Boston
Bob brought home a dog. It’s actually composed of two ideas. Two menacing teeth pinch out into the air, like rodent mandibles on display at the airport gallery. It’s watching me by the glass door of some house. I can’t decide whether it’s waiting to welcome me, or standing guard against me.
Bob goes in. Of course the dog follows obediently; when has a dog ever not obeyed him? I see the hound trotting happily in and disappear. But when I cross some threshold, the dog suddenly materializes, with a red glint in its eye. It doesn’t bark – all is silent. But I am warned from approaching any further. Its incisors flash, flicker snake-tongue like. I cannot draw near.
It’s a challenge of some sort, but I can’t figure out how to win. When I muster the will to move forward, the dog matches it in its determination to keep me at bay. I feel like I’m hunting a magnet with the same polarity. There’s some other ability or quality I need to have to satisfy the dog’s steely demand, but it hasn’t matured in me yet. How should I realize it?
I’m reminded of the crow which is circling overhead. It circles and descends, closes in on its target, the old man with the hat, the man who eats cat hearts and sculpts enigmas. It attacks, claws his face, tears out his eyes, in desperation even rips out his mockery-laced tongue. Still, the man cannot be defeated. “You’re not qualified,” he says, leering out of empty sockets, maddeningly, undeniably triumphant.
I’m not qualified.
……
In Boston there’s a place that turns people into children, in a good way. Let me explain.
I think the mirror has spoiled generations. This simple polished metal, later to gain more sophistication in tin-backed glass, 35mm, and the multi-megapixel, has redirected the gaze from the omnipresent inner mirror. Modern day diversions are nothing but mirrors – sumptuously saturated magazine shots, the cinematic escape, video games reflecting off thousands of retinas at once. Everywhere: capture, stimulation, a dry thirst that gets harder and harder to quell. That is, the thirst for more.
It’s gotten to the point that we have to see ourselves, the gross self, reflected, to even believe we exist. The mirror has become the am-I-dreaming pinch. The medium for self knowledge has been passed from the self to another keeper. Self-consciousness is the misnomer of the age.
The Haymarket is a good place to reverse the trend a little bit. I like seeing people in a state of absorption. Not so unstructured as reverie, yet not so forceful as concentration – just allowing themselves to be attracted by the natural charm of the moment. Apparently, bargain priced strawberries, tomatoes, grapes, cheeses, and romaine are enough to bring people to this state.
The chief joy of people watching does not lie in observing beautiful people. Rather, it is in watching people behave beautifully. And they behave beautifully when they are not thinking of how they are behaving, when they are absorbed in the subtle process of enjoyment. In a place like Haymarket, they won’t notice one pair of inquiring eyes casting around. As they walk among the stalls and appraise the bounty of fresh veggies and fruits, most appear, believe it or not, as children in a wonderland. The essential shopping was done at Star Market, or Trader Joe’s, or Whole Foods, or somewhere else. This is pure craft fair discovery.
I’m looking at the faces behind the boxes of produce. Nobody looks particularly worried about anything. Doing this is in their blood; they’re not going to sell badly.
I’m following one buyer winding through the bustle. She sees some plump pears sunning themselves, and has a look. Then she nibbles some asiago, decides to buy at $3 for a small block. She’s exchanging a joke with the ruddy fellow selling four oranges for $1. Then disappears hot on the scent of another find.
……
The burritos Katie and I make are sort of ridiculous. We wrap up grated cheddar cheese, egg fried rice, Simon and Garfunkel salmon, and chick pea salad with craisins in flour tortillas. It’s a good parting meal. Somehow, the bizarre constituent parts complement each other. Such patchworks can make for fine friendships.