The Subway Chronicles

Thursday, December 6, downtown 2

There is no rhyme or reason to the morning subway commute, at least none that I feel necessary upon which to cogitate. If I tried to make sense of it, I'd lose the last few synapses that are firing in my cerebrum. There is no schedule for arrival and departure of trains; each day is different. To get to my school before the eight o’clock school bell tolls I've tried leaving at 6:25, 6:36, 6:42, even 6:00. It simply doesn't matter when I leave: plans are futile. This goes against my generally punctual nature, so it's actually been a good lesson for me to go more and more with the flow of the New York City transit system. I want to surrender so that I can be at peace, apart of some oneness in the universe of public transportation. I have a chance whether to be a Buddha or a Peter Finch from “Network”.

Yeah, yeah, Timmie. Get off it. Bulloney. Easier said than done when one has to do it five days a week. I can wax esoteric all I want, but there is a balance in the universe, and the other side of peace and contentment is pure chaos, fury, or something as simple as a passing annoyance. I lose my temper, I scowl at the person who steps on my sore toe, I grumble, I hold my nose at someone’s unnecessary body odor. I despise the human condition represented by the daily commute – the samsara.

On the other end of the subway shtick, there are transcendent experiences and I prefer to focus on those. I give thanks for moments of wonder, times of human connection, the awe I feel when I think about the fact that each person crammed in next to me – face almost pressing against mine, trying not to look me in the eye – has his or her own personal story that is completely unique. It's mind-boggling to me and it truly does make me appreciate each person and her or his story, whatever it is.

A human story. Where do they come from? Have they ever been in love? Where are they going? Why are they going? Have they lost a loved one, child, a mother, a brother, a dear pet? Have they ever smelled a wild flower in a meadow? Do they believe in God or the Devil? Or neither? Thousands of questions that breed stories, whizzing by in a blur of metal, glass, wheels, and a blue spark of electricity.

In the midst of the insanity of – if I may quote The Police – people "packed like lemmings into shiny metal boxes, contestants in a suicidal race", in the darkness, there is often someone who shines. This person is like the first star at night after the settling of dusk, its bright light traveling millions of light years to break through our atmosphere and say: "Hey, it ain't all dark out here".

Today, this one little star was a bundled up woman on the 2 train who barely made it into the car at 96th Street. Smashed against the door, her nose sticking out over red-rimmed glasses, ski cap pulling back her stringy hair, looking like some deranged gnome in a green parka, she smiled and started chatting with the stranger next to her. She was so close to the man that they were sharing the same breath.

At the 72nd Street stop she bulldozed past me, her backpack (still on her back – always an irritation) hit me in the chest and pushed me into the person behind me. Why was she pushing through all of us with such determination?

She squeezed in between two passengers and said to one of them: "Just making room for one more person."

And lo and behold, I looked over at the lemmings by the door and a spot opened up for a forlorn-looking woman waiting on the platform. Suddenly her eyes lit up and she was able to clamber on board before the ding-dong and the closing doors, taking the place of that morning’s subway gnome. I saw it. I was there.

If this little star of a woman, this benign entity had not moved for that one last stranded star, that almost forgotten star's story would have been different for that day. How would her day be different? Who knows? It’s the mystery I think we have to embrace. I’m tired of finding answers to everything. The questions are more important.

I am Buddha: serene, basking in the congenial glow of the woman’s sublime, unconditional love for others. And then someone elbows me and once again I am Peter Finch thinking: “I’m as mad as hell, and I’m not going to take it anymore.”

November 14, 2007, uptown 3

One can’t ride the subway without coming across some kind of monetary petitioner: a woman playing a musical saw at 14th Street with a cup ready to receive abundance; a mariachi band on the L Train evoking images of Tijuana; an obese homeless woman begging for benevolence to ease her hunger; an A cappella quartet singing Motown; two private school 13-year olds reciting poetry for a few coins to buy some after school snacks; a woman on the uptown 1 train, her portable speakers on a handcart, belting out a Whitney Houston tune better than the diva herself.

Underground, I feel like I’ve seen everything. I’ve even seen a woman squatting in the transverse between the L Train and the 1/2/3 at 14^th Street, relieving herself in a corner, thankfully not requesting a kind donation, although one might see the same thing funded by the NEA termed a piece of avant-garde performance art.

Today, traveling uptown from work reading a book by Philip Pullman, I heard a voice that could only be compared to the sandpapery raspiness of the old character actor Scatman Crothers. (He’s the old guy in The Shining and Silver Streak, and countless other movies from the 70s and 80s.) The gent from whom the voice was emanating even had the particular cadence of Crothers. I heard him talking to a woman who apparently didn’t know him. Where other men would have caused a furrowed brow and look of disdain from a fellow commuter, the woman was pleasantly endeared of the man because of what he was saying.

