Building Me a Home

"Seen" things - 7/21/07

On the T, from Charles to Museum of Fine Arts

1. elderly woman in a muumuu, wig, dark socks and white sneakers
2. tall man in a preppy madras blazer with a New Wave shock of bleached hair
3. two men together, dissimilar in features yet in matching green shirts
4. a beautiful madonna with a limp
5. two cackling women, one of whom should have given up a seat for the limping madonna
6. [not seen, but felt] cool, silky breeze with no smells
   

Musings resulting from this trip:

Will I ever be brave enough to walk outside my domain in a muumuu? To swim in all that excess fabric, really, the only way to dip and glide in this luxurious breeze with all the modesty of a righteous woman. That woman took the time to set her wig in curlers, because the rolls are in perfect formation. But, no dark socks in white sneakers. I can't do it. I'd rather be late for the biggest day of my life.

And, man, did he fill out that blazer. He was tall with a barrel chest. Carried himself like a trapeze artist. Couldn't figure out that hair, though. It just didn't fit in with the martini debates (is it a martini if vodka is used?) and excruciating meditation of the weather, the obsessions of old New England wealth. He must be one of the jesters who exchange a particular talent for the freedom of being just a little off.

But, it's not St. Patrick's Day. It's not.

I kept my head on a swivel so I could alert her the minute a seat opened up. She didn't take the rocks and rolls of our carriage well. No reason for those beastly magpies with their overflowing flesh not to get up. They flew off at Boylston, and the madonna was removed from peril.

Subway karma: not taking a seat when you don't have to, so people who need to sit down, can. When exhaustion, illness and age have taken over me, there will be many seats waiting for me in the temple.

The subway is a city temple. Only a few us have the money or nerve to stay above ground at all times. Eventually, all of the citizens must descend into the grimy vaults. The only way to survive is to find a way to meditate. A lot bring their particular prayer books (sci-fi, biography, the ubiquitous Mr. Potter, or a local rag) or maybe they chatter, fidget or sing to endure the waiting.

Some of us are praying to whomever to bring the right train at this exact moment. Calculations have determined that we won't be late if the "E" pulls up in the next three minutes. Then our dilapidated vessel arrives to transport us to the desired destination. To look out the window to a moving canvas of darkness. Sometimes broken up by a random light bulb or a passing car. Calm comes over the rider and she accepts that being late is not the end of the world.

Until she must get off the train into daylight, back above ground. Checks her watch. If she cuts behind the MCB, she can grab the nick of time. Time and life resume the hustle.