CITY ISLAND LINES
I have a few questions about Reality TV. First of all, what part of Reality TV is the reality. Isn’t reality what is shuffling and shuttling on around us? Isn’t reality the mound of unwashed clothes sulking in the corner? Isn’t reality the soft predictable snoring of the one you love? Isn’t reality the wrenching wail of a toddler who has tripped on a carpet corner?
The Reality TV world must, of course, be on many levels manipulated and contrived since it has been tidily trimmed into advertising friendly chunks and then scheduled for specific viewer-targeted time slots. My reality is never so orderly or predictable. Furthermore, the pre-digested reality that we are served in a microwave safe format seems more like an episode of candid camera in which all of the participants have attended a cut-rate on-line acting class. Not only do their reactions appear rehearsed and absurd, but they often seem to be surreptitiously marketing something that I am pretty sure I don’t want. My next question about Reality TV is, who are these aspiring idols that choose to abandon their own reality for one that has been created and tailored by someone else, particularly when this alternative reality is often the means of their own humiliation or undoing. Finally, I wonder what compels people to watch Reality TV. Is it the secret satisfaction of watching someone else fail or embarrass themselves—like laughing at the clown who slips on the banana peel. A supercilious voyeurism. Or is it the deep invidious belief that we too could be stars – and bigger better stars at that! If all the world’s a stage, then haven’t we had extensive theatrical training already? For my part, I feel no great desire or even interest in watching Reality TV. As a predictable corollary, I also have no desire to participate in Reality TV. I prefer to muddle through my own mundane and unobserved reality. At least that way I have a much smaller audience when I flub my lines—or slip on the banana peel. 22 Aug 2017
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Once again, I find myself on a fruitless quest to find my glasses. My glasses belong to an elite corps of S-BITS Small But Important Things. They conspire to distract and derail me by concealing themselves – often quite cunningly in plain sight. They are mischievous not malicious but drag me on detours as curious and contrariwise as Alice’s.
I am looking for my glasses because I want to make a list of the things that I will do next week. I am a great maker of lists and sometimes believe that the simple act of writing tasks down helps to accomplish them. I will admit that there are occasional list entries that malinger and refuse to get themselves done, but, by and large, lists offer me useful buoys as I try to navigate the uncertain waters of goals and obligations. My list for next week is shaping up quite well. First I will tackle my shoes, socks, sweaters and belts. These are all currently running amok in my closet and making themselves largely unavailable through this smokescreen of chaos. Next week I will bring order to this colorful confusion, and, hopefully, I will find the mate for one lonely green sock that has been sitting alone atop the washing machine for some time now. Next week I will also address the enchanted forest of greens, grapes, sprouts, tomatoes, cheeses and cold cuts that has been flourishing in my ‘fridge. I get the sense that new life forms are emerging in there, and it’s high time that I took a look and did some pruning. Next week I also plan to read copiously. I have that book that my brother-in-law gave me for Christmas and the funny one from my mother. I also have a backlog of interesting articles filed in a sub-folder titled ‘Work-to read’. Finally, a stack of neglected New Yorker magazines has been glaring accusingly at me for longer that I care to admit. Next week they will get the time they deserve. Not only will I read, but I will also write next week. I’ve been meaning to send Kate an entertaining account of our move and all the adventures since her wedding. I also need to write to the insurance company to clear up the confusion with the address. And, of course, I will write to my sister to find out how her trip went. Yes, indeed, next week I will be a paragon of productivity. In fact, I think I will get a head start on things and tackle that pile of New Yorkers right away. Now…. Where are my glasses? 8 Aug 2017 Sitting on a rhythmically rocking train from Manhattan, I take a deep breath and allow myself to settle into the stiff embrace of a plastic passenger seat. An almost welcome change from the lumpy awkward sofa. A different sort of discomfort.
The rush of conversation, complication, contradiction, and confusion starts to recede. Finally, there is some semblance of space in my mind for freer thought, for observation rather than reflexive response. At the far end of the carriage sits an elderly black man, dressed as if for church or something even more formal. His cufflinks catch the fleeting lights on the tracks and seem to sparkle in a discordantly flashy way. His beige suit is immaculate. Between his knees sits an equally dignified, elderly, black dog. The man’s skin is dark and smooth and lustrous. The dog, in contrast, has a slightly moth-eaten appearance with rough grey patches and small random spots of hair-loss. As incongruous as they appear, they are clearly two halves of one whole. The man is blind. The dog has blind faith. Without one another, each would flail and fail. Together they are complete and indestructible. As we travel north, the colour palette shifts. Hues go from white to yellow to brown to black, but the mood remains reserved: each passenger on an individual trajectory—mentally and physically. Many stare into the bewitching gaze of their phone screens. There, infinite universes unfold, from the mundane to the magical. These people are making two simultaneous trips. The virtual one distracting them from the physical. Which one is more ‘real’? Buildings and bridges jerk past. Sky, water, brick, metal – they all seem to blur on a red-brown canvas. Stations are announced but in such a muffled way that one has little hope of recognising the name until it is too late. Luckily, my final destination is also that of the train. So I am free to watch the mothers and children, the co-workers, the shoppers, the travelers with no apparent terminus and perhaps no clear origin either. So many stories- all sitting side by side. An over-flowing library of life. Finally, the train lurches into its berth. We have reached the end of the line, and all disembark at our respective speeds. I pause to look back at the train, a treasure chest teeming with experiences, ideas, disappointments and dreams. Then I walk down the stairs to explore my own new life in da Bronx. 1Aug 2017 |
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