“My dear,” he crackled, “you look like somebody who’s going to hurt someone today.”

The woman looked up at him curiously.

“Hurt someone with your beauty,” he said with perfect timing.

She laughed and finished her candy bar.

“Could you help me out?” he asked.

Without thinking, she reached into her pocketbook, pulled out a dollar bill, and handed it to the man who received it graciously.

He moved on down the subway car and eyed his next target of admiration.

“You look great in that color.”

The woman looked down at her lime green, velvet jogging suit, nibbling at a pretzel.

He gesticulated with arms open wide. “You should take more pictures of yourself so you know how pretty you are.”

Another dollar.

I was wondering if he would bother engaging me about my Irish hat I had doffed early that morning, or whether he would notice my appropriately attired cardigan. It seemed that he knew where the money was, and that was entirely with the female sex.

The train pulled up into the 96^th Street station and I walked off onto the platform, the man limping ahead of me. He walked a few steps and made his way back onto the next car and found the bulls eye on whom he would bestow his veneration.

“My dear woman,” he began, and with that the subway doors closed and the train pulled out of the station. I could only imagine what favor his accolades would find.

I never thought I’d see it, but somebody was actually getting paid for compliments. If only I had the time, the inclination, and the gift this man possessed, I might make my way down a line of subway cars, entreating others with words intended to make each soul feel special for the mere sum of a buck. Alas, alack of nerve, I could only admire the man’s determination to brighten someone’s humdrum day with a simple compliment. Brilliant.

nOVEMBER 12, 2007, dOWNTOWN 1

I’ve begun riding the subway again after a long hiatus and now I feel it’s time to begin writing once again about the experiences I’m having. Where before, living in the East Village and riding my bike around the city had precluded me from paying the two bucks for a trip on the metro, now that I have moved to Marble Hill (last legal bastion of Manhattan), and because I teach at Grace Church School in an area somewhere between the East and West Village, I have no choice but to wrangle myself out of bed earlier than seems humanely possible, climb the stairs at 225^th Street to the elevated 1 Train, and join the early morning commuters to take the indefinitely long ride downtown to 14^th Street where I still lock up a bike for trekking about in the old ‘hood.

In the beginning of the school year, when I started riding the subway again on a consistent basis, I thought, great, I’ll use this time as my library hour, to read and catch up on the pile of books that’s quickly grown on my bedside table. After two weeks of rising early, working, biking to the 1 at 7^th Avenue and 14^th Street, exhausted, and fighting the melee of people trying to get home, the novelty soon wore off. I began to wonder how people could do this every day? How could I do it and survive? It was quickly becoming a burden, something I didn’t look forward to at the end of the day. After tutoring on certain days I tried to time my transit so that I would just beat the five o’clock timecard punchers, but not so soon that I would hit the school crowd that was letting out, filling the cars and screaming their pubescent cries incessantly – a distraction from my reading time.

I was not enjoying this daily commute that my romantic side thought was going to be good for the mind and soul. It was, as I said before, quickly becoming a burden. The riant face that I wore in the beginning of my commuting days soon changed to a cheerless one.

Just when things seemed most dire, most laborious, most completely, without a doubt, one hundred percent, indubitably annoying, I received a beautiful reminder; a reminder of my choice to live in a bigger, cheaper apartment in Marble Hill, surrounded by the Bronx; an apartment with a deck and a backyard and two bedrooms; a reminder that I had created this reality around me and I had to live with it the best I could – or change it. I didn’t want to change it. I liked where I was. I liked knowing that when I came home I could sit on my deck and have a glass of wine and see the stars and the moon making their own trip through the sky. I knew that I had to change my point of view on this whole mess – as it sometimes seems – or suffer the consequences.

the reminder came in the form of a sunrise today, at six a.m., a ride that was earlier than usual for me: parent teacher conferences. My nose was in my book from 225^th Street all the way down until we emerged back into the uber-world reality at 125^th Street. I looked up and between the buildings I saw a deep orange and rich pink, purple sky, rippled by clouds passing in between the many buildings. The woman who sat down next to me seemed to notice, too. We both looked out the window and soaked it in like sponges that had been bereft of beauty. I glanced at her; she turned and smiled, and without a word we turned back to the sumptuously colored canvas that just as quickly disappeared as the subway car went back underground. It was over, but I wouldn’t forget it.

Yes, I had chosen this new life of a commuter and whomever you want to praise – God, Allah, Buddha, the Wizard of Oz – it can be beautiful. Those who have eyes to see, let them see!

Wednesday, March 16, 2005, Downtown 1/9 platform

My belief system, my mode of thought about my place and connection with the universe, is occasionally reaffirmed when I’m underneath the city on the train. It’s only my openness to accept the events that happen, a constant practice not to get caught up in the habitual flow of straphangers. These affirmations happen constantly. It’s only my unconscious moments that prevent me from seeing them.

