J_M_D_Telvatia
08-05-2008, 10:59 AM
Anya’s Story on a Walk
Rows upon rows upon columns upon columns, horizontal and vertical lines of a great many spatial variations, depths, gaps, and textures; this is the material form of the city, in addition to the rounded off design of door handles and the awnings of hotels and store fronts.
Under a gray, drippy, afternoon sky, a freckly, thin skinned, scrawny and reasonably physically fit Erich shuffles listlessly over coarse concrete sidewalks, his knee offering no choice in the pain it produces since being hit by a car a few weeks past; traveling a vector rectangle, south a few blocks, his head angled downward, lips parted as if barely whispering to himself a short story sent to him by Anya. Along the entire block on the other, westerly, side of State Street a building was being constructed. Shuffling through a mesh of moving, mingling, swerving, halting bodies and faces and expressions of the greatest variety.
A block east then proceeding north, then and again looking up from Anya’s story toward the miniature multitudes of individuals moving in a great variety of rhythmic bobs, past and toward him, in and out of revolving glass or otherwise doors. He peers back to the paper in his hand, the story; halting in front of pedestrians’ almost inconsiderate and un-deviated direction of motion: Who goes first!?!
At a corner, the stop light bleeped a walk signal for walkers perpendicular to Erich’s vector, then a sudden disruption; both stopping, her and Erich, in a split second shifting motion, an instant inch from collision. Erich was in Anya’s story, and she? She was walking in that almost inconsiderate and un-deviated direction of motion, no distraction, no multi-task action, only eyes forward, following the symbol’s signal, drifting in a pseudo-sleep as a rest from work’s repetitive mental repression; lunch break.
“I’m sorry,” Erich said, in a high pitch almost whisper and a spurting chuckle as if a chipmunks were to laugh at a silly social situation while gliding up the side of a tree.
The lady simultaneously spoke through a breath an “Oh,” or “Uh,” of surprise as if in self-alert to resolve the dilemma lasting only a fragment of a second or just a little bit more.
A short spasm, shift sharp jagged motion this way – no that no this again! Twisting and untangling and around each other, the lady crossed the street perpendicular as Erich stepped to the edge of the side walk, eyes back on Anya’s story, noting immobile bodies beside him to know when the red hand in the little box on the other side of the street became the white person.
Commencing, passing under awnings, Erich walked under the middle, between shelter and the open, fuzzy gray sky, leaking a few raindrops, beads soaking a few different sizes of circles on the face of the paper on which the words of Anya’s story Erich is mentally pronouncing, were printed; this perturbed him. Folding the paper and looking up and, behold! Rows and columns of lines, horizontal and vertical varieties made visually accessible via gray skies, allowing easy access to the upper echelons of downtown’s sky-rise buildings, without the glaring, fiery interrogation of a beautiful clear sunny day, without the squint and strain of muscles about the forehead and edges of eyes.
Glass in isolated, symmetric patterns encapsulated in sandstone surfaces or rows of thin steel lines divide rectangular sections spanning silvery mirror-esque faces fit for a god, topographically flat or curving. One can see, from the base towards a reflective face, the sky and the building next door; the city looks at itself in its own mirror, the core’s vanity, its self knowledge and self importance, its highness and variegated symmetry. Scraggly bearded men in long spent and mismatched clothes sitting on crates rattling rhythms through the motion and gravity of coins in their cups.
“Help me on your way out please,” a man on a crate’s words carries under a weight of age and entropy toward Erich’s ear; glancing to meet the man’s face, nodding as he shuffles in a stiff limp by, toward the door to the Seven Eleven.
Inside the Seven Eleven, Erich found the same forms, parallels and perpendiculars, horizontal and vertical lines, rows and columns of shelving and box displays of packages of great varieties of gum and candy, of chips and jerky and bottled and canned drinks within the rectangular glass refrigerator doors lining an L-shape of adjoining walls at the far, northeastern corner of the little convenience store. Erich has five dollars to spend, “only!” he thinks.
Comparing the price and weight of chips per bag, choosing highest quantity at lowest price: Fritos Chili Cheese flavored corn chips; shuffling to a latte producing machine, he inspects all sides, head bobbing back and forth searching for the price for a cup of this machine holding ready made coffee, nothing.
“So what is the price of the drinks from this machine?” inquires Erich.
He pays for the Fritos and a Mocha, which, when Erich pushed the button, the latte machine produced a buzzing, almost grinding whine of an engine, he imagined it was the strange buzzing sound which created the questionable and properly priced coffee drink out of a magical black hole contained in the machine. Erich walks out, puts a dollar in the clear plastic cup, containing a few coins – no quarters though, held by the man on the crate who says “thank you,” and probably “God bless you,” but Erich is not sure if this is just an echo of the many other times he has given change to beggars. Erich wonders if the man puts the dollars and quarters in his pocket after he is given one, or if the guy leaning against the newspaper stand, one foot pressed against its scratched, rusty, paint chipped, graffiti marred face, Mr. anonymity in sunglasses bringing his hand up to his mouth, swinging his arm back down, exhaling a directional dissipating cloud through his lips, looking at the event before him, is going to take the money from the man on the crate.
Erich shuffles past, in short, quick steps, having taken it all in, forgetting everything and looking forward to setting down, resting his knee, eating, drinking and enthusiastically re-reading Anya’s story.
