On Fighting Tunnel Vision

Sitting in the Rabbit Hole in Brooklyn, I cannot help but wonder, in a city where every individual is autonomous, how is it that we function so well in crowded public spaces? I have found myself trying to make my way through a personal rabbit hole- through passageways and tunnels-which is how I spend my time traversing this intricate design of a city.

 

Sounds of subways whizzing by or vibrating below, classic jazz melodies, various dialects and languages, church bells, car horns, laughter and babies crying hit my eardrums.

 

The motif of this coffee shop reflects the surrounding borough: dark, heavy wood, brick walls and dilapidated, peeling paint. But there is something sensual about this quiet unassuming environment where brick meets vibrant street art meets beautiful old edifices meets gothic architecture. For the city, though craving the virtue of space, still tends to embrace old world romance as people are packed into boxes of all shapes and sizes like sardines.

 

Sometimes I find that I have to come up for air. Because tunnels, passageways and a constant flux of city noise can suck the life out of even the most vibrant. Humans can at times be energy vampires and being in the presence of so many throughout the day can be consuming if one doesn’t take the time to collect ones own energy and turn within.

 

The dim light of candles flickering, streetlamps and the moon light the way through dark alleyways. Leaves of canary yellow, fire truck red and sunset orange line the hills, acting as guides through the paths of an ornate cemetery. These resting spots for many have become my place of solace in the [sometimes] much too alive city.

 

Spiraling up around and down, weaving through turns and finally on a straight path- the train has come to a bridge- a bridge that I have come to know quite well. We glide over it with speed and ease seeing the luminous view of Manhattan (if only for a brief moment) and then slowly descend into the tunnels of the city where darkness once again envelops.

 

What is real in this concrete jungle? And where do I find balance on the finicky scale of beauty and the deplorable? My eyes remain wide open. Pupils dilating so that I may see down deeper into this hole. This Hell. Helminthes. Helical. Helianthus. Hole.