On those occasions when my eyes are open to those experiences, or synchronicities, I experience joy. The corners of my mouth raise. I smile outside and inside.

Exactly one year and six days ago, I was in the Times Square Station, waiting with two friends for the 1/9. Out of all the people on the platform, a subway violinist came up to me and handed me his violin, asking me to teach him a song. I did. (See March 10, 2004 entry).

Tonight, after a very long day of teaching and grad school, I was very tired. On Broadway and 110^th Street I could hear the downtown train approaching. My focus was getting on that train. I ran down two steps at a time, gripping the railing, quickly thinking of all the germs that I was picking up on my hands because I had forgotten my gloves this morning.

I swiped my Metrocard, lunged through the turnstile as the train pulled up and stopped. I heard a violin, looked to my right as I stepped on the train, saw the Indian man from last year on the platform, and realized he was playing the same song I had taught him.

It’s moments like these that give me a smile, joy, and the knowledge that I am not alone and have no reason to ever be lonely because everything and everyone are connected. It’s not the big events in my life, but rather the small ones that can be more meaningful.

Thursday, March 3, 2005, 8:42 p.m., Times square station

The future I’d read in books and seen in movies as a kid, from the early 80s through graduating high school in 1990, was always just that – the future. But it was a future inspired by science fiction, something I never thought I would see in my lifetime, or at least I would be an old man when it all happened. I used to try to figure out how old I would be in 2052 when maybe I’d be able to buy a ticket to the moon. Maybe it was more fantasy to me. My prophets were writers like Heinlein, Asimov, Herbert; my movies were 2001 & 2010, Total Recall, Robocop, The Running Man, even Terry Gilliam’s Brazil, just to name a very few.

A tiny list of past predictions by science fiction:

-The absurd exploitation of people’s TV viewing consciousness with reality TV shows and advertising – The Running Man

-The extreme nature of a circus like TV news media that prides itself more on entertainment, abusing people’s intelligence; the militarization of our police force – Robocop

-Terrorism on our own soil perpetuated by a vast conglomerate called government that is out of control; the conformity of people to the oppressive world of business devoid of color; the bleak world of mass transit – Brazil

-Space travel and space stations – 2001 & 2010

-Military fanaticism and fascism – read Heinlein, especially Starship Troopers

-Robots and revolution in computer technology – Asimov

What does all this have to do with riding the subway? I was walking through the Times Square Station, up the stairs from the N train headed towards the 2/3, and many things hit me at once, the biggest feeling being that I was in a sci-fi movie that had been adapted from a book and that the future of a world, in some respects gone crazy, was here: the sleek metal, the overstated brightness that washes away people’s faces, the vast police presence, passing two men and two women in camouflage garnished by a side of AK-47s, posters that almost seemed like propaganda, the fact that everywhere I looked I was bombarded with advertising (buy this, go see this show, you must sue this person now, laser treatment will make you beautiful, you’ll never look like these models but buy this outrageously expensive handbag and you’ll at least feel pretty, where these shoes, this perfume, you can do your part by being the "eyes and ears" of our system), people dressed in the mundane uniform of business, Metrocards that can track our every move, people watching DVDs on their way to work, everyone tuned out of the world with iPods, and people moving in automaton streams of repetition.

And the biggest aspect of my multi-sensory subway experience was that voice that we all know so well that comes over the speakers on platforms, in stations, in trains. As I walked through the station, a man’s voice echoed throughout, and I wondered if anyone was listening and wondering why we had to live in a world that tells us: “If you see a suspicious package or activity on the platform or train, don't keep it to yourself. Tell a cop or an MTA employee.” Or have we all just gotten conditioned to accept it? And the poster with that unattended bag underneath a train seat? “If you see something, say something.”

Maybe it’s the gray cold of winter and my visions of the beach that put me in this almost apocalyptic mood tonight. The subway trip was overwhelming to me this time. Other times are different, beautiful, sublime, hideous, amusing. That’s what the subway is – a new experience every time. It makes me think. And this time it was all a surrealist sci-fi prediction come true.

Friday, January 28, 2005, 2:32 p.m., Uptown “1/ 9” & “2/3”

We all face certain dilemmas, crossroads to which we come in our lives in which we must make a decision. Should I go to college? Marriage? Take that higher paying job in Kansas? Vanilla or chocolate? Coke or Pepsi? Maybe Sprite? How do these choices affect our lives? It can start me thinking of the “what ifs”. But when I think about it too long I decide not to get spend any more time on that whole discourse between my Self and my Mind because I’ll never know. I can imagine, but the reality I live is the one I choose.

There was a significant moment in Rick Linklater’s mucho-significant film “Waking Life” when a character talks about free choice. He begins by saying that since science had taken that place of God, there was free choice once again and not some pre-planned course of events for a person’s life. But then he begins to question that because of quantum physics, which is finding more and more that there are fundamental laws in the universe that particles follow. We’re made up of that stuff of the universe, so do we really have choice?

