Holiday Time

It seems to me as if everyone is always wishing they had more time. Its as if the speed of time is changes with the weather; now that the weather is changing and growing colder I hear more people gasping that it is almost December.

Michael just opened a boutique nearby. He has a body reminiscent of mine at the age of thirteen (but with no prepubescent boobs of course), and wears his hair casually combed to the side with a bit of gel to hold it in place. He also wears a gray cashmere sweater with a brown vest on top over fitted dark blue jeans. His belt and shoes match ideally, in that I was not trying to match but these just happen to fall together so well look. I’m wearing that outfit that you leave the house in under the impression that you must not even wander into stores so precisely put together.
After about three minutes of the average ‘stranger’s discussing the weather’ conversation, Michael begins with the, ‘oh my I can’t believe we are almost at Thanksgiving and the Holiday season is here’ remark. I have always assumed that the lazy people in the world must be more surprised with the passage of time, since they are not doing anything and time just somehow passes them. But Michael is far from lazy, as he just moments ago informed me this is the opening day of his shop and he began preparing for today not more than eight months ago. So I ask him what exactly he wishes he had more time for, and why has this holiday season sprung upon so suddenly; for it appears to me as if he had foreseen this day months ago.

1. Spend more time with family
2. Travel
3. Gain some weight
4. Make more business (even after further inquiry I still did not fully understand this one)
5. Study

Michael and I probably do not have anything in common, other than we walk down 2nd avenue each week more time that we’d like to admit. We get stuck in our own little bubbles I suppose. But the last ‘what to do with more time’ item on his list spoke to me more than I had expected. He says he admires the notion of studying; he recalls that there is nothing better than sitting in a library, surrounded by books, with books laid out in front of him and the whole day ahead of him with allotted time to sit and study. This takes time, he tells me, and that is how we learn, with a clear mind and plenty of time.

Intrigued by this little conversation, I walked right into the shop next door and right away asked the woman working there five things she would do with more time. I actually would not even consider this girl a woman; she’s just my age. I couldn’t tell you what she was wearing, but what I did notice is that she had a hair cut just like mine and was playing Tetris on the computer screen in plain view for me to see as I walked in the door. She immediately laughed in response to my question, then sighed and looked towards to ceiling for an answer. She replies: Paint. Visit my family in Long Island - no actually there is definitely a reason I don’t have enough time for that. And travel - but really that is an issue of money not time, and if I had the money I would undoubtedly make the time for travel.
And then looking back at me she laughs again and says: what is it with people these days, aren’t you glad I only have on item on my list? Because if I truly had five, wouldn’t you feel bad for me? What a terrible life to be living wishing you always had more time for these things you want to be doing. What kind of life would that be? I spend my time doing what I do.

an ear to listen

I’m just standing on the side of the street, just standing and occasionally tapping my feet together and stepping from side to side to keep warm. It is a brisk sunny morning, on of the first it truly feels like winter is coming and therefore it is not very comfortable to sit still, so most people walking by are just hurrying along.
She is a good two heads shorter than me, wearing a white knit had with her hair ends curling out of the sides, all perfectly rounded like my grandma’s, so I immediately guess that she still uses those foam hair curlers. Her light pink sweat pants fit high-rise and tight, and are also high-waters, but she doesn’t seem to mind since she has grey wool socks covering her would-be-bare-ankles that are popping out of her stained white Reeboks.
“He’s a flirt, ain’t he, that one?” she points to the man working the Halal stand about a hundred yards up the block, whose currently giving an attractive brunette a friendly hug. “Some kind of Muslim.” I just laugh, but don’t reply with any words or even any indication to encourage her to continue. But she does… “you know him?” I do, I’m standing here, still on this street corner, in what now feels like the freezing cold since I’ve been here from the past hour. I’m standing here and observing him for a film class, and as a result of my project, we have spent a decent amount of time together over the past few weeks, but I prefer not to allude to this. “Not really,” I respond with a smile, “you?”

