Riding Free

“A car is useless in New York, essential everywhere else. The same with good manners.” ~ Mignon McLaughlin

The first half of this quote is common knowledge, the other half was ingrained in our minds today during our trip to the Big Apple. Free train transit (provided graciously by NJ Transit for college students in an attempt to show us how useful it is so we'll keep using it after the freebie week is over and the prices return to their ungodly rate) led me to plan a trip to the city for no reason in particular. It was raining when we left, but I decided I'd rather be wet in New York than dry in New Jersey most of the time anyway.

The trip was good, while serving no purpose but to kill time that could have (Read: Should have) been spent on portfolios, homework, projects, etc. I'm a big fan of procrastination, so this was just fine with me. We strolled through Central Park, rode the subways from uptown to downtown and back again, paid way too much for sandwiches at a deli, saved the life of an injured pigeon (tried to anyway..) and were harrassed by not one, but TWO NJ Transit officials about our free student passes. Ah, New York, you never let me down.

Oh, and where do the ducks go in the winter?

It seems they just move to another pond that's not frozen. I guess if the winter had been this mild when Holden Caulfield was heading back home, that fond musing may never have been thought of. Glad the (fictional) winter was much colder then, because I wonder the same thing...

Trains always inspire me. I don't know what it is about them, but the clanking wheels, screeching brakes, chug of the engine and teetering passenger cars just make me giddy and full of things to say.

I remember riding the train next to you, casually tuned into the sound of your headphones. Sidestepping onto the landing and up the stairs to the grandeur that is New York City's streets. Never once glancing to your side, at me, nor removing an earbud for just a second to listen to any words that were dropping from my mouth, hopelessly into the gutters and through the city sewers for purification. Maybe one day you'll turn on your faucet and pour out some of my recycled sentences, drinking them unknowingly and thinking of me. Just maybe.

Why do people linger with us like the phantom limbs of a wounded soldier? We've fought the fights we expected to win, and the ones we never intended to fight at all, losing more than we knew we could live without. But still after the war is long over, we think we can stand on legs that we've left behind and try swinging fists attached to arms that just aren't there. When can we become whole again without these severed appendages?

.dm.