I still believe we do because there are still some random events that science just can’t explain, and the closer some scientists get to physics, the closer they cuddle up to some semblance of “God” (see “Dialogues with Scientists and Sages” by Renee Weber). Not necessarily the bearded honcho on the big throne, but something that connects us all, which is better than denying it at all.

The Subway. Another platform for infinite choices that can affect life in all possible ways. The biggest choice I must face every time I want to go uptown is “wait for the express or take the local that just showed up”. I know it’s not some life threatening choice; it won’t necessarily change the entire course of my life, but then again, it just might. The best movie that played with the idea of choice, and is perfectly germane to these thoughts, is “Sliding Doors”. The film plays out two different parallel realities that could happen in Gwyneth Paltrow’s life and poses the question, what if she had made the train?

The 9 pulled up at the Houston Street station. I walk through the doors and stand clear. Construction Man is seated, looks at me and gives me the most vague of nods. Almost imperceptible. Maybe it was just a twitch. I know he is Construction Man not necessarily because of the dusty Carhartt jacket, hooded sweatshirt underneath, steel-toed shoes, but because of his hands. They are working hands and they’ve been laying bricks for a better part of their lives. I moisturize, am a creature of certain products, and feel a twinge of jealousy. It might be nice to be outside a lot, working all my muscles, being a rugged man…then again, graduate school is heated and I don’t like my legs to get chilly. I also chap easily.

When I get to 14^th Street I face that unnerving choice of whether to get off and wait for the 2 or 3 train. I think, “Hey, I’m on a train now. It’s moving. I’m not particularly in any rush. I’m finished work, have to go to grad school and make a copy of an article in the library, then just go home. I could sit down, read a bit, relax and wait for the 110^th Street stop. Anyway, I’m going to have to eventually go local at 96^th Street to get to 110^th.” I hop off just as the doors close.

Waiting for the 2 or 3. Why didn’t I just stay on the local?! It’s been at least three minutes, there’s no train in sight, and I’m not moving! Another local train pulls up and stops. Ding, the doors open. I look down the 2 and 3 line and see no lights coming. What to do? I’ve been trying to listen to my instinct, that little voice inside me that can see the future sometimes, and it tells me to move my butt onto the 9, but my feet falter, the doors close and the train is gone.

Suddenly I see two lights down that long tunnel. Joy. Rapture. I’m glad I didn’t listen to that little voice. Maybe you should have. Shut up in there!

I arrive at 96^th Street in what seems like only seconds. Gotta love that express. The universe is with me because there’s a 9 pulling up at the same time across the platform. You’ve made the right choices today, Bucko. Life is good on the subway when it all goes down like butter on warm bread. My step is lighter this time as I stride onto the local.

Construction Man’s chapped lips curl up ever so slightly at the corners. Is that a smile? There’s definitely a nod to me, though, but a knowing one this time. I shrug as slightly as his smile and smile myself. Our eyes make this exchange:

Construction Man: “Yep, back again.”

Me: “Yep, back again.”

Thursday, December 2, 2004, 3:38 p.m., Uptown "1/9" platform

Graduate school registration. Fall registration had been an annoying mess of annoyed people standing in long annoying lines. I wasn’t looking forward to registering for Spring. Everyone knows that it’s possible to register via internet; most colleges and universities do that now. Where I go they haven’t quite caught up to that idea, but promise it’s coming soon.

I bopped off the 2 Express at 96^th Street to get the 1 or 9 to 112^th Street. While I waited on the platform a Cell Phone Woman near me was playing with what most likely her new phone. She played with it a bit too much and quickly lost her grip. In what was probably an agonizing moment of slow motion for the poor thing, the phone tumbled out of her hand and landed next to the tracks below next to a crumpled Snickers wrapper. The woman gasped and I believe I heard a slight squeak from her. She looked around in dismay at all of us who had seen the whole affair.

I looked down at the phone then at Bushy Mustache Guy. He looked at me. We both telepathically told each other, “No way. I’m not going down there. These are the things you read about on the front page of The Daily News. The Post would eat it up: “Fool Killed in Bizarre Fatal Phone Fatality!” No way, bucko, you go down there if you want. Chivalry is dead. Maybe we didn’t exchange those exact words in our minds, but it was the sentiment that lay in our eyes.

The woman continued to helplessly scan the crowd for help. A rat scampered by, sniffed the phone, then kept going. That sealed it for me. I looked at Very Tall Guy and he gave me the same look as Bushy Mustache Guy. “But you’re Very Tall Guy, dude,” my eyes flashed at him. “You could probably just reach down there if I held onto your legs.”

