Here’s the track I produced in New York and promised at the end of my two parter articles about New York. Please share it if you like it. An EP music will be released this year on iTunes, Bandcamp, Spotify and other music distribution websites. Expect a release near the end of 2013.
– AS
By Ashish Seth
A two part series (and a song) about a suburban kid’s experience of the Big Apple.
Figure # 1: A view of the New York skyline from Central Park.
The Temple and the Building
We are at once from birth born into a temple atop a building looking out, skyscraping above tables and desks, towering above smaller creatures like ants, cats, dogs and beavers. And as we walk with each leg progressing forward momentum, we realize these buildings sway if not properly planted, if not supported stably by our legs. And whenever our supports do give way and the building trips and the temple plummets, making contact with other buildings at dangerous velocities, we realize that the world outside the temples we live in is indeed trying to get in, trying to cause damage. Or so we believe this because the impact of the first, second and even third incursion is so painful, that for some and maybe even most of us, it sends us deeper into the recesses of our temples, in a dark corner, where we feel alienation from the world without. And yet the longer we linger, deeper pits and chasms infest our spiritual centers and the outside world looks colder. Taller buildings loom above us when we glance outside our temple windows. And looking within and seeing the walls wear away and run down, and feeling the supports of the building lesson with the passage of time, we are left with one certain fact and one courageous task. That if the very foundations upon which this temple is situated be undermined, our time inside the temple is finite. And if our time inside the temple is certainly finite, the only way out of this existential despair is to make peace with the world outside. And that is our courageous task in life. To live.
Ashish Seth
Now back to your regularly scheduled programming…
Long Island Express
The Rockville City Centre train station of the Long Island Express is not a stone’s throw away from the apartment complex we reside in but we decide to walk it anyway, soaking up the sights and sounds and smells of the area around us. Along the way, I come across another dreamcatcher strung on a chain link fence, its feathers fluttering in the light breeze, beads tapping the metal, strings spun like a spider web around the hoop.
Figure # 2: A dreamcatcher.
“What is that?” asks Abhi.
“Native Indians, I think the Ojibwe, used to put it near their beds so that they could filter their dreams,” I say.
The fence runs down an alley. The sound of air conditioning units plugged in windows three storeys up. The smell of fresh dry cleaning. Scraps of paper stuff stuck in bushes and shrubs. Uncut grass and hidden weeds. A man in a wife beater struts along the sidewalk with a lunch bag in his hand.
The breeze picks up and the dreamcatcher flutters rapidly, hitting the fence like a flyswatter and then coming to a rest again. I continue speaking.
“The nightmares would get trapped in the net so they couldn’t affect the sleeper. The good dreams would flow in and travel down the feathers to the sleeper.”
After a few moments, we continue on down the road.
We reach the station ten minutes later. The heat is stifling and as we stroll into the station lobby to buy our tickets, I regret wearing my red striped polo shirt and carrying my backpack. The shirt isn’t comfortable and the straps on the backpack are too tight. We decided to bring it along to carry a water bottle and souvenirs we purchase.
Our goal today: Manhattan, Central Park, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, and Times Square.
After purchasing a one way ticket for two for 18 dollars total, we climb up the cement steps to the platform of the station, walking past a cracked Snapple bottle on one step, a half-eaten pizza on another, and a teenager glued to her cell phone standing erect and self-contained on the landing before the next flight of steps. We reach the top of the platform and sit down on a bench to wait for the train. The platform stretches along the tracks for a hundred meters or so, overlooking the old townsquare, the heart of activity near this station. The top floors of these buildings house law offices, consulting firms and local business headquarters. The ground floors of these buildings, where most of the day to day commerce is held, house the pizzerias, convenience stores, and bars. Rockville City Centre is at once an active community teeming with diversity and liveliness, an old and mature suburb far out from New York City. If New York has every type of person from every walk of life concentrated within a few blocks, Rockville City, Long Island is its equivalent with plenty more room to breathe.
Figure # 3: A view of Rockville City Centre’s Long Island Express platform.
I hear the lull of the train tracks, rumbling metallic, and watch as the platform, containing roughly twenty passengers, starts to get ready to disembark. I take out my ticket.
