Brevard Public Space. East 55th Street. Outdoors, open dawn to dusk, two levels of space with an elevated section on the west side. At noontime on this Sunday the space is occupied by myself, a white man I would guess is in his 60s, an Asian woman about the same age, and someone whose vintage and distinguishing characteristics are obscured because s/he is asleep, their head and face on the table, covered with their arms and what I think is a backpack. The 60-ish man is wearing a yellow shirt and reading a newspaper. He barely moves, though once in a while he scratches the left side of his neck. Hunched over the paper he exhibits no unease in his presence here.
A man carrying a large ASIC bag enters the space, looking somewhat ill at ease. Wearing a heavy Woolrich-type hunting shirt and khakis he is here to patrol the garbage cans, rummaging through them for recyclables, edibles, eBayables, salvagables… He walked purposefully to the upper level, where the person is sleeping, not raising that person from their slumber, not seeming to pay them any mind.
The experience here is marred by 2 constant and increasingly grating noises. A lovely-to-look-at waterfall makes a certain noise, which on its own would be ignorable and passively relaxing. Combined, however, with the blowing noise and wind from a nearby exhaust fan I find that the sound is steadily overwhelming. The exhaust fan might be coming from a laundry facility in the high apartment building next door, as a slight whiff of detergent occupies the air. Could it be backblow from an indoor swimming pool? That detergent smell could be chlorine.
It is giving me a headache, I think, and making my stomach turn.
A functional water fountain is a nice flourish, but otherwise I feel compelled to leave. Even the sounds of birds chirping are making me irritable, though I felt perfectly calm upon arrival.
Across the street is Draught 55, a dollhouse-looking pub which sits beneath 3 stories of apartments — a relatively small residential structure for these parts. Behind that apartment building rises whatever that is they’re building at 57th Street and Second Avenue. It looks like another supertall ultra luxury housing complex in which nobody will live.
875 Third Avenue has a multi-level public space but it appeared to be closed for renovations. Now that I think of it, though, I think the upper level might have been open, but access seemed complicated, as the single escalator to get there was surrounded by curtains and dividers in place to keep the public away from the renovation activities. I have been to that space at least once. It is one of the spaces that gave me the idea of writing reviews of public spaces, though I can’t say exactly why that particular space inspired anything. Access to the space might have jogged my memory.
The Citi Building. Something of a de facto Manhattan public space destination for all walks of life. This space is typically packed, with seats available on a ninja basis. At present I count about 20 citizens in addition to myself, with one security guard engrossed in her smartphone.
I am seated next to a baby grand piaino, which is closed and probably locked. A sign promising musical “Entertainment” is posted nearby, with Boston Properties and Midtown Arts Common listed as sponsors. No schedule is posted but maybe I will get on to that Internet thing and see what I can find.
Hm, midtownartscommon.org has a schedule of upcoming events but nothing that appears to be happening here. I hope this is not one of the majority of pianos in our world which serve their purpoose solely as furniture, and not for music. I have never heard this instrument in use but I’m new here, having only ever passed through en route to or from the Barnes & Noble bookstore upstairs, or the Amazon Locker in the parking garage across the street.
I remember seeing a pianist in one of these spaces. I think it was in the Sony building on Madison Avenue. He was playing Schubert’s Impromptu, Op. 90 No. 3, as huge masses of people ate lunch, stood in line for coffee, and otherwise passed through. My God that pianist looked like he was in hell, flames of indignity scorching every density of exposed flesh. He was playing the middle part of that Impromptu, which is the quieter section of the piece. To compensate for the tidal wave of noise surrounding him he tore into that passage like it was the Rachmaninoff E-Flat Minor Etude Tableaux, quintuple-forte with thundering bass octaves thrown in for bombastic flourish. His facial expression was hard to describe. It was ponderous and “musical” but also that of a drowning man.
An Asian man and woman to my right are studying some kind of mathematics, possibly Algebra. As soon as I typed that I heard the man say the word “Algebra”. It looks like he is tutoring her, and she might actually be a teenager, not a “WOMAN”. He said “There’s nothing you can do it’s Y<superscript>2</superscript>.” Now he is waxing enthusiastic over “functions” and how they compensate for the math that normal people can’t do, or something. Missing connectors to their conversation. If I knew math and Algebra I might not need those missing connectors.