Out of nowhere, Round Man in an MTA vest and hat walked up, looked down at the phone. I thought, “Now here’s a hero of the MTA. He’s going to jump down and get the phone because he knows the train schedule and knows he won’t get sliced and diced with the Ginsu wheels of the 9 train.” The man took a pole he had in his hand that I hadn’t noticed before and twisted it in the middle to extend it. There was a claw at the end of the pole. I thought I saw the lights of a train reflecting off the walls up the track. He lowered the pole, adeptly snatched the phone with the claw, and placed it in the hands of a much relieved Cell Phone Woman.

Round Man: “Did I break it?”

The woman said no and thanked him several times. He walked away. Job well done. Just in a day's work, ma’am.

Graduate school registration was a breeze. I was number 50 in line, easily got my classes, financial aid, signed the papers and was out in thirty minutes, home in forty-two.

Wednesday, december 1, 2004, 7:02 pm, Downtown “1/ 9 & 2/3”

I’m getting my master's degree in education at night from Bank Street College of Education on the Upper West Side while teaching kindergarten during the day. Sometimes I feel like a kind of teaching superhero, fearless with boundless energy; at other times, a completely tired lump of human being. Not many realize how much time and energy teachers exert in the daily routine of classroom life. “Completely underpaid” comes to mind.

I exit Bank Street after a 2-hour class, trot down the street for the downtown 1/9 in order to gently, and hopefully without too much frustration, quickly hop onto the 96th Street 2/3 downtown express to 14^th Street.

Ahead of me there is a woman who is in my class. I walk behind her down Broadway. She walks very slowly – more so than the average pedestrian. She’s one of those slow-mo people. She has her own beat to which she walks and there’s nothing that supersedes it. She’s in no rush to get home. Que sara, sara, sara. It’s at once disturbing to me and at the same time comforting in the fact that whatever will be will be. I can race my way towards the subway train, or I can walk the way I want to walk and not worry that I might miss, by three seconds, the next express train.

Miss Screw-Time-To-The-Stickingpost is an inspiration to me tonight.

Slow down. I move too fast sometimes. Got to make the nighttime last.

I see other people from school on the subway platform. I wave hello and sometimes utter a soft salutation to a few familiar faces, but when I walk down those stairs, when I push through the turnstile, it’s my time, and truly, most sincerely, even though I enjoy conversation, after a long day of teaching kindergarten and going to school, I want some kind of respite, a time of reflection, vegging out, complete deadness of the brain – whatever I need that particular night – without having to engage in conversation with someone who happens to be in my class.

And it works. I think these classmates also feel the same way, because they make no effort to engage me. It’s fine in the classroom, tit for tat, but when I’m out of school, I don’t want an excuse to divulge with others in this and that.

In a big picture respect, riding the downtown train to 14^4th Street has become an opportunity to reflect on my day and all the things transpired in my life up until the point I sit or stand in a subway car in New York City, NY, USA, North America, Earth, Milky Way, Universe.

God bless us everyone in all our travels and travails during this “holiday” season. Whatever we do, remember to always be that which we choose to be with no regrets.

Saturday, March 27, 2004, 10:23 a.m., Various Platforms and Trains

I wanted to be a fly on the wall today as I traveled in the tunnels. Or maybe like one of those angels in the film "Wings of Desire", in which they are constantly around people, observing them, listening to their thoughts, taking notes on their lives and experiences, with everyone except small children unable to see them.

First on the 14^th Street "N/R" platform: A man who looks miserable wears a "Comic Relief 8" baseball cap. A homeless man pushing a huge cart notices two women who are lost and offers them assistance. The two women have Southern accents and are happy for the help and give him money, even though he doesn't want it at first.

"N" Train: A man sits next to me and smells like cinnamon. We're held for a few minutes at 34^th Street Station and the conductor apologizes for the delay. It's quiet except for a man tearing open a package of film while his son laughs at him. When the doors finally close, the conductor apologizes for the third time. I think it makes people feel better because someone took responsibility and was truly sorry for the inconvenience, even though he has nothing to do with it. The brakes release with a sharp exhale of air, echoing the feeling of relief in all passengers that we were moving.

A methodical man paces up and down the platform, head down. After he passes I forget about him and step forward to look down the tracks. I feel a presence behind me. I turn. It's the pacing man. I'm in his way. He doesn't go around me, so I step back. He continues his pacing.

"1" Train: A woman who is bundled up too much for such a warm day reads the Bible softly, nodding her head.

A little girl sits with her mom down the aisle and looks at me like she knows me.

Wednesday, March 10, 2004, 8:42a.m., Downtown "N/R" Platform

Samsara is the Buddhist belief in a cycle of life and death, rebirth and redeath, of delusion and suffering, in which all sentient beings are trapped unless they can break free of the cycle. That's what I felt this morning. I felt sad vibes from a lot of people on the train. I don't know everyone's story, but sometimes I'd just like to smile and ask someone, "So...tell me what's on your mind." It's not even depression. I think that's different. It's just a general sadness in the air.