The train arrives shortly and we take our seats by a window. A few moments later, the train jerks forward. The gears of the train sound like a chorus of moans and screams and crackling Adam’s apples pitched to low frequencies. As the train picks up speed, a fat Italian man comes around and hole punches our tickets. I watch Long Island pass by slowly before about a half hour later, the skyline of the city appears in the distance past a plethora of train tracks and wires and construction debris in the foreground. Then the train dips into a dark tunnel underneath the Hudson River and the hollow sound of a speeding object hustles the final lap home.
Figure # 4: New York skyline in the background before the plunge under the Hudson.
* * * * *
Penn Station
The place reminds me of Union station back home in Toronto. Kiosks set up for food and shops selling random items. The whole place is crowded and smells of sweat, urine and tasty sugary treats. People rush around to buy tickets, catch trains, keep up with loved ones or get away from the characters begging or busking or looming in one place for too long. A musician sings Motown hits from the sixties and seventies through a microphone jukebox, his voice amplified and echoing throughout a large portion of the station. His friend accompanies him on saxophone. Their faces wear smiles. White pearly teeth. Fedoras and dusty jumpers. A glimpse at quintessential Americana. Tourists snap photos of them with their cellphones. Some throw quarters or leaves of dollar bills in to their open saxophone casket. Some walk away to catch their trains, tightening their backpack straps.
Abhi whispers in my ear in Hindi, “keep checking your pockets.”
I nod and check. Wallet and phone secure.
We descend some stairs to the crowded subway platform and await our train. Down the dark tunnel, the breeze gets heavier and the hollow sound of a speeding object hustling to its destination gets louder just before the metallic screech of jarring brakes.
“Look at that rat!” says Abhi, pointing at the tracks. I look but only get a glimpse of something whisk under the tracks.
“It was huge,” says Abhi.
The train pulls up. Doors open to a crowd of people. Only one or two exit the compartment. It’s almost completely packed yet the whole throng of waiting passengers, uncountable, moves in from around me. My Toronto attitude would be to wait for the next train but that’s in ten minutes. And I’m swept in by default.
We squeeze through people with no time to worry about personal space.
The doors close. The bell sounds. The sound of exhaust exits a pipe. We get close to one end of the train. People breathe down my collar. I have no grip on a railing. The train jerks forward. My feet give. I bump into someone. I almost trip. Feet regain control.
“Bend your knees,” says Abhi.
Lots of tourists. Smiling faces. Holding phones. Holding hands. Backpacks. Cramped.
Relax.
“Relax,” whispers Abhi. “They’re just people.”
Stay positive.
With each. Stop. With each jerk I.
Keep losing my balance. The ground rumbles. Shakes. I grip my palms on a wall beside a bathroom. Who takes a piss in a-. When each jerk slips you off-?
An Asian lady looks at me funny. I look at my brother. Relax, he mouths. The train’s gears sound and it pulls up to a station. Chill. As it comes to a full stop, I fight to stop myself from bumping into the person in front of me, fight to quit tripping.
“Jesus, your flat feet,” says Abhi.
Doors almost close on a couple trying to escape.
Finally we make it to the station closest to Central Park. The doors open and people flood out like water emptied onto gravel.
“That wasn’t so bad,” says my brother.
* * * * *
Central Park
Figure # 5: The field in Central Park.
A clear field looks upon a portion of the New York skyline below a blue sky with only few ghostly white clouds puffing by. Well-built athletic men throw around a pigskin. Sexy slim women lie sunbathing on sprawled towels with unbuttoned bras. People picnicking. Couples lying embraced on carpets wearing sunglasses. A trio of young girls in bikinis, lying under the shade of a tree, laughing.
“This is where the final scene in Elf takes place,” I say.
And we continue on.
* * * * *
The Metropolitan Museum of Art
Figure # 6: The entrance to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Figure # 7: Alexander the Great with his mother.
Figure # 8: A painting by Mark Rothko, all due respect despite views in article.
“How is this art?” asks Abhi.
