This is written from CCNY library, Monday morning, about an hour before the start of the class. The computer has stuck space bar, which makes it extremely difficult to type. Nonetheless, the fact that I miscalculated my time this morning and the fact that I arrived here an hour earlier than I intended do not change. Therefore, I must scribble something before I die of boredom.
I ride the 7 train to the “city.”
On the Queensboro Plaza, two come into train, a father and a daughter, to whom I gladly gave up my seat so that they could sit together. The father must remain a father, not a man, because he seemed to not be anything else without the relationship with his daughter, or at least, it appeared so for the duration of my travel. The daughter, however, was self-existent and therefore, I was able to conclude that she was not only a daughter, but also could be a girl.
“Next stop, Court Square”
This is the part of the travel in which the fast becomes slow and slow remains slow. Express train no longer leaps across the insignificant stations that are outside the “city.” If the Queensboro Plaza is the beginning of this revolution, Court Square is the one that fully lives up to her rights, and do herself justice by not being ignored. How fair.
“Why is it Quart Sqware?”
The girl asks her father. Is she asking the ontological question about the existence of “Quart Sqware”? The father kindly seats his daughter on his lap and tells her that it is “Court Square.” The girl insists on “Quart Sqware.”
“Oh…. then Times Square is next…..”
On what world is Times Square after Court? She should be the head of MTA. Many people will appreciate, especially when the universe revolves around moi.
“…and then it’s Vernon Jackson Avenue…”
I take it back. Her world must have trains leaping and jumping wildly across the air, back and forth around the globe. Not bad. Afterall, it is her world, and she has the right to think whatever–there is no limit, and if she is able to will it and able to imagine it, it exists.
“It’s Vernon Jackson Boulevard.”
The father kindly replied. Great revelation. Shocking truth. Undeniable reality.
“Well, it’s also an Avenue.”
The girl says. Super human analysis. Epitome of human wisdom. Highest philosophy.
“I die! I die!”
The girl is dying of boredom. There is nothing more relatable and nothing more genuine and nothing more philosophical and nothing more universal than the horror of death by boredom. I die I die. Death. Eloi Eloi- death? Langston Hughes’ weary blues death? Nicolas Guillen’s grandfathers singing ballads of me canso me canso, me muero me muero-death? I die I die I die.
And the two left on Vernon Jackson—without having to go through the tunnel of Sheol between Vernon-Jackson and Grand Central.