I think people are disenchanted with our president, the government, and the feeling of hopelessness that seems to pervade the collective consciousness right now.

It all made me think of the lyrics to a Police song: "Packed like lemmings into shiny metal boxes, contestants in a suicidal race." Riding to work like this doesn't help lighten one's mood in the morning, but we do make choices.

Maybe there's a fine line between destiny and choice. I make choices that affect my life, but doors also open and close for me. It's up to me to decide through which one I should walk. One instance of this is that I've felt this inspiration to become a teacher. Once I decided to do that, to put my energy into that dream, things came to me to help me; opportunities have arisen; information came to help me make the best decisions. In this respect, I believe my higher self guides me, connected to the Universe, God, and can translate that back down to a spirit living a human life.

Wednesday, March 10, 2004 Downtown "N/R" Platform

Sometimes while I ride the subway I wonder, "What if nothing happens, what if I don't have anything to write in my diary this week?" If I don't find anything interesting, then its my own fault for not opening my eyes to see all the moments happening around me. But sometimes, those moments don't happen around me, but rather to me, and those are unexpected and wonderful surprises.

Coming back from a birthday party on the Upper West Side, I hopped the downtown "1" with friends Don and Mel then got off at 42^nd Street. As we walked down the stairs to the "N/R" platform, we heard the sound of a violin and followed it until we were at the middle of the platform. A man played an Irish reel for what I assume was in preparation for the upcoming St. Patrick's holiday.

He smiled as if he knew us and immediately after he finished his song he glided over and extended the violin and bow towards Don, nodding his head.

Don laughed and said he didn't play. Mel echoed the same response as the man once again offered the instrument. I knew what was coming and at first I thought, "No way, I'm not that good and I really need music to play."

I only took three years of lessons, but continue to play here and there when I feel inspired. I'm not really that good, a little squeak here and there, but I do enjoy playing and don't do it enough. A violin sits in my closet, but rarely does it see the sunshine. That should change.

"You?" he asked, an Indian accent coming through a wide smile set on a brown-skinned face.

"Please, play," he said with more enthusiasm, "I cannot read music. I play by ear and need to see and hear you play something new for me so I can learn it."

I couldn't think of any Irish tunes that I knew, but I did know what I assume is a Scottish song. I think its called "Loch Lomond." I'm not sure, but I do know how to play it backwards and forwards.

I never imagined that a subway musician would hand me an instrument and ask me to play a little ditty. There was some kind of wonderful energy going on that platform. No coincidence, or perhaps it was what Jung called a "significant coincidence," the signs in which two people have detected a phenomenon of synchronism which reveals an unsuspected connection between man, time and space. I believe that somehow, unconsciously or consciously, the man was aware that one in our group of three knew how to play the violin. He didn't know exactly who, but through trial and error he found someone who could teach him a new song.

I looked around the best I could while I played and noticed several people peering at me with curiosity as I played the man's violin. I don't know any other word to describe the looks on their faces except bemused, as if they too would never expect someone to hand them a violin. I'm only limited by my imagination.

He shook his head and put up his hand. "No, no, I'm not that good," he said, "but I believe in reincarnation and that I will play at Carnegie Hall in the next life. Right now, in this lifetime, I'm just practicing."

More and more I think about how I can possibly change the world on a mass scale. I don't know how to do that yet, except to take a little time and energy to be nice to a stranger, do something kind, and be the change I want to see in the world. When I sometimes feel small and insignificant, like I can't possibly make a difference in the world, I ask myself a question that reinvigorates my optimism: "Have you ever slept with a mosquito?"

Friday, March 5, 2004, 3:32p.m., Downtown "9"

I couldn't help but hear the conversation as they sat in front of me while I stood on the train, held onto the pole, and thought about the lunch I just had with a friend. When I say the one woman was bent, I believe she had osteoporosis because she was a bit hunched over at the shoulders. The other woman was much taller; even sitting down she towered above the other people. She was also a little hard of hearing, which caused the bent woman to speak louder than normal. They both had sweet delicate voices. I could feel the compassion they had between each other they were great friends.

"Oh yes. My mother's been gone five years and I'm still going through her closet trying to throw things away."

"Whenever I read something or see something, I still think, 'Oh, Julie will like this.'"

I usually don't try to intentionally eavesdrop on a conversation. I figure it's none of my business, but the pathos gripped me. My grandmother had lost two boys, one at two months old, the other when he was nine. Grandmom said that unless you lose a child, you'll never know the pain through which one goes. "No parent wants to bury a child," she said.

I don't have children. I can't imagine what the bent woman must be going through. I didn't know how long it was since her daughter had passed, but as Grandmom had said, "It's something you never, ever get over." For sixty years, a day didn't go by in which she didn't think of her two sons.