We look at a painting that is just red and white smudge on canvas, with various shades fading away at the bottom.
“This just looks like a bad paint job,” says Abhi.
I see a very skinny white woman with short brunetty reddish hair give my brother a disapproving look. I look back the painting. Screw this! Even if there is some deeper meaning to this slob of red murk, the present determines the meanings of the past and this painting here is just a bad paint job. I’m not going to take a six month long course in art history paying a thousand dollars of tuition to appreciate a bad paint job.
“Let’s go look at something else. This piece is giving me a headache with its pretention,” I say.
We go to the next painting. This one looks like mere scribbles on dark greyish foolscap paper, something a kindergarten kid would make if given a large piece of paper and told to go wild.
“This is just scribbles,” I say.
Abhi looks closer.
“Oh, see those curvy lines near the top. I think those are lady parts in abstraction.”
I squint to see what he means. The thigh. Leg. Vagina and some side boob.
I look at my brother and smile and nod.
“Now, this is art.”
* * * * *
Figure # 9: Park Ave.
Park Ave.
We pass Madison Ave where the infamous ad men work to make the citizens of the United States and the world beyond go mad for branded cigarettes, boutique eye liner and the bucket list journey of flying coach on an airline.
We head to a Starbucks on Park Ave.
Five minutes later, I sit at a table staring at my iPhone. We stopped here for some coffee and free WIFI. My brother bumps my shoulder walking by and puts an orange drink in front of me.
“What’s this?” I say.
“I just got it for you, drink it.”
“I can’t drink acids,” I protest. “My dentist-.”
“We’re in New York. Take a break.”
He sips his coffee and takes out his cellphone. I look around.
We sit at a long table. A man, grey sweater, white, balding and wearing round glasses, sits at the other end of the table. He switches between typing into his Apple Laptop and writing figures on a tabled piece of paper. Maybe an accountant. Maybe an ad man. Maybe doing his taxes. Doesn’t look rich or well-to-do. Looks tired and old. Looks like he’s trying to be busy. Looks… our way.
The tired tourists sit in Starbucks Cafés chatting and drinking mocha lattes. Their lives are more difficult because they have to search for problems to stay busy. Manhattan. Just twenty minutes ago, we ate at a restaurant on Madison Ave. That’s where Mad Men takes place. The clientele at this Park Ave café are mostly young students, single moms, hipster yuppies and some businessmen doing taxes.
Aren’t we all tourists everywhere, even at home; we just decide what we want to say is familiar on our resumes.
I continue sipping my fruit sugar orange drink.
The queue for the lineup at Starbucks is increasing.
I look out at Park Ave. A tourist taking a photo of the street sign with his iPhone. That was me, 15 minutes ago.
And 15 minutes later, we’re off to Times Square.
* * * * *
Times Square.
Figure # 10: Abhi in Times Square.
We emerge from the Subway underground once again surrounded by the skyscrapers we saw from the George Washington bridge.
Large billboard plaster over the sides of buildings. The Walking Dead. Madame Tussauds, The Lion King, shiny glass paneled windows and shiny glass panelled pixels of streaming commercials on moving screens. Art Deco archways of old building carcasses stick out of modern office lobbies.
A crowd of people of mixed ethnicities roams aimlessly on a long narrow strip of sidewalk as the road beside is cramped with taxi cabs and cars in gridlock. Cab drivers honk inoffensively to signify their presence. Some honk at cars. Some honk at pedestrians. Some pedestrians hold plastic shopping bags. Some hold their partner’s hands. Some hold their hands in their pockets. I use my hands to check my pockets. Safe. The smell of sewage and the smell of sugary pretzel grease. Piss. Meat grilling. Barbecuing street meat. Safe and unsafe to eat?
“Check your pockets,” says my brother in Hindi.
We move through the crowd. Like two rolling marbles moving against other rolling marbles, fluid, in a wobbling zig zaggy motion, a mix of forces pushing each other.
Doors open to bustling restaurants. A line up to see a theatre show.
