The Man Looking for East

Honor is a moment found where doing the unprejudiced or righteous thing is done out of choice not purpose.

The man who walked off his flight and asked if we knew which direction was east, seemed hurried but intent and a little desperate. It was 7:44PM at terminal 5 of John F Kennedy airport in New York City. I didn't hear him well the first time and said the always intelligent, huh? He kindly repeated himself and my 'huh?' face remained until the lights finally came on and I realized why he was asking, the direction of Mecca. Duh. However I'm not at all from New York and didn't really know the orientation of JFK terminal 5 but yet another handy reason to have an iPhone.

After some fumbling with Google Maps, a little zooming, some discussion of the basic cardinal directions, the odd coincidence that while in Saudi Arabia he had purchased prayer mats with little compasses embedded in them and continual reassurances from him that it really didn't have to be that exact we settled on a direction we all agreed was east. He thanked us and rushed off, I still felt uneasy about our choice of the direction of Mecca, I mean, this man's faith or more faithfulness now seemed directly in my responsibility. I debated starting the whole process over again. It was too late. He had already begun his prayers, though I was lucky to be able to easily see him.

The man had laid out his mat between a column and the window if I hadn't just spoken to him I would have never noticed him. How discrete I thought. How unobtrusive a choice of place. Then I thought a moment more, was this discretion or fear. Being Muslim in an airport in New York City and observing the right of prayer seemed a risky undertaking. It at least answered the question of asking us which way was west and not any of the myriad airport staff, they would more than likely be immediately prejudiced, and then the question and cavity searches would start, but why us. The man had finished and been gone a few moments when Martha looked at me and asked,Why us? I shrugged. Then Brilliant girl she is she figured it all out. The book she was reading was the reason, Reading Lolita in Tehran. Even though the book itself is any many ways an affront to much of the culture of Islam it must have been the marker for him to believe we wouldn't judge him or would at least understand that he had missed the proper time for prayer while on his flight. All this said and done I think the both of us felt a little smug or self-satisfied but I started this all out saying it was honor so I guess we felt honorable. I don't really believe the rest of the people in that far corner of the terminal would have wanted to or been able to help that man fulfill a simple obligation of his faith.

As they announced yet another delay to our own flight though I was struck by the very same demons of prejudice I felt so above a moment ago. What if he intended harm to some other flight and that had been his final prayer before some 'glorious' death? The gaping hole of my hubris filled with doubts of any and every kind, including doubts in my doubts. This I think is the real terrible scar on the overall American psyche. I had to have those initial doubts, for America, for my Mother, who never would have helped, for everything except myself. My honor was gone, doubt had slain it with a single swing.

Terminal 5 notes

Above, jetBlue terminal 5 in all its bossanova super-swinging-sixties glory. Drink it in. From what I'm told this is quite different from any other JFK terminal, and it is brand new. Lined with restaurants, bars and kind-of high-end shops, maybe not high-end, trendy, trendy shops, almost hip but really more trendy. There is a Muji (to go), which is pretty hip though my companion believes it overpriced. Of all the shopping options though, the Sony vending machine is my personal favorite. Having never had a burning and immediate need for a PSP, GPS or E-book reader, headphones however make sense. Headphones crap out on me all the time, I guess I have really gunky ears or something. Eww.

Its nice to have this as a last view of NYC.

Also above, note the sandals. I have prepared for the return to lower latitudes. It got downright cold while in NYC, like below freezing cold. And the wind whips down every street in a way that's just strange to a Florida flatlander. The cold is strange to a Floridian too but I expected it, being December and all, but wind down every street and avenue in every direction. Cold hard wind filled with a needley ability to strike through your clothes. Enough of wind, simple temperature difference across distance , not the mean-spirited breath of Jack Frost himself. Seriously though enough of wind. 

So I leave New York behind with moments stacked in otherwise unused caverns in my mind left their to age like cheese till ripe for use in some dissimilar story. I leave knowing no point in the tourist attractions of the city. I leave with knowing sheer joy in eating is embodied as Korean BBQ. I leave knowing someone with an unhealthy obsession with muffins, admittedly the locale of this obsession does make extremely good muffins. I leave with the promise of returning but pretty much staying in Brooklyn. Brooklyn, where my grandfather was born and my friends live.

New York City Orange Juice

Seriously, it's a doughnut-hole sized O.J. and it's more than likely
gonna cost me $5.00. It takes all my will to sip this pittyful shot.
Usually I have twenty-four ounces in one long swig every morning but
also oranges are everywhere at home. At home however it is very hard to find a fresh made delicious doughnut like these.

The American Artistic Spirit is Dirty

The simple things are the great things in art. The subtlety and interplay of everything involved in the piece, from the act of creating itself, to the subject, to the venue in which it is viewed all lend to the total work. Scott Wade of Texas gets it, it being that central American ideal of art that well, just isn't that European classic/pretty or metropolitan avant garde, it's folksy maybe but a little pop too, in fact the lack of ability to describe it lends further point to it's purity as an oddball and unique American idea.

    Wade's work may make wonderful morning news fodder but there is something bigger there when Wade speaks to his ambition in a recent MAKE article,

"I have this grandiose idea of parking cars all the way up the ramp of the Guggenheim Museum and painting in dirt reproductions of the pieces that are on the wall next to it."

grandiose yes, but ambition beyond expectation is an all to American mantra.

Qu'est-ce que le baiser?

Enjoy this and wonder at what it was ever intended to accomplish. Thank you to the year 1933 and its "queer" designers as well as Natalia for providing the link that led me to this beautiful but purposeless machine. I mean just look at that thing, it's fantastic!

Space, scream all you like, America went deaf to you

Woohoo Shuttle launch! Though it is disturbing that no one on my street gives a flip. At least I know that my small circle of friends were all outside supporting, in their own drunken way, NASA and all its incredible feats.

So very sorry for being angsty and generic

    Something within crumbles, every little byte and moment profound and outright.

    A senseless waste of nothing but yesterdays thoughts and memories returned in fleeting flight.

    Dredge out some solid mass of solemnity, carry out an order unjust.

    These simple somethings inundate us in lust.

    A featureless trifle the above, couples, rhymes, tricks and clever words. Is this what obsession amounts to after so much energy spent? An existence of favors and work, obligation and trial, this is not what youth promised. A simple and pretentious quote of The Bard "I am spent."

    What is this unending drumming in the mind then if not a drive toward this end, this written word, and with drive so strong is not some sense of accomplishment eventually deserved? Sisyphean though the goal of any sort of recognition or merit may be, the feeling now emerging from my hemp cocoon is very much the moment of the rock again rolling back down the hill. Having wasted much to much time in mourning for and hiding from a idea still not quite in clear focus, but at least now an image of some reality and not simply a string broken promises to a sorely missed friend. The vivid moments of every second my good friend has been gone haunt every last corner of a mind composed only of a ring, in that debts, in the form of promises, exist not only as unfulfilled dreams but simple bits of education that can never be reviewed or re-taught, wisdom forever lost thanks only to my own selfish and flippant dreams. Accomplishments never acknowledged are the plight of every father-son relationship, but when the last things remembered are a smile and a pint and a knowing approval of all these broad plans and dreams, two and half years later it becomes a great and terrible splinter behind the eye to look around and see none of those broad plans and dreams even in motion. All that's changed is the ability to maintain a healthy relationship and a dog, and sure the dog is cute and the relationship is still healthy but for all else there seems nothing but disappointment in those long gone gray eyes, and the sinking fear that deep down these feelings never go away.

    Thank you and I do miss you so sorely.