Whole Foods Union Square, NYC. To your left, just as you enter. The store has escalators. I believe there's a mechanism for getting a shopping cart from floor to floor. Wait, no. That was in the nearby Bed, Bath & Beyond. In this Whole Foods, there is a flow of shoppers that seems like a closed loop, so that no one actually enters or leaves; the same people circulate ceaselessly. They don't eat, drink, or sleep. They have no lives other than the one in the store. I found the few things I needed and carried them in one of those hard plastic baskets you loop over your arm. I'd been in there before with my sister so I knew they had a system for how to pay and I remembered it was daunting. I figured I could handle it. There are half a dozen or so aisles of registers with cashiers and there are lines where customers are supposed to queue up. The way you know it's your turn to step up to the register is via the electronic boards that blink the aisle number. There are curved arrows indicating which lanes apply to which numbers. Somehow this is supposed to translate into functionality. Twice I stepped forward and twice I was stopped by a customer behind or beside me chasing after me with great determination and telling me firmly and with just a bit more annoyance than I remember being able to generate when I was a full-time New Yorker that it was NOT MY TURN. The message was clear: I had done a terrible thing in a)not knowing that it was NOT MY TURN and b)expecting to pay anyway and c)breathing. I went back to the entrance and handed my basket to a nice guard posted at the door. I told him I'd changed my mind and didn't want to buy anything. I apologized for inconveniencing him. I handed him the basket. He seemed sad for me and a little perplexed. I went out empty-handed, which is how I came in.
I want to live in that building. No.
I want to eat that building. No. I want to color that building. Down on the carpet, propped on my two elbows, coloring away with all my might. What is attraction anyway? Some people, some objects, some creatures call to us, singing their own peculiar song by means of which they crash into our hearts and burrow, hunkering in for the ride. With little choice, we hear them, gladly obey. The rain had let up. I raised my phone and clicked. I look at this photo now and it pulls me in. No, not pull, and not in. The picture speaks of trusted friends walking beside me. There's integrity here, stately and solid. Walk with me now; lean into the earth. Be certain of our tread. The one-way signs point in the same direction. And that bit of green makes the following promise: we can do this. We're doing it right now.
I'm attempting to understand. Where is the line? What is happening to me as I cross it? How do I know which side I'm on? Why are pretty things sharp? What kind of person embellishes a weapon? How do I keep the bad out of myself? Where is the bad coming from? How do I recognize it? What disguises does the bad wear? What is service? To whom do I owe allegiance? Where are my energies best spent? What is a rivet? What is riveting?
The lower floors are packed – aisle after aisle, table after table. The third floor is much sparser. Much quieter, too, as if in climbing the wooden staircase I've left the bookstore and entered a museum. Many (though not all) are behind glass. If I want to purchase a book from the third floor, the book and I must be accompanied back downstairs by an employee. Imagine a vast increase in the number of employees, so that every transaction, regardless of cost, included a personal escort and warm parting wish. Imagine value coupled differently to trust. Imagine affection.
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