Tables set up at the edge of the sidewalks sell fake jewellery, random paraphernalia of stereotypical NY perceptions, plastic encased photos of old and new pop stars, Elvis, Drake, Jay-Z, Bieber, and nearly forgotten wise guys from the fifties. Middle-aged Asian proprietors sell beads with mandarin letters that mean nothing. A greying white man with a stained white shirt sells his wife’s homemade something. Young street artists spray paint neon metropolis vistas from the eighties on perfectly cut rectangular slabs of dry wall. Cartoon portraits for paying customers, five minutes a face for some odd dollars.
Everything is alive.
“This is it,” I say to Abhi. “This is New York.”
New York. A city that never stops. New York. A city that keeps going. New York. A translucent skyline apparition that blends with the sunset in the distance. And then with the flick of a light, glows bright in the night with rays streaming far into the country and the Atlantic, a full lit metropolis born of immigrant sweat and successful treks to the edges of dreams.
A track produced during my time in Long Island will be posted soon, probably some time next week.
By Ashish Seth
A two part series (and a song) about a suburban kid’s experience of the Big Apple.
Figure # 1: The ethereal skyline of New York city seen from the highway to Long Island.
The female voice of the GPS crackles out in low quality tones, “Keep left on interstate-.”
I press a button.
“Shut up.”
We drive down a three lane highway somewhere in New Jersey, heading for New York, trees passing by in a whir, windshield viper fluid shooting out in lines on the front for the sliding vipers to wipe the bug muck away.
“Let’s stop at a coffee shop or something,” I say.
“You need to take a piss again?”
“I wanna see Jersey. This is where The Soprano’s took place.”
“God!”
“I’m just saying. It’d be cool to go to a place and say, ‘hey, that’s where that guy got whacked!’”
My brother Abhi drives. I navigate the GPS on his phone. We’re heading to Long Island where Abhi has a rotation at a hospital. He needs to complete this rotation in order to get his medical degree and become a doctor. It’s late July and I’ve been on vacation from my teaching job in Brampton for weeks now. It’s been a long ride and we’ve stopped as seldom as possible.
Abhi’s phone shakes. A text message.
“Who’s that?” I ask.
He looks at it.
“The hospital. Says ‘545 Merrick Dr. Price don’t worry.’”
“Don’t worry? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know. It seems shady doesn’t it?”
My brother puts his phone away.
“What if we get there and it’s all a big scam?” he says.
“I don’t follow,” I say.
“They haven’t told us what the rent is for the place. What if we get there and they put us in a place and then rob us of our shit.”
I consider it for a minute. New York. The city that never sleeps. The city of cities. All modern metropolises ape the style of the Big Apple. I’ve been bombarded with perceptions and depictions of New York. A lot of the depictions have been negative: The Godfather, Goodfellas, Grand Theft Auto, Taxi Driver, countless New York rappers telling street tales of drug dealing, drive bys and homicidal shootings.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “If they scam us, we’ll sue the hospital and Ross University.”
“They won’t scam us. I was joking.”
I rest my head against the window and stare out.
Stay positive.
* * * * *
The George Washington Bridge to The Bronx.
Figure # 2: The George Washington Bridge coming from New Jersey.
Figure # 3: Hudson river and coasting skyline.
After paying a heavy sixteen dollar toll, the cost to escape New Jersey, our white Honda Civic turns on to The George Washington bridge.
Through the metal railings of the bridge in the far distance I see the New York skyline, a long stretch of translucent skyscraper outlines in the airy orange sky. Planes take off at La Guardia and glide silently in the clouds above the city. The eight o’clock setting sun paints the horizon a stained orange glow. Sunlight reflects a green color into the Hudson River.
“We’re finally in the city,” says Abhi. He looks excited.
I take out my iPhone and start snapping random pictures: the skyline, the road ahead, the low rise buildings along the river, anything.
“We got to make a list of places we’re going to go,” I say.
“Think of some places,” says my brother.
“All the places I think up come from movies, tv shows and songs I’ve heard about the city.”
“We need to check out food spots,” says my brother.
We get off the bridge onto a highway that cuts through a tunnel and straight into the Bronx. A few miles down, my eye catches movement at the far roof of a brown run down building. Three figures sit beside each other, sitting against a marred billboard, knees against their chest. One wears a red hat. Black faces.
