals. Whether he gets completely drenched or not, he knows that he is following his convictions. This moment, he decided, will alter the rest of his life. And then he walked directly into a fountain, somewhere. This is why he isn’t laughing. This is why he is telling the man on the other end of the telephone that he won't be able to make it.

There is an old man with a red hat and red converse sneakers who is pulling a cart with a cardboard box that says “life extension.” It looks like a case of the stuff. Maybe he is 400 years old and has the secret to his longevity in that box he is carting behind him on the cart with the squeaky wheels.

A woman with a long neck and a man who looks like a Spaniard are sitting with perfect posture. He has finished his coffee as she holds hers like she is warming her hands with it. She has a scarf on her neck, which makes her long neck look far far too long. He listens o what she has to say with intense, loving eyes. He is thinking about the next time they can be lone together.

The woman with the paper cup just found a penny on the ground. Still, it is not her lucky day.

A man just took my picture. Actually, scratch that. A man just stood and turned around slowly taking a picture in almost each of 360degrees around him. If only for a moment, he is the center of the universe.

The men who don’t know each other who are playing the ukulele, the coffee can, the guitar and now the tambourine are now playing a song for an old man in a pink shirt who seems to be pleased to be listening. The lyrics they sing are “we’re all singing the same song. The same song. We’re all playing the same song. “ The man with the pink shirt is the only one who claps.

The old man who may have been living for centuries is still wheeling his squeaky cart.

A woman in a yellow dress has just joined the singers. She is a fat, black woman. She is a fat, black woman with a banjo. The man with the coffee can, the umbrella and the tambourine is giving instruction. He’s always wanted to be a conductor. He talks too loudly to the man with the pink shirt about his plastic tambourine. The banjo is a good addition to the group of men who do not know each other. Several people are listening together now and a baby is dancing as his mother holds him.

So, the event maybe in the hand of God, but maybe none of us die alone, anyway. The old man with the red sneakers... well, he might never die at all. But, see, even if we push away or play games, we are all tangled up together, every single day, aren’t we? We are all singing the same song. The same song. The same song.