I spent all day today agonizing over minute job application details for positions I would most likely hate. The couch is my friend and enemy. My ass is tethered to it like a cow to a field of green grass; I sit on it for hours and take breaks between cover letter sentences, searching for people I know on MySpace, or looking at the latest satellite imagery on the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (aka "NOAA") web site.
Yesterday I got an insurance refund check in the mail for $17.77. I got very excited because it gave me an excuse to go to the bank. This is the first and only time I ventured out of the apartment on this day.
I walked for 5 or 6 blocks into Union City with the check in my jacket pocket. There's a good deal to see around here within 5 blocks.
There's usually a line at the bank. You generally have to wait 5 minutes or so before it's your turn at the ATM. There are 2 teller machines in an 8ft x 10ft room with one of those auto-locking doors you have to use your bank card to get into. There isn't enough room in there to accomodate a line of bored citizens, so most have to wait on the sidewalk for a while.
But eventually I got in there. I deposited my check and walked downhill back home.
I didn't take any pictures on the way back for some reason. Which is a shame because on the way home I stopped into this little vintage clothing store on 48th St. called Woho to look for a new coat, 'cause it's getting damn cold here right now. There was a fuzzy mustard-yellow coat I thought about getting. It was reversible; it turned into a rain coat if you wore it inside out. Maybe I'll go back for it after I get a job.
Perhaps I don't take pictures in those situations because there are other people around. I get self conscious and want to avoid having to explain what I'm doing. It's so much easier to aim the camera at the ground or some inanimate object when no one's looking. This way the act of taking pictures remains private, intimate. It becomes about negotiating little distances that separate my body from everything else, so that I can get to know this new place inch by inch.
I didn't take any pictures on the way back for some reason. Which is a shame because on the way home I stopped into this little vintage clothing store on 48th St. called Woho to look for a new coat, 'cause it's getting damn cold here right now. There was a fuzzy mustard-yellow coat I thought about getting. It was reversible; it turned into a rain coat if you wore it inside out. Maybe I'll go back for it after I get a job.
Perhaps I don't take pictures in those situations because there are other people around. I get self conscious and want to avoid having to explain what I'm doing. It's so much easier to aim the camera at the ground or some inanimate object when no one's looking. This way the act of taking pictures remains private, intimate. It becomes about negotiating little distances that separate my body from everything else, so that I can get to know this new place inch by inch.
No comments:
Post a Comment