I wanted to say something to the woman. I think it's too easy to say life goes on, they're in a better place, it was God's will and all the other things said in sympathy to another persons loss. The tall woman grabbed the bent woman's hand and gave it a squeeze and the two of them smiled. Sometimes words aren't necessary.

February 28, 2004, 9:15a.m.,Uptown "2"

I played piano at Glen's at this morning and then went over to Vakasha's to work on the book. I love Saturdays. Even though I work from home, I try to structure my day like any other worker, except my hours are from 11a.m. to whenever I get tired in the evening. In that respect, weekends are as welcome to me as the pasty white guy in his fluorescent-lit cubicle.

A nurse sat with a co-worker. She had on big white chunky-soled shoes, but was complaining to her co-worker about foot pain.

I used to be on my feet a lot more and appreciate the need for good shoes. Foot comfort is of utmost importance no matter what you do. I told her about my Mephistos. They're expensive, but I've never had an ache in my foot since wearing them. I used to forget that I was walking on concrete most of the time.

I think foot pain is also affected by where we walk. I've thought about this, and asked myself, "How often do my feet actually touch the grass, the soil the Earth?" I believe my feet are connected to everything in my body and that when I don't have that organic connection to the Earth, I'm losing an important aspect of my health. Maybe that's why we're killing the earth very quickly. We've lost contact with it. There always seems to be a bigger meaning to something than the obvious, although sometimes the obvious is the only answer. I think it's good to look at the big picture of the universe and my place within it.

At first the woman seemed annoyed that I had interrupted her cacophony of complaints, but then she smiled and thanked me for the advice. I also suggested she go to a park and wiggle her toes in the grass. She raised one eyebrow. I think I said too much.

February 26, 2004, 3:04p.m., Downtown "5" There should be a law specifically for straphangers - No ASK (Audible Sucking Kisses). I don't mind a hug or even a little kiss, a peck on the cheek, an amorous sweet-nothing whispered in a receptive ear, or hands clasped while two lovers gaze, bewitched, into each other's eyes. But clear, loud sounds of sucking tongues and lips should be prohibited on the subway.

I was on my feet for most of the day at school. I subbed for a Junior Kindergarten Class much different than Kindergarten, but still fun. I usually don't sit on the subway because I like the vantage point standing gives me. I can observe and facilitate a better understanding of the whole ride experience. When I got on the train I immediately parked my hips on the seating device.

A young couple (I'm saying "young" now like my parents always do, as if I'm old (but they are younger than me (not that much younger, though)) embraced each other in the seat across from me. I never did see their faces full frontal, only their profiles while tongues and lips played games with each other. One game involved the darting of a tongue in and out of a mouth while the other person tried to bite it. They then proceeded to lick each other's teeth. The girl had braces. I could see them sparkle now and then. I was waiting for them to pick bugs out of each other's hair like in one of those National Geographic documentaries. The very deep French-kissing ensued and then the pecking, which seemed almost violent. It reminded me of a Bill Plympton cartoon when a couple kisses so hard, they cut each other's heads in half.

I guess this all implies that I was enraptured by this public foreplay display, but I couldn't escape them, not even in my peripheral view, and all the time in the relatively quiet car there was the noise of a mammalian mating ritual, like one hundred people at the end of their sodas, sucking on their straws to get every, last bleeding drop.

It seemed to go on forever, but it all actually happened between 59^th Street and 42^nd. They were quick and varied with their oral assaults on each other. I wondered, if my No ASK law were passed, what would the penalty be for such a gross violation? I imagined the fine to be on the lines of Big Brother in Orwell's 1984. I'm thinking a rat in a cage attached to the face, just after sugar has been spread all over ones lips.

I had to vent that out of my system. The annoyance is gone now. I shouldn't get annoyed, though. I haven't seen anything like that on the subway for a long time. I don't even remember, but the more I think about it, the more I do remember. I think the last time I heard kissy sounds on the subway was a year ago, and it was me. Let he who is not guilty cast the first stone. I'm now resolved that rather two people fighting or screaming at each other, disturbing everyone in the car with heavy negativity and anger, kissy sucking sounds are okay. At least it's an act of love or lust. Or both.

February 13, 2004, 9:16 p.m., Downtown "Q"

I'm totally in the throws of sickness. My throat's infected, my head's clogged, and my body aches. My brother-in-law, a doctor, called in some antibiotics for me and they seem to be helping. I don't like taking pharmaceuticals, but sometimes they're the only remedies that will help. My throat was in too much pain not to give in.

I would have rather stayed in bed, but I promised an old boss of mine that I would help him out tonight with a video shoot. He needed a cameraman for an off-Broadway play he was taping. The extra cash would buy a lot of throat lozenges, so I went. By the end of the night when we were packing up, my voice was barely a crackle. I sounded like a frog with a mean case laryngitis.