They’re kids. Looking out onto the George Washington bridge. Watching the mass of cars flowing in and out of their city. In the summer heat, they’re huddled as if shivering. Do they know they’re being seen? Pondered about from a mile’s eye? What are they thinking?
My attention turns to the sights we pass by. Graffitied walls. Narrow alleys with cracked roads and dilapidated walls of shops. Dry cleaners, laundries, convenience stores that look like a rain made them droopy and decayed and leaky. Old posters of actors with eighties hairdos on windows of barbershops and cramped convenience stores. Old cars from the nineties parked with their heavy beaten bumpers scratching the sides of low curbs.
We leave the Bronx and get on a highway towards Long Island.
* * * * *
Rockville Centre, Long Island
The sun is dimmer.
“What do you think of the area?” says Abhi.
I stare out my window at cracked roads. I see a dreamcatcher hanging off a chainlink fence of a plot of residential townhomes. The civic pulls up to a curb just after the intersection of Malverne and Hempstead. A row of stores; a Subway restaurant, Dunkin Donuts and some Cleaners.
“I got to take a leak,” says Abhi.
“Dunkin Donuts is everywhere. It’s like our Tim Horton’s. I wonder if there are any Timmies in New York,” I say.
He turns off the car, exits and goes into the Dunkin Donuts.
An African American woman comes out of the Subway Restaurant ahead of me. Three kids follow her. She wears blue scrubs. A hospital must be nearby. My brother’s hospital. She gets into an old model Lexus and drives away after moments of idling.
A beat down old Ford blaring heavy metal music cruises slowly by me. In the driver’s seat, I see a white man with dreadlocks bobbing his head, smoking a cigarette. A younger clean shaven white man hunched over, a bit more innocent looking, smiles at dreadlock dude, turning his head and saying something.
My brother returns moments later. We drive down Malverne.
“You didn’t buy anything?” I say. “You just went in there and pissed.”
“There was a lineup. I slipped away unnoticed.”
At the intersection of Malverne and Merrick, we pass a grassy field of graves. No gravestones. Placks in the ground mark where the bodies lie, some with flowers, some with birds picking worms out from the grass. It stretches up a hill and I can’t see where it ends. A factory smokestack in the distance past it. Around us, chained fences. Private properties. Businesses in offices. Roads that intersected like confused worms in an orgy.
As we turn an intersection, I see five or six people crowding around a spot on the sidewalk. A white lady and a white man, both chubby and messy looking, seem upset and in a panic, talking loudly pointing fingers at each other as the others look on, arms crossed, heads shaking and on the ground near them, a complete and still body of white fur, unmoving, fur fluttering-.
The light turns green.
The engine kicks. My body turns. I look straight ahead. A feeling of dread settles in. I miss my dog.
Grow up, says a voice in my head. Sounds like my brother.
“Seems like a decent area,” he says.
* * * * *
545 Merrick Dr.
We pull into an apartment complex that is well lit. White stucco walls with square windows of a dark brown wood. Clean. It looks recently built.
We get out and stretch our legs. and walk around the front area of the complex.
“You’re expecting just a room? I think they’re giving you a whole apartment,” I say.
“Let me call the superintendent and let him know we’re here,” says Abhi.
Five minutes later, a large white Ford van pulls up in the parking spot in front of us. A fat middle-aged man, probably late forties, with sunken pink cheeks, wearing a grey superintendent’s uniform, emerges from the driver’s seat.
“Hey, how ya doin. Let me show guys the place.”
We shake hands. He talks in a New Yorkian accent. He walks past us. We follow him to apartment 201.
“Did they say anything about a monthly rate?” asks Abhi.
“I don’t know what the deal is you guys made, I just give you the key,” he says.
I look at my brother, a bit worried.
He unlocks the door. 201 opens to wooden stairs that we climb to a wide open living room and kitchen, fully furnished, couches, chairs, TV, Internet router, fridge, stove, microwave and cabinets. Deep brown wooden pantry doors. Clean white walls with no etch marks or imperfections. A hall with wooden flooring leads to two bedrooms and two bathrooms, wide and spacious and ready for people.
