There’s a map of the city tattooed on the back of my eyelids. It’s two-dimensional, in color, and resembles the MTA’s official rendering of the subway, veinlike lines of green, blue, red, yellow, and orange demarcate their respective routes.
This map is always at my disposal.
If you could see this map, the System I speak of would be very clear. It’s all there, laid out, alive. Its rules and functions specific, pure (yes, like PurellTM), and precise.
When I’m exhausted or overwhelmed, or in that slippery state between sleep and consciousness, my attention is diverted north. I’m a pinball, seeking the center of gravity. North, along a green artery numbered 5, a particular station.
In these moments I’m quite sure that all things/ events stem from this location, this place with such a goddamn lovely name. Or perhaps all things/events are headed there, rushing through the green vessel to converge, to come together, at Gun Hill Road.