The comings and goings of hundreds of legs all with destinations unknown to those unattached is a remarkable spectacle to behold.
Copping a squat in the busiest or lonliest of places in public on the floor is a pastime, an act saved for the comfortable, uncaring or tired. Falling into all three types, not sure which came first, its genesis of accepted and looking-forward-to practice stems from high school years within hallways nuturing behavior peculiar to Murrow students. We were mainstream-counter-culture, bohemian-esque, college-prepped youngsters personified—encouraged, policy allowed us these privileges.
The stares and tilted heads become less pronounced amidst a swarming throng for most are tunnel visioned from the floor to ahead or above eluding fellow go-getters, straphangers or vagabonds alike, hoping to catch a bus, trolley, train or taxi. Who has time to notice cracks in Western seating conventions or coffee stains on newspapers discarded beneath fiends without homes?
The only yoga position attempted for fear of losing feeling in extremeties, the blood-pumping tapers off depending on pretzel-bending, for limber legs are atrophied through sporadic feats of athleticism these days. Contortionist miming saved for primal activities or tribal awakening through sonic rhythms.
Returning to the vantage point of seven-years-old with the mental acumen of a score future, writing about such spontaneously is an interesting feat, the forwards and backwards, sideways and meandering thoughts, elusion and capturing of synaptic vapors divine like—visions of Artemis hidden in wait.
As passersby quickly glance, allusions of Medusa flicker past mind’s eye, wondering with an internal smirk, what it’d be like to possess such powers mythical, the uncanny ability to render those daring enough immoble, mute, caught in a second—their last—of voluntary and conscious action: a Polaroid.
What would they think? Would they question why? Would they regret their decision, their choice to look? If, why? It’s a big book entitled with the most curious of words, one given to as a child, jumpstarting a life-long, destinationless journey of mental nomadness.
The interrobang is boisterously inquisitive. It’s a most beloved symbol. A most warming scratchmark signifying many emotions at once. A cornucopia in a single glyph, it speaks volumes yet possesses no mouth, only an elegance causing its voyeurs to react, to wonder, to stare.
Thoughts while sitting in public on the floor cross-legged in the morning bustling with humans fellow off to destinations unknown to those observing.