i am the dragon
Travels on lightfoot land colorfully, and I assume a new title. Saturday I snaked through Chinatown to purchase some fine red gifts for a family member et al. And then I skipped out and was crowned Gatekeeper of Rivington, much like a hobbit or elf only more human and less ornate but just as magical.
I have flip-flop directional syndrome (FFDS): I know intellectually the direction I need to head in but just as I do, left and right, north and south, up and down, reverse in my head. Which is hallucinogenic at best. Bears come out of bedroom closets and the sky slides down the glass globe.
The air was bite-cold and as I consulted the map to combat FFDS, a dark-haired fellow about my age approached me. "Excuse me, do you know where Rivington is?" In fact I’d just located it on the map. When I pointed it out I saw I needed to go in the same direction.
We walked like Dorothy and the Scarecrow Rivingtonward, he an amiable photographer from San Francisco, who was not accustomed to the cold, and I a budding go-to who was. We had a discussion subliminally about photogenia but really about the weather and the center of the world. We parted ways at Rivington.
After locating my destination, I deviated toward pizza. On the way back, a long-haired lady stopped me: "Do you know where Rivington is?" Certainly and directed her. Back at my destination I stood outside in the cold, finishing my slice of pizza. A blend-in girl wearing too much makeup and not enough clothing by standards of either taste or air temperature put her face in front of mine. "Do you know where Rivington is?"
By this time Rivington was like my belt. Mouth full of cheese and peppers, I pointed. At this point, I decided Jesus, Ganesh, and John Lennon must have been slated for an appearance together on this street of Rivington. And I was the illuminatus offering passage. I suppose there are other illuminati designated for other streets.
Everywhere I go people ask me for directions and rarely do I have a solid idea of where I am or where I am going. Looks can be deceiving. Or not. Somehow we get to where we’re going. Or, we get to where we’re going inevitably because wherever we end up is some configuration of where we intend, or need, to be at the time, receiving images and transforming impulses, camera-eyed and fiery.
I have flip-flop directional syndrome (FFDS): I know intellectually the direction I need to head in but just as I do, left and right, north and south, up and down, reverse in my head. Which is hallucinogenic at best. Bears come out of bedroom closets and the sky slides down the glass globe.
The air was bite-cold and as I consulted the map to combat FFDS, a dark-haired fellow about my age approached me. "Excuse me, do you know where Rivington is?" In fact I’d just located it on the map. When I pointed it out I saw I needed to go in the same direction.
We walked like Dorothy and the Scarecrow Rivingtonward, he an amiable photographer from San Francisco, who was not accustomed to the cold, and I a budding go-to who was. We had a discussion subliminally about photogenia but really about the weather and the center of the world. We parted ways at Rivington.
After locating my destination, I deviated toward pizza. On the way back, a long-haired lady stopped me: "Do you know where Rivington is?" Certainly and directed her. Back at my destination I stood outside in the cold, finishing my slice of pizza. A blend-in girl wearing too much makeup and not enough clothing by standards of either taste or air temperature put her face in front of mine. "Do you know where Rivington is?"
By this time Rivington was like my belt. Mouth full of cheese and peppers, I pointed. At this point, I decided Jesus, Ganesh, and John Lennon must have been slated for an appearance together on this street of Rivington. And I was the illuminatus offering passage. I suppose there are other illuminati designated for other streets.
Everywhere I go people ask me for directions and rarely do I have a solid idea of where I am or where I am going. Looks can be deceiving. Or not. Somehow we get to where we’re going. Or, we get to where we’re going inevitably because wherever we end up is some configuration of where we intend, or need, to be at the time, receiving images and transforming impulses, camera-eyed and fiery.
1 Comments:
I have no idea where Rivington is.
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