connecting*the*dots

I grew up across the Hudson, about 13 miles west in a town called Montclair. Our home stood on a hill on the western side of town, with my bedroom resting on the eastern side of our third floor Victorian.

In the winter months, when the leaves of the Oaks and Elms dropped throughout town, my eyes could skip over Anderson Park, past downtown Upper Montclair and over the thin tree tops in neighboring towns, catching the very tips of The City skyline.

As a young boy that daily exercise both excited and enticed, as my minds eye continued on and landed me farther, way beyond the skyline, deep into the midst of Manhattan, my perceived gateway to the world.

My parents are both artists and educators who met at Columbia University in the 60’s. As a child in the late 70’s, they’d take me and my brother to gallery openings in old Soho and to the West Village to experience (off) Broadway shows.

Our days in The City were wild, fun, provocative and inspiring.

When family or friends came to town, we’d enter tourist mode and scale the Empire State Building for a die-cast statue and snapshots of the view down or dine at Windows on the World, pretending to fit in with our fumbled, New Jersey appearances and mannerisms.

The City was as big as the world; they were one and the same to me.

Life Lessons

From an early age, my parents allowed me the freedom to explore my surroundings in our neighborhood and around my suburban town, but on their terms, making sure to teach me the basics before letting me out the door — to always look left and right before crossing the street and call home collect whenever I needed a ride.

Times in the suburbs were much simpler back then. Conversely, the late 1970’s/early 1980’s streets of The City had a different lesson in tow.

Whenever I visited, The City schooled me that a world filled of vertical cities lived above street level, while below the streets, the world was connected, full of roaming individuals whom I couldn’t engage with by conversation or by sight.

The City’s rationale (it spoke to all of us), was that in those pre-Giuliani times — the Bernard Getz era of NYC and only a few years removed from the Son of Sam and the craziness of the NYC blackout — you’d be pegged a tourist simply for looking 45 degrees higher than your line of sight and that transparency could open yourself up for a con or a mugging.

“That’s how people are taken advantage of,” the wisdom of the City would tell me, and I listened, because I trusted The City.

Why wouldn’t I?

So I learned to glance and frame the moment of people, places and things. Take it all in, but mind my own business was the lesson I learned.

These two sets of extremely bipolar rules — my parent’s light schooling of linear confrontations and the hierarchical laws of The City — represented the checklist of street smarts I owned at age 10.

Now 34, though schooled by many more life lessons of much greater complications, I continue to think, dream, plan and move about my life with these early lessons in tow.

Why?

The City gave me Don Quixote and Starlight Express and George Segal pedestrians and giant, 5-foot pencils and toothbrushes on West Broadway. It gave me the Bronx Bombers, the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade and hot dogs on the sidewalk. It even gave me Yellow Cabs with mini, fold-up seats facing away from the driver, which perfectly fit my smaller frame.

The City bought my complete trust with the allure of growing up to possess a soul similar to the Great Grid and all that lay in-between.

So I walked between the buildings and never looked up; I glanced at the people and never saw a face.

All Grown Up

In 1996, my first gig in The City had me commuting in from Jersey City, where I lived with my girlfriend at the time. I worked just below Canal Street in a multimedia shop set above a Futon outlet; one of the twenty Futon stores on the block. Though I had a substantial commute with the PATH schedule, my daily trek proved to be a nice contrast to my previous reverse commute deep into the Western expanses of New Jersey.

Once I landed in Manhattan at the WTC PATH station, I’d ride the packed escalators to ground level and walk the twelve blocks to my job, breathing in the fresh air of downtown Manhattan. Often, I’d stop at the same street vendor for fruit and juice to enjoy as I settled into my desk overlooking the rooftop water towers of Soho.

As the long day of animating cartoon characters and chilling in lunch meetings at spots such as Fanelli’s and Bar 89 came to a close, I looked forward to the walk back to the WTC, and the ride under the river to my affordable existence.

I was finally living my dream within the gateway.

The Turn

Just as soon as I felt my dreams of experiencing The City coming together, my daily trek began to take on a uncomfortable vibe.

I started to loathe my commute, with the crowds of suits on the PATH and our long escalator ride up into the heart of the WTC underground mall, squashed together like sardines. Innocuous moments became unbearably annoying, simple things, like passing the WTC Disney Store each morning as I approached the exit to street level.

The commercial and business epicenter of downtown Manhattan started to eat away at me; more and more, I actually became upset watching three-quarters of my fellow travelers disappear every morning like worker ants into this building, a structure that I now only used as a thousand foot-tall roof twice a day and a directional beacon while uptown.

What happened to the romance of The City?

In my 25-year old mind, the WTC — my newfound entrance and exit point of The City — began to viscerally represent home to corporate yes men, guys who would just as soon knock over a woman stepping onto the PATH as they would verbally drool over her once they landed their prime positioning in front of the opposing exit door.

