On beauty

The subway tonight from 18th to 136th was more interesting than usual -- it's Gay Pride day, so the multicolor bedecked and beaded added unexpected verve to the otherwise long and bleak ride home. Not tired enough to sleep, not eager enough to read (more about string theory -- I've run out of fiction), I was left to unashamed people watching. Widening my eyes in the attempt to make myself look more childlike and therefore, innocent or even endearing, rather than intrusive, I was graced with the thorough range of returnees from summer Sunday soiree adventurers of Chelsea, midtown, and beyond. And intelligent looking interracial couple -- spectacled brown Chinese, perhaps, and his Indian wife -- with sleeping children, still angelic though long limbed and much older than babes. I am unsure if I am seeing a romantic vision of what I want to believe in, or what I am genuinely intuiting from the moment, but given that these children were stunning, aesthetically, and their parents more along the lines of indescript, I begin hypothesizing on the quality and strength of the parent's relationship, reflected in the faces of the fruits of that union. Of that "unit".

["Unit" -- Duleesha this weekend dropped quickly in conversation the struggle of others to learn to live "as a unit" when in a relationship. Partnership. For all my image of a tough exterior, I know why that choice of word sticks with me as no man or friend has. It is the idea of unification, or union, fusion, that is my dream and motivation for existence. Am I talking about soulmate? I am talking about something less grand, more real than that. Am I talking about companionship? I am talking about something more lofty, that is, elevated, than that. I am talking in my new framework shaped by recently (ravenously) finishing Atlas Shrugged -- I am talking about reaching the height of personal egotistical achievement, and of finding your match in that height, at that height. The day I surrender to union into unit will be a happy one, because I know I will not fear losing, or selling out on, myself.]

The subway tonight is filled with beautiful people. This is not because of the sparkle and brightness of Made in China beads. It was because many in that train car were going home from having enjoyed themselves, as combined units, whether the brown family across from me or the black dual-dread-locked lesbian post-parade nappers to my side. It was evident from the quietness of the car that people had exhausted themselves, drunk on joy, alcohol, Pride, each other, and summer sun. There was peace in this car.

There was also random beauty, ever shifting glimpses of human design or crafting with the rearrangement of bodies at every stop. In particular I was blessed with the vision of a man's startling hands, large, muscular, veiny, unscarred. His knuckles ever 10 inches from my face, fist clenched around the pole at my side, yes I found these hands sexual, but more so they were sculptural, they were artful. They were beautiful.

I was drawn to recall the time I found myself chilly in a bra and designer jeans (and chopsticks in my hair) in the attic of a ceramics store in Poland. It was a photo shoot, I was a dancing cultural oddity, but more importantly this was where figurines of Mother Maria and Christ were casted en masse for churches and homes. In the yard downstairs one was faced with rows of pious faces and bodies, even to lifesize, companions to the terracotta warriors (praying on the sideslines of battle?). I was drawn to remember this awesome experience because it was up there in the attic that one found broken hands in supplication or prayer, parts of angel's wings and chipped angel bottoms; it was where they kept the damaged products. I remember being made to feel ... devotional, for the scattered beauty, because every part then had a uniqueness, and you had to be active in finding it and defining its beauty and courage. I want to be clear -- I was not awed by "brokenness". Maybe I appreciated the broken all the more because I became relevant to it's beauty when beauty was not self-evident. How could I relate to absolute perfectness, except for by worship and supplication? ... that is, if I have not reached perfectness ...?

So in the number 1 train I am searching, I am becoming an active participant in the acknowledgement of humanity's beauty. I am not only noting human body parts (I am getting conscious of the hand-man being conscious of me lusting over his gorgeous fists), but also of material encasements, shoes in particular. Maybe because of the image of the mountains of shoes at Auschwitz -- this is what's going through my head, not in a sentimental, but a factual way, because upon staring at angel-boy-child's sandals I think about what his toothbrush looks like. Odd-looking tall old white man at the conductor's door is wearing white sneakers, from which emerge lanky white calves with a literal topography of veins bursting from beneath the skin. Some girl over to my right I don't even look to see her face because I am so drawn to her lime green leather butterfly-adorned fashion sandals. I think they're a little much. I am wearing black pseudo-suede Marie Claire cloggy-booty things, bought from Bata near Raffles City (Singapore) in 2003. How is it that I can remember such insignificant details?

[Note: Raffles City is not a city in Singapore. Singapore is a city. One big city. Raffles City is the name of a mall, near Raffles Hotel, which you (non-Singaporean) may have heard of because Winston Churchill had a drink there called the Singapore Sling. I drank a Singapore Sling with Norwegian scholar friends after our high school graduation. Not a great drink -- sweet, with tropical fruits is all. You know, orange wedge and miniature umbrella and all that. My new favorite drink, as of yesterday night, is the Mad for Mex Big Azz Margarita, which wallops five shots of tequila and two shots of triple sec in a 24 oz glass for $6. $6! I was near falling over myself with just one! Just another one of the many fantastic things that my blog-idol JOKO has introduced me to! Hi Jo! Look, here you are again! SUE, I'll put you in, too! DON'T ATTEMPT THIS DRINK! You'd be asleep on the bar counter faster than the desperate guy next to you can fall over and catch his glass face-up!]

It's past midnight. I have to go to sleep. I will fall asleep to the sounds of a very active neighbourhood nightlife, my ritual lullabye (the orchestra of car sirens), and the deceivingly natural sound of running water -- um, it's the fire hydrant spewing I'd guess a gallon a second 15 feet across the street, ten feet from my front door. Yes, and the gentle tinkle of my vertical blinds as they react to the nudge of my whirring friend Pelonis, who will keep me ... warm, as opposed to fucking night sweat.

Good night, Philadelphia. Good night, New York. Hello Monday.