A woman sitting alone at a long set of 5 tables has been presently joined by 4 others in what appears to be a planned get together that is both cordial and businesslike. All present have notebooks and folders filled with typed and handwritten pages, some of which are waved in the faces of others for to make a point about their existence and their content. The group of 5 comprises 4 women and one man. I can barely snatch a word here or there from their earnest conversation. Sound in this space floats up before spreading to adjacent ears, an acoustical characteristic that makes me think the piano might sound like mud should it ever be played in here.
An old man sleeping at a table by himself has been joined by a middle-aged fellow carting a handsome Tumi travel bag. I have that exact bag. It came into my possession by accident. As a holiday gift the director of whatever department I was in at corporate intended to give everyone a $50 Tumi bag. I think it was supposed to be a small backpack. When placing the order the director’s secretary checked the wrong box, accidentally ordering $500 Tumi travel bags for 15 or so employees. She could have been fired but I guess her continued employ was the director’s gift to her. A lot of bosses would have had the bags returned but the quantity of cash sitting around doing nothing at that company was more than enough to absorb the 1000% cost overrun.
It never ceased to amaze me how big companies like that just burn money.
People here are talking. It seems like that is what peopel come here to do. It’s a quiet space with that aforementioned acoustical shroud of privacy that makes it almost impossible for one such as me to fully eavesdrop.
Moving on for now. This is exploratory day.
BlackRock. Park Avenue Plaza. Public Space. Very limited seating but stacks of unused chairs suggest that more tables and chairs are deployed during busier weekdays. I am the only person here. 7 tables huddled close together in a corner by ceiling-high windows facing 50-something street. I feel altogether alone in here, save for distant mystery noises floating through. A woman half-singing the words “Coca-Cola, oh my.” More construction, as noted earlier at 875 Third Avenue. Perhaps that activity has closed off some of this public space. Perhaps certain public spaces are permanently closed for renovations.
In walks a gentleman who had just passed through here on his way out. I was going to mention him but he returned before I could describe him as seemingly lost but amiable and alert, possibly a BlackRock employee checking in for some weekend work in casual dress (shorts and t-shirt).
His return was both brief and, to me, puzzling. He sat down, taking a good long look at me before doing so. From his small backpack he produced a laptop computer. In a span of time consuming less than 60 seconds he opened the computer, looked at it, chuckled, then closed it and returned it to his backpack. He stood up and exited through the revolving glass door.
The decor in here is garish and reflective. Not intellectually or culturally reflective but mirror-like, with warped reflections of buildings behind me and across the street made to look like metallic lava lamps.
I happily remind myself that BlackRock is not Blackwater, the notorious military consulting firm whose employees murdered several Iraqi citizens. BlackRock is a financial consulting firm.
It is a little too quiet in here, and I am feeling dizzy from sudden anxiety attack and a lack of food this day. I’ve been cutting back on excesses in hopes of diverting financial ruin, but food itself should not be considered an excess. Right? In midtown Manhattan the cost of food is excessive, though, so maybe I’ll go home.
Ghetto coffee shop. Walked back, from having walked to midtown. The only public space I know of in Queens is at the Citi Building in LIC. I could consult a map but the serendipity of things is what inspires me.
That lying-ass GPS thing says I walked 9.19 miles, even more than yesterday, but it doesn’t feel like as many miles as yesterday. Guess the monotony of the Qboro Bridge shortens the mental trip.
This public spaces idea has potential. Anything for a writing prompt, even the company of strangers. Guess I will check that map of public space locations.
On the fence about this tablet/keyboard setup. I like that it slows me down. The Bluetooth connectivity is inherently weak, as it would be on any device. Weak enough that letters are invariably dropped or reversed as the BT signal can not transmit fast enough to keep up. And I am using a bare bones text editor with no spell check. These things force me to slow down, preventing me from descending into the hyperventilated pace of communication endemic in modern times. I also now appreciate having to manually add HTML markup, since for some reason the e-mail gateway here ignores line breaks. I could make that email gateway convert line breaks to break tags or P tags but I don’t mind if adding the markup slows me down just another notch.
If I could carry a typewriter around I would.
But a laptop would make more sense. Fewer parts, no BT nonsense, etc. I have an old Netbook but it’s a piece of shit. Another laptop is a beast, way too heavy to carry far or for too long.
Not really worth too much thought, seeing as I have no money for new gear, or for much of anything else.
I said long ago that the 21st century will be known as the Public Century. I was referring to surveillance, data hoarding, and the fact that a single misplaced semicolon can cause massive amounts of private data to wash up in the public domain. I am starting to see another side of Public. I don’t understand yet what I think I’m seeing but I’ll get there.
It rains.