I mean, the PATH was so crowded at times, I actually witnessed smaller people get lifted off their feet in the shifting and shoving and cramming of bodies to get to work — or more directly to the point, to get to a pay day.

It was around this time that I was struck by a profound realization; not only had I broken one of the golden rules of The City by gawking at a vertical city, I’d been gawking at the epitome, the archetype of a vertical city.

For months on end, I’d been staring straight up into the WTC’s belly, observing its mechanisms and deconstructing its inhabitants, changing my behavior to match it’s very, particular pace and heartbeat. As I began to consciously ponder this realization, The City reacted in it’s best Don Pardo voice and reached out to quell my new found sensibilities the only way it could:

“Hey Sean, forget why you thought you loved me. Classic Yellow Cabs are gone, Soho is an outdoor mall, the eighties are done. Try on these duds for size!”

This time, I wasn’t buying.

Now that my eyes were truly open, prolonged, daily glances into the eyes of the people that surrounded me provided me with nothing but negative vibes in return. The pang of repetition, the exhaustion and the real-life scheming of men and women, desperate to keep up with the Jones’, made my shift in perspective clearer each day.

Now when I walked through the grid of The City, each of the vertical cities above ground began to take on a new representation to me. Hierarchy, wealth and confliction loomed over the masses of citizens, who were either explicitly or implicitly schooled to not look into the eyes of the beast as well.

I came to the conclusion that by not looking all these years, really looking at what was happening in those corner office expanses, we were each complicit in allowing these vertical cities to intimidate our lives with dangled carrots and unattainable conclusions of never ending pursuits.

At that time in my life, such a revelation was way too much for me to unravel and digest — let alone express — so I quickly jotted down a sketch (left) and moved on psychologically and physically. I shut out the very existence of what I had learned to be true, and let the representational presence of buildings disappear.

I left town.

Once clear of a visceral connection to these expansive, white collar, networked resources, only a matrix of interlocking paths of human relationships remained. See, back in the day, when my 10 year-old mind’s eye pictured the essence of The City, it romanced the Great Grid, but not the grid of city blocks and the office towers; it romanced the unknown personalities, diversity and creativity of the people of New York themselves.

It was criminal how long it took me to recognize that notion.

Moving On

Tonight marks the fourth day of the second week of my new life in Greensboro, North Carolina. The last time I left The City it ended up as a brief respite in the Birkshires — essentially serving as a pit-stop before heading back to reconnect with, and take on the vertical cities from within.

I doubt I’ll take the same path this time.

Maybe I’ve lost the passion, or maybe, just maybe, I’ve come to realize that seeing my passion to fruition can’t occur within a representation of the confrontational juxtaposition itself. Maybe I’m better off planning, expressing, and implementing from a room on the eastern side of an old wooden home, with a window overlooking the thin, slumbering Oaks and Elms of a quaint town, while the far off tips of a skyline glistens in the early morning sky.

Maybe now I’ll look directly into the eyes of my fellow travelers and explore relationships with the people underground and above, walking proudly with the roaming individuals themselves.

Today marks the four-year anniversary of the tragic events of 9/11. Bless the souls that were lost that day, as well as the ones that became lost as a result, but damn those souls to hell who haven’t learned a thing since.

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So I headed into the city tonight to have a drink with woman I met on Nerve.

You never know about these things. I’ve been on a bunch of blind Nerve dates over the last year and the women i’ve met have ranged from a Bulgarian midget (uhm, sorry, make that ‘height challenged’) to a “voluptuous” sex crazed Vin Diesel fan on crack to a cool-ass Israeli designer chica (Efrat, be safe over there in the motherland, you here me?), so you never really know what you’re going to get.

Kinda like a box of chocolates.

So I met this woman tonight. To keep the innocent, well… innocent, I’ll call her Pippy until further notice. Pippy and I headed downtown to Bar 89 for a drink, but it was last call and Pippy wasn’t feeling the vibe anyway, so she pointed up the street to the bar on the corner. Sweet. Fanelli’s. My other favorite bar on Mercer. Totally different vibe.

Cool.

So we walk up Mercer, step inside and grab a seat at the bar. Before we know it, Bob becomes a part of the date. Bob the bartender, former prize fighter (he actually fought Larry Holmes in ‘73), was instantly spitting advice on women and relationships, digging into our pasts, dissing Pippy’s hometown of Chicago and laughing at my old digs in Montclair. I suddenly felt like I was on an episode of “The Fifth Wheel.”

Once I realized that Bob was just being Bob (after watching him haze a bunch of Brits at the other end of the bar) all was good. So we closed the bar, with Bob providing comic relief for us the entire time. As for the date, we got a chance to feel each other out, but since Bob commented on half of our conversation, I think we’ll need to try it again on a park bench… on the other side of town… where there are no Bobs.

Who am I trying to kid? This is New York City — there are Bobs on every corner here, and to be honest, I really wouldn’t have it any other way.

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