Sometimes I find that it is more interesting to have people approach me, to speak to me without being provoked. This way I have little control over the topic of conversation. Perhaps it seems as if I am being rude at this moment, however, I assure you, I am only not being my overly receptive self. “Yeah, he has been here for quite some time,” the lady responds, “you know, they all do this, the immigrants that it is. It used to be the Greeks, with those gyro’s, and now it is all of this Middle Eastern food.” She has now proved the point that I have been thinking about and entirely sparked my interest; so I give up attempting to be reserved, which is quite challenging for me, and we begin chatting.
She has been living in Astoria for over thirty years and recalls the changes she has seen over the years with reference to the ethnic groups that have resided in the neighborhood. She tells me about her sister who lives in Tallahassee, while making a grimace and a puking sound, could you even imagine, she gasps. Everyone must be just the same, who would ever move there, we ponder together. We have it so good here, we do not even know what it is like, she continues, and we see so much of the world just by walking out the front door. She tells me she works from home, and sometimes when she has not been out all day, or is out of touch with the world, she goes down the street from some fresh pasta or her new found favorite, Thai food. She claims that sometimes she does not even feel inclined to watch the international news because it typically only offers such a negative perception of people who live on the other side of the world; a view opposed to the one she has created from her first hand experience with those who have immigrated from these countries.

You know who really has it tough right now? she looks up at me, eager, as if she is about to clue me into a little now fact, The Yemites. They even know too, it is as if they have a guilty conscious for things they did not even do. They run a shop down the street, a little deli and some other Yemites own another one just a few blocks away. The down a bit further closed up, and so yesterday I asked the guys at the one I frequent, “you know what happened at that other deli?” and they respond with the knee jerk reaction, “no- what’d they do!?” See how it is for them, they’re always on their toes, like some one is constantly breathing down their neck, waiting for them to make a wrong turn. And since sometimes they do, they’re always expecting to hear that as the news.
“Now my sister can’t even believe I shop at a place owned by these people, she’d be scared. She believes what they tell her on the TV, and I try explaining to her that it is not like that in the City.” And after some silence, since I am not really sure what to say, she turns her head away from me, then looks back and shrugs her shoulders, “well, thank god we don’t live in Tallahassee.”

“Do you even know what this day is for?” Well… I respond, stutter a bit and begin to explain that actually I am not entirely sure, but think that its roots come from All Hallow’s Eve and has something to do with celebrating the dead. Later I find this answer to be almost entirely false, but my information error did make for interesting conversation…

Now celebrating the dead? What is that all about? You know, the Hindus do this too. I am Muslim, we mourn death and have funerals, like Christians. But Hindus, they drag their deceased out into public view, and chant and dance around the body, the ceremony can last for days. They may wear colors and few tears are shed, he describes to me. I ask him if this is bothers the Muslims, the Hindu’s contrary practices. He immediately says no, and then, as if he noticed the doubt expressed on my face, he retorts, okay, okay, yes of course it used to be, and now in the North it is not at all. But in my town, only until recently has this religious tension subsided. He comes from the south of India, where he explains to me that people are a little slower and perhaps less educated, but primarily less active and modern-minded. He laughs, relating it to me, by drawing a comparison between there and the southern states. I ask him if the intolerance in the South is an issue in education, as this typically is my go-to when identifying social issues. No he replies confidently, most of India is uneducated and they have been living harmoniously for years before we were. The problem is that they do not do anything. They are unproductive, they do not work; they sit around all day and think. You see, he continues, the people in north are more industrialized and modern, they live more like we do here. They are busy, they wake up and go to work and work all day, so they have no time to concern themselves with why the Hindu’s think it is appropriate to celebrate death. Think about it, he says, while raising his voice a bit and becoming more involved in his own thought process… people in New York City are open-minded and accept different religions and races. Why? He sits up a bit and checks out my face in the rear-view mirror, I am return his glare bright eyed and wondering, and shake my head from side to side, signaling to him that I am still unsure. Because we are so busy! He exclaims. He laughs to himself again, and then settles down… there is brief moment of silence here. I am silent in the backseat, now staring out the window, contemplating this last thought. To me, it honestly came as quiet the surprise. I believe education is the beginning to understanding and further, as a philosophy major, I am under the impression that the lack of real thinking is what is wrong with the world. And here is this taxi driver, providing me with empirical evidence that too much thinking is what’s to blame.
The mind is the devil’s workshop. It will play tricks on you. If you sit around and think all day, you are not doing anything, and you will begin to question why you have so many problems in your life. And then if you did not act on your problems and get productive, you will arrive at nonsensical conclusions and blame other people. This is his thought process… I suppose this is plausible, but regardless, I’m still going to have to think on it for a while. The mind is the devil’s workshop; remember that, he repeats to me.