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August 28, 2003
good morning

Sixty eight degrees Fahrenheit (or about nineteen Celsius) is pretty much the nicest temperature one could hope for on a morning in New York. Things tend to get a bit extreme here, as we all know. It might be bad to walk straight into what feels like the humid mouth of a dog in the summer time, but freezing even under layers and layers of various garments in January might be worse.
The Subway still felt a bit toasty, not crowded, it appears that many New Yorkers are making this one an especially long weekend.
Those who rode the subway with me today were like little books of human character speculation.
There was the forty-something gentleman with a Leon Trotsky beard and some rather peculiar medical condition that made him look beyond the kind of potent any man might ever want to be. He rested a gaming magazine on that area, there, as if it were his favorite reading pillow. He sometimes scratched his head of freshly dyed jet black hair. (Something was telling me that he had to hide this magazine from his mother...)
The last page of the gamer publication screamed at all of us announcing that he could be the winner of a Million Dollars. I just imagined how he would decide to invest this king of cash, or if his mom would make these kinds of decisions, and how he would react if he in fact won...
Next to him was a lady in her sixties maybe, she could have been 80, perhaps older. I do not quite remember now what she looked like, she was the kind that used her makeup as if it were skin colored stucco. Then there were the jewels.
Large gem stones, dark, larger than life.
To her right was a gentleman of probably 70, his head barely covered with any hair, his neck very much like a human sized version of a water-turtle's neck.
His shirt was far too open. He seemed refined, interested, guided by what he saw, not by what he thought to see. After a few minutes he pulled out a little inconspicuous book. I could not see the author's names, the title was quite clear... "Geriatric Psychiatry".. I tried to avoid eye contact.
His neighbor was dressed in a shirt that seemed to be made out of the finest checkered cotton table cloth. His hair looked like something on the head of a 15 year old Swedish soccer player, except that he was maybe 40... He stroked over the top layer of his hair as if to make sure the velcro stuck to his scalp.
Something made me think that he could have been British. I do not quite remember what else he wore, but his features, his demeanor, it all pointed to some place where princes like to spend their time hunting foxes and other little animals.
The lady next to me had her ripe summer-picnic-banana ready, it was on top of some tupperware, inside of a rather old Bergdorf Goodman bag. Her fisherman pants matched the checkers of the English gentleman, except they were the salmon and white, not blue.
In front of us, at least for the last few stops, a man from somewhere in South America (what a wild guess). His too tight black pants seemed to attempt to befriend that Bergdorf Goodman traveler. His body appeared as if it were a soft and air filled dough, spilling just about wherever it could in ways permitted by his outfit. The Canary yellow tennis shirt met his pants in a place that was incredibly confined by a thin, shiny, leather belt. Even his sunglasses, placed around his neck, not on top of his shiny, shiny hair, were seemingly cutting into a soft mass of a body. The man with a soft outside and possibly a hard core also wore one of those pieces of clothing not visible to the human eye... a rather heavy cologne. It spilled freely all over the subway car, spread out and tickled all of the somehow tired strap hangers. Whenever the doors opened, there would be a new mix of fragrance. I was quite glad to finally reach my destination. As I was leaving the car, I noticed an incredibly beautiful African American woman, deep in the corner of the car. I only had a split second to see her, so I could not imagine any story as the ones that for me surrounded all the other characters.
Outside of the station the weather was still the perfect seventy degrees. The skies are blue and clear here in New York, I think I might need a little coffee...


i was just dreaming about a girl and myself walking around a perfectly empty new york city anmd it felt about 80 degrees outside and i said to her, "What is going on! This kind of weather and in the dead of winter!"

"New year's eve no less," she responded, "And you wearing short sleeves."

Posted by: m-L-e on August 28, 2003 11:21 AM

exxxxcellent! love that description of the killer cologne :)

Posted by: shauny on August 28, 2003 11:38 AM

hahahaa, oh dear.

Posted by: m-L-e on August 28, 2003 09:01 PM

Thank you for the kind suggestion... but drawing in the style you suggested is somehow not part of what I do...
: )

Posted by: Witold Riedel on August 28, 2003 10:23 PM
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