J M D Telvatia
June-August 2008
Rows upon rows upon columns upon columns, horizontal and vertical lines of a great many spatial variations, depths, gaps, and textures; this is the material form of the city, in addition to the rounded off design of door handles and the awnings of hotels and store fronts.
Under a gray, drippy, afternoon sky, a freckly, thin skinned, scrawny and reasonably physically fit Erich shuffles listlessly over coarse concrete sidewalks, his knee offering no choice in the pain it produces since being hit by a car a few weeks past; traveling a vector rectangle, south a few blocks, his head angled downward, lips parted as if barely whispering to himself a short story sent to him by Anya. Along the entire block on the other, westerly, side of State Street a building was being constructed. Shuffling through a mesh of moving, mingling, swerving, halting bodies and faces and expressions of the greatest variety.
A block east then proceeding north, then and again looking up from Anya’s story toward the miniature multitudes of individuals moving in a great variety of rhythmic bobs, past and toward him, in and out of revolving glass or otherwise doors. He peers back to the paper in his hand, the story; halting in front of pedestrians’ almost inconsiderate and un-deviated direction of motion: Who goes first!?!
At a corner, the stop light bleeped a walk signal for walkers perpendicular to Erich’s vector, then a sudden disruption; both stopping, her and Erich, in a split second shifting motion, an instant inch from collision. Erich was in Anya’s story, and she? She was walking in that almost inconsiderate and un-deviated direction of motion, no distraction, no multi-task action, only eyes forward, following the symbol’s signal, drifting in a pseudo-sleep as a rest from work’s repetitive mental repression; lunch break.
“I’m sorry,” Erich said, in a high pitch almost whisper and a spurting chuckle as if a chipmunks were to laugh at a silly social situation while gliding up the side of a tree.
The lady simultaneously spoke through a breath an “Oh,” or “Uh,” of surprise as if in self-alert to resolve the dilemma lasting only a fragment of a second or just a little bit more.
A short spasm, shift sharp jagged motion this way – no that no this again! Twisting and untangling and around each other, the lady crossed the street perpendicular as Erich stepped to the edge of the side walk, eyes back on Anya’s story, noting immobile bodies beside him to know when the red hand in the little box on the other side of the street became the white person.
Commencing, passing under awnings, Erich walked under the middle, between shelter and the open, fuzzy gray sky, leaking a few raindrops, beads soaking a few different sizes of circles on the face of the paper on which the words of Anya’s story Erich is mentally pronouncing, were printed; this perturbed him. Folding the paper and looking up and, behold! Rows and columns of lines, horizontal and vertical varieties made visually accessible via gray skies, allowing easy access to the upper echelons of downtown’s sky-rise buildings, without the glaring, fiery interrogation of a beautiful clear sunny day, without the squint and strain of muscles about the forehead and edges of eyes.
Glass in isolated, symmetric patterns encapsulated in sandstone surfaces or rows of thin steel lines divide rectangular sections spanning silvery mirror-esque faces fit for a god, topographically flat or curving. One can see, from the base towards a reflective face, the sky and the building next door; the city looks at itself in its own mirror, the core’s vanity, its self knowledge and self importance, its highness and variegated symmetry. Scraggly bearded men in long spent and mismatched clothes sitting on crates rattling rhythms through the motion and gravity of coins in their cups.
“Help me on your way out please,” a man on a crate’s words carries under a weight of age and entropy toward Erich’s ear; glancing to meet the man’s face, nodding as he shuffles in a stiff limp by, toward the door to the Seven Eleven.
Inside the Seven Eleven, Erich found the same forms, parallels and perpendiculars, horizontal and vertical lines, rows and columns of shelving and box displays of packages of great varieties of gum and candy, of chips and jerky and bottled and canned drinks within the rectangular glass refrigerator doors lining an L-shape of adjoining walls at the far, northeastern corner of the little convenience store. Erich has five dollars to spend, “only!” he thinks.
Comparing the price and weight of chips per bag, choosing highest quantity at lowest price: Fritos Chili Cheese flavored corn chips; shuffling to a latte producing machine, he inspects all sides, head bobbing back and forth searching for the price for a cup of this machine holding ready made coffee, nothing.
“So what is the price of the drinks from this machine?” inquires Erich.
He pays for the Fritos and a Mocha, which, when Erich pushed the button, the latte machine produced a buzzing, almost grinding whine of an engine, he imagined it was the strange buzzing sound which created the questionable and properly priced coffee drink out of a magical black hole contained in the machine. Erich walks out, puts a dollar in the clear plastic cup, containing a few coins – no quarters though, held by the man on the crate who says “thank you,” and probably “God bless you,” but Erich is not sure if this is just an echo of the many other times he has given change to beggars. Erich wonders if the man puts the dollars and quarters in his pocket after he is given one, or if the guy leaning against the newspaper stand, one foot pressed against its scratched, rusty, paint chipped, graffiti marred face, Mr. anonymity in sunglasses bringing his hand up to his mouth, swinging his arm back down, exhaling a directional dissipating cloud through his lips, looking at the event before him, is going to take the money from the man on the crate.
Erich shuffles past, in short, quick steps, having taken it all in, forgetting everything and looking forward to setting down, resting his knee, eating, drinking and enthusiastically re-reading Anya’s story.
J M D Telvatia
June-August 2008