I forgot to recount in my previous entry an encounter that I had on that day while walking back to the Christopher Street station. This commute takes me on a lovely walk through Washington Square Park, and consequentially feeds my voyeuristic compulsion for people-watching. That day, however, I wasn’t in my usual mood to peer into the casual intimacies of park-peoples — I was wrapped up in lament, and tred through the park with careful footsteps and likely a somber expression.
But even in my mindlessness, I happened to lock eyes with a girl leaning up against the backrest of a park bench. Tight black coils bounced from her head, and a fitted army-green top with short sleeves and loose black jeans dressed her small frame. With her left hand and a bent elbow she held a up a smoking joint.My words aren't doing her a bit of justice, but trust me in that she looked effortlessly cool. When our gazes met, a slight smile bloomed on her lips, her free hand shot up into the air, and she gave me a tiny yet eager wave. Although small, her gesture was imbued with the intimacy of a dear friend, not the hesitancy of a stranger.
My bumbling brain didn’t know how to process this. She couldn’t possibly be waving so familiarly at me! I looked around myself incredulously, searching for the true recipient of the message. Throughout my confusion, however, she maintained eye contact and when I at last pointed in disbelief at myself, she nodded and persisted with her greeting. Upon receiving this affirmation, I broke into a grin and returned the wave with joy. At this point, I had already made my way past where she was sitting, and I unfortunately lost her in my sights. This short encounter filled my then-melancholic heart with goldI would consider this event to fall into the category of one of the things that I'm very fond of: "spontaneous expressions of love between strangers who will never see each other again," although "love" in this case may be a tad strong., but when I turned the memory over in my mind later that day I regretted my timidity — I wish I had said something to her, or at the very least that I had done something to have made a stronger connection in that moment. I wish I were more bold.
I had another provoking encounter yesterday at Union Square Park. I had just bought eight bundles of daffodils from a stand at the farmer’s market (their fragrance was divine), and I plopped onto a park bench in contentment with my purchase. Within a few moments of me finding my rest, a scraggly-haired man dragged a Citi bike laboriously to the bench on my left and made his seat there. He had the appearance of a wanderer: a lanky frame, a long and sun-weathered face, and craggly yellow teeth. I don’t mean this statement in jest, but something in his demeanor evoked that of a mouse or rat-like creature.
He sat there, gazing off into the distance with a thousand-mile stare reflecting through his semi-opaque, cerulean sunglasses. After a couple of contemplative minutes, he looked my way and stated matter-of-factly, but with a slight drawl, “Those’re some beautiful flowers.” I laughed and readily agreed, and told him that I had bought them just over there, right off the corner. In the conversation that transpired between us after this initiation, I began to suspect that something of great consequence was arresting his mind: it was almost as if he was attempting to convince himself of some weighty fact and as if he were talking more to a reflection of himself than to me.
Those flowers, they’re beautiful, get some water, get some plant food, nurse them back to health… It’s a shame that they won’t last, I hope you can make them last. Y’know, they make these synthetic flowers these days that stay perfect forever, they’re beautiful and they put them in houses, as decoration. But then: Maybe it’s okay that these aren’t gonna be perfect forever, they fade, and that’s a fact of life… but I hope you can make them last.
While he poured out his concerns to me, I nodded enthusiastically in agreement, especially to his last point. I promised him that I’ll do my best to take care of the flowers, and not soon after, I hoisted myself up from the bench to make my way home. On my commute, I had time to nurse on his words and found myself wondering if this encounter was not some sort of premonition: I began to realize that so much of my mental anguish, if not all of it, is provoked by a wretched fear of impermanence and my hopeless — yet unquenchable — desire for something eternal and everlasting. Is this antithetical to life, to beauty, to truth? If I persist in this lust, this almost-Promethean pursuit, will I be fated to a life of eternal wandering and a never-ending search for that which does not exist?