The "Q" stopped at 34^th Street and a gaggle of girls, who looked to be 8-12 years old, scrambled on board followed by someone's mother who was the chaperone of the group. The girls were noisy, rambunctious, and having a good time. Three of them sat on top of each other and horsed around while the others crowded around and laughed.

I looked at the other passengers, and they seemed to be enjoying the girls enjoying themselves. Some sunshine had found its way underground.

After a few minutes when the girls got even louder, the mother finally had enough and said, "Do you think all these people wanna hear you carryin' on like this?"

All the girls' faces suddenly dropped and the car went deathly quiet except for the clickety-clack of wheels on track. That mother was a woman who commanded power.

February 10, 2004, 9:32p.m., Downtown "1"

Today I felt the flu or a cold coming on. Feeling a little off-kilter and funky that feeling I've had before, when my body's immune system is fighting off an invader. I've been extremely healthy this winter, especially compared to the last few ones when I was sick four or five times. I think quitting smoking last year has helped my health. Actually, I know it has.

I have one friend who is a pro-smoker. She believes that it's good for her. She's got high blood pressure, but doesn't believe that the three packs a day are affecting her health in any way. She also believes that Zeta aliens don't like the taste of smoky human flesh.

I still miss it sometimes, but when I do have one once in a while, it tastes just like what the remnants of cigarette suggest - butt.

I had to get out of the apartment tonight, though. It was an open house at Bank Street School of Education. After the meeting, I decided this was the school for me. Their progressive, hands-on approach to teaching is wonderful. I also don't have to take the GRE to be accepted.

It's been eight years since I was last in school. This should all be a very interesting chapter in my life. Writing has been great; I've been able to support myself, but something's been missing. I believe everyone wants to feel like s/he has a purpose and I know we all do. I can be a writer and a teacher a perfect balance. I feel complete.

On the way back downtown after the open house I went into some kind of meditation on the train, but not by choice - it just happened. I don't know if it was the fever that seemed to be growing inside me during the evening, but my mind emptied all on its own accord. There was no effort on my part. It's one of those moments I try to attain when I meditate, but most of the time I can't turn off the mind. I only get little glimpses of complete surrender, but on the train tonight, it was an unconscious and wonderful surrender and clearing of my mind. Just like anything in life, meditation and prayer requires practice. It's working.

There were a few people in the subway car. I stared at the lights passing by the window in rapid succession. It always feels so very sci-fi to be on a train underground, passing under the feet of a million souls. It was hypnotic. My mind went completely blank and I was totally in the moment, the present, with no future or past, just being on the train between stations. The idea of life being moments continues to resonate with me. That was a moment. I'm going to try meditating on the train more often.

February 9, 2004, 2:10p.m., Uptown "1/2/3/9" Platform 42^nd Street

I ran down the stairs to the platform and almost made the train. There were several nudnicks that had their bags and bodies jammed between the closing doors, determined to get in no matter what. A rotund MTA worker with a bemused look on his face walked up and, without yelling, said, "Please stand clear of the closing doors". The people didn't listen and forced the doors open, one woman's purse getting caught once again before she yanked it through in disgust. I decided not to fight the doors and waited.

On the platform a Japanese man played some kind of stringed instrument that sounded like a melancholy violin, but was played like a cello. He performed Schubert's Ave Maria (my favorite version of the Virgin's hymn) with back-up instrumental music on a boom box. The "2" pulled up and made the music inaudible. The man put down his bow. I got on the train and was on my way.

In many ways this isn't that unique or special. Everyone who travels the subway has seen some Asian person playing a shamisen or other culture-specific instrument, a band of poncho-wearing Peruvians blowing on pan flutes and strumming mandolins, or the obligatory dancing hip-hop group jumping and contorting.

But it was déjà vu for me because the same thing had happened the day before. Even that's not so extraordinary. The guy probably plays the same platform several days in a row. What many people would call coincidence, I call a synchronicity.

It hit me when the train pulled up and he put down his bow at the exact same moment he had done so yesterday at the exact same moment in the song. It was if I was watching the same movie from yesterday. I remember because I was humming along and was disappointed when the train pulled up. I didn't get to finish my hum-a-long just as I didn't get to finish it yesterday.

Does this mean anything? To me it means a lot. Is it important in the grand scheme of the universe? Maybe not, but I was aware of a moment that was special to me. I'll remember it. Maybe I'll get to watch that movie again.

February, 2, 2004, 3:07 p.m., Downtown "4"

I substituted today on the Upper East Side. It was fun. The kids are great. After school I just made it in time into the 86^th Street station to hop on the "4" train.

There's a point on the "4" or "5" train when the "6" train comes down from above and rides next to it, and then just as fast, it disappears behind a wall, