💾 Archived View for gemlog.blue › users › signals › 1615320879.gmi captured on 2024-08-31 at 19:57:35. Gemini links have been rewritten to link to archived content

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City

Standing on concrete littered with grey circles of gum, chewed up and spit out on the ground.

I don't chew gum anymore, it gives me headaches.

My pants are fitted around my waist and flow down, ambiguous between a pair of pants or a skirt. In the hot summer's day in the city, one might think me of a fool, but the thin fabric does nothing to cling to me. I feel gentle touch as the wind blows through and my legs disappear beneath. I reach back to brush my head against the back of my nape, prickly and raw after getting a 0 shave at the barber's. I'm always more concerned with my dark hair soaking up the heat. I roll my head back a bit to feel in the absence of weight.

I make my way through the sea of people, careful not to stay in once place too long, not trying to dwell on becoming a target. I try to blend in like coffee, but I don't spend any time at the coffeeshops. I know the coffee I'll make when I get back home will taste just as good. But I'm met with hesitancy when I'm confronted with a sunglasses stand selling bright red sunglasses just like the ones I used to wear as a kid. Suddenly a five dollar deal doesn't seem to bad, still I move on.

When I come by a stand selling as I pass by an open gallery and step in. I'm greeted by an artist who tells me they're making a quilt from scraps embroidered by those passing by. I check the train schedule before settling down. Holding a linen cloth, plugging thread by needle. I imbue it with the magic I once believed in, when I thought fairies were real, and that they had whole communities in the forests. When I thought that offerings of the most perfect acorns and leaves left out on my windowsill at night would be an offering of justice to them and not the squirrels coming by. I wonder about the city fairies. I wonder if they've been drowned out by everything else that is here. While I sit in the garden in my own mind, the artists chatter to one another, something about cars and finding their ways home.

When it's finally time for me to catch the train, I hand my scrap, now reclaimed to my own canvas. The artist passes back to me a handmade business card: laminated in cursive lettering, courtesy of the friend beside them. With a small bow I thank them both and make my way to the station to take the train up from Central Park, still showing up earlier than what my phone shows as the time table—trains are unpredictable and I always mix up up from down. One wrong move and I'll find myself in Brooklyn.