“Wow,” I whisper to myself.
“This is nice but I don’t think I’ll be able to afford this,” says Abhi.
The superintendent smiles and shrugs.
“Look guys, you’ve had a long drive and you probably want to just freshen up and not worry about all this. Take the apartment for the weekend. Enjoy yourself. Go see New York.”
My brother and I look at each other.
“Don’t worry about a thing,” the superintendent continues. “We’ll deal with everything Monday. Talk to Jill. There are some papers you need to fill out for the hospital and property. Take it to Anne. Just down the street in front of the hospital.”
A few moments pass as we look around.
“Internet and TV passwords are over on the table. As you can see, it’s fully furnished and ready. Where you guys coming from?”
“Toronto.”
“Toronto? Long drive.”
“Hospital owns this whole place?”
“Yup. Mostly hospital employees living in these units. About half and half. I had another unit open that was first floor and smaller but the air conditioning was fried so I put you in here.”
“This is place is amazing,” I say.
“How’d you like the city when you came through the freeway?”
“We couldn’t believe people had actually built it,” says Abhi.
“First time in New York? It’s called the Big Apple for a reason.”
“How do we get to the city?” asks Abhi.
“Yeah, you’re probably gonna wanna know that,” he chuckles. “Let’s see, you’re gonna wanna take the Long Island Express into Manhattan. Especially on Saturday, don’t drive down. You won’t find parking. Sunday you can drive down.
“Go to all the areas. Hey, don’t worry. New York is a safe place. I know you guys have seen all the stereotypes. Honestly, it’s a safe city. You can go anywhere.”
“What about the Bronx?” asks my brother, implying it’s a bad place.
“The Bronx? What’s in the Bronx?” for a second, I think he’s being sarcastic. He’s only just thinking about a place. “Check out the Bronx zoo, it’s amazing. You know, guys, I mean,” he waves his hands like he doesn’t know, “it depends on what you’re looking for, you want girls, I wouldn’t know about that stuff.”
We all chuckle.
“How long you here for?” he asks.
“Three months,” says my brother. “I’ll be doing a rotation at South Nassau Community Hospital.”
“See? Relax, you’re a doctor, you’ll be fine. You get the dough. Don’t worry about the rent. We’ll get that taken care of Monday. Just take it for the weekend. What kind of doctor?”
“Paediatrics.”
“Oh very cool. Nice. Man, good thing you guys came this year. Last year, Hurricane Sandy. Stirred up a shitstorm, excuse my language. Water came all the way up to here.”
“Where, here?” I ask.
“No, Rockaway beach. Oh yeah, you guys’ll probably wanna check out the water. It’s beautiful. Well, you’re probably tired and hungry. I’ma leave you to it. Freshen up, If you’re hungry, there’s a Bonbino’s Pizza round here. That’s where I’ll be going to get dinner.”
“Is this a bad area?” asks my brother as we walk the super out the front door.
He hesitates for a moment and then says quietly.
“Well, that’s up to you.”
We all chuckle.
“Haha yeah I’m gonna make it a bad area,” says my brother, sarcastically.
“Hey don’t talk tough, enjoy yourself. Welcome to New York. Follow the signs. ”
Ten minutes later, my brother and I sit in the living room. I speak.
“I bet this is a marketing ploy. They get you in here make you love it. And then you can’t say no. Business.”
“Dude relax. Stop thinking so negative.”
Stay positive.
___
Continued in part two, coming soon. Also coming soon, an exclusive song I produced while in New York
* * * * *
Set to Gorillaz “On Melancholy Hill”
Sometimes you can’t get what you want.
You have to keep a rein on your heart.
It was all bound to fall apart with all those band aids holding the parts.
You could hear the gears shuffle, like tools, shook, in a box.
But better to have ran the track than stalled right before the start.
Lots of fish in the sea, was it strange that THIS one FLEW off?
Don’t think a lot my brother.
Sometimes you just can’t get what you want.
Only marry if you’re in love.
By Ashish Seth
Ashish Seth 