Walks & Thoughts

False spring has come again. It's nice and warm, and they're selling coconuts on Belmont. I got one, drank the water, cracked it open against the floor, and ate its flesh. Something about it felt primal. I walked around the city ripping apart this thing with my bare hands and my teeth.

Hand to mouth. My friend made a joke, she said it twice or thrice. Something about how I was going cocoNUTS. It was funny, but I wasn't laughing. I was too locked in on this coconut.

The white flesh. The slightly sweet flavor. I could see myself on an island, abandoned with no one in sight. The only way to survive was to eat coconuts or hunt, but I'm a vegetarian, so I guess my only option is to eat coconuts.

The smell was coconutty, but not overwhelmingly so. I wasn't reminded of sunblock. I was reminded of something more natural. The ocean crashing onto the shore. The abrasive action that builds the soft sands under our feet. Softness coming from something so violent and deadly.

A lot of things are like that, honestly. Abrasion creates softness. Heartbreak creates strength and stoicism. It's funny how things flip into their opposites, almost like they're connected even though they're completely different. You can only hate someone you once loved.

I think about that a lot, how anyone I've ever hated has been someone I momentarily cherished. That reminds me not to hate them, but rather to wish them well in any state. Of course, that doesn't happen so easily, and instead, the hate and the love sort of just wash away into neutrality. Maybe that's what happens with the ocean, waves grind away at the earth till there's empty space, sand settles at the shore. What was once there has been transformed and diffused elsewhere. Who was once in my heart has changed, and their memories are kept somewhere far from where they once were.

I don't have any pictures for this one because it was so nice on the day I went for a walk. I wrote a little poem while sitting out here.

Today I saw a bird Head down, eyes closed I think she was dying

I wanted to help her, I truly did But nowhere I turned to could take her in She was pretty, her beak long I felt useless, and so so wrong Today I saw a bird Red-breasted, wings brown She was free and flying

I went to a concert, but I really felt as though I was being followed by something. My entire trip to the venue, The Shed near Hudson Yards, I kept seeing blood smeared on the wall or splattered on the floor. It feels like a sign, but I can't really put my finger on what.

Impending doom.

That's what I feel.

A little blood on the wall. Sure, whatever. I live in a city with lots of people, and unfortunately, many of whom are unwell. It happens. But it looks a little intentional. It's just too much blood. It makes me queasy. Something bad has happened.

Right below it, a gummy bear. Red like the color of blood. Fallen like a dying soldier. His mark has been left. Sweet. Sticky. Gummy. Red.

I ignore it. The babblings of someone out of their mind echo in my head. A narrative spins in the folds of my brain.

I hop on the train, I hop out. I look down. Something familiar.

Red and fallen. More blood.

Two is a coincidence, and three is a pattern. I did not see a third splash of blood. I can't help but wonder where all that came from.

Was it a fight or someone sick? It's definitely something horrible but mundane.

It is unsettling how normal such things are to everyone. Blood on the walls, that's just how the city works!

Todays theme is rust and yellow. Colors that mark the industrial age. Colors that evoke Ronald McDonald, ketchup and mustard, decay and rebirth, blood and urine.

It tells the story of youth being eaten away by the passage of time. Something that seemed so concrete, modern inventions and buildings, don't seem to be able to fight off the wear and tear that existence itself creates.

Yellow is a color that means a lot to me, I guess. It used to be my favorite color as a kid, and it's my Aunt's favorite color. It's sunshine and life and God. But it's also traffic cones, construction work, and warning signs.

I don't like the color yellow as much anymore. I think it's because at a certain point, I was 15 or 16, and I decided it was too immature, but also too old. Yellow became both a color I associated with babies and with senile people who sort of became babies again. Honestly, at that age, I was probably scared of being seen as a child even though I was one. I was also overly concerned about what other people thought about me.

I'm pretty neutral about yellow now. It's a nice color and goes with a lot of other things.

Red is one of my current favorite colors. In the context of accessories, at least. I think it's an amazing color when used in small details, but not so much when it covers an entire surface.

But rust is a different story.

It's subtle and can be used more extensively. That's what I think, at least. And that could be because of a lot of things. Maybe I'm not a really bold person, so something too bright scares me a little. Probably, I dislike standing out too much.

I love rust. I like that I know something is old when I see remnants of rust. I also like that I know someone loves something old when there's no rust. It tells a story. A story of water and attention. Use and lack of use. It's something that can really show you a lot without saying a word.

It's still snowy but somehow less cold. I wonder whether the temperature is truly warmer, or if the sight of snow warms my soul and makes the cold more bearable. I think it's a bit of both. The wind still blows, but the snow makes its bite feel gentle, almost loving.

There's also something tranquil about the contrast of the white snow and the dirty slushy mess from the streets of New York. You can cover this entire city in snow, but it will never fully hide the dirt on which the city was built.

Something about that makes me think of the history of New York and the world, really. A visual that pops into my head is this one scene from the movie Lucy (2014), where Scarlett Johansson is a drug mule and becomes superhuman because of the drugs that leak into her system. It shows the main character almost scrolling through time, looking back into the past, as if she's rewinding a movie. Times Square is seen today, full of people and lights. Then, in the 1900s, the roads weren't paved or lit, yet it was still full of people. New York really was built on dirt and horse shit and the lives of common people. Seeing the city covered in snow for some reason takes my mind back to that.

This week was simply too cold to walk. Every time I stepped foot outside to go to class or get some food, it felt like a million needles were piercing my skin. Double, triple, even quadruple layers weren't enough for me to brave the outside.

The cold wind made it hard to think, but it was a nice change of pace. Sometimes it feels like I'm drowning in my thoughts, or lost in them. Each stream of consciousness is like a huge tree that's taken root in my mind, sturdy and ever-present. But trees fall, and like a tree, these sinking feelings will someday fade.

I wonder if people were ever truly meant to live in stillness. Were we meant to migrate or to burrow deep into the ground, sinking our feet in and creating a lineage? Maybe we just grew into it. Something to last far beyond a lifetime.

It's funny how I started this by saying it was so cold I could barely think, but here I am writing nothing but thoughts in this room full of artificial warmth. My friend Maia sits across from me; her warmth also moves me to write and to think. The way she rests her head in the palm of her hand, probably also doing work like I am. Probably also thinking of the biting cold.

I took the subway to Brooklyn, and I almost fell. The snow stuck to people's shoes and melted onto the warm floors of these underground tunnels. That liquid was mixed and emulsified into a slick mush, coating the entire subway.

The traction of my thrifted boots failed me; they've been worn down to small ridges. Every turn, I slid from one end of the car to the other until I could finally sit down.

All around me, I see orange seats with scratched surfaces, random streaks, someone begging to be remembered, and declarations of love.

I wonder if Alvin and Nicole are together right now, as I sit on this train slipping and sliding around. Are they holding each other? Keeping one another warm? Did they get married? Are they still teenagers? Maybe they no longer know each other, maybe Alvin saw Nicole through the window of some cafe on a first date with some guy. Would he cry? Or would he pause for a moment and go on with his day?

Beside me sits this guy, he's my friend, and I love talking to him, but we sit in silence. His scarf tangles with the strap of his bag, creating a contrast of flowing liquid and restrictive military gear. Art and function.

We are kind of like that, my friend and I. We went to watch the same movie and came out with completely different thoughts, yet the same rating. I loved the art, and he hated the film's functionality, or lack thereof.

The air is tainted with smoke from cars, from buildings, and from our own mouths, but there is beauty in that. The smell of the city probably feels like home to some. Like the cats that sprawl around the streets of New York, this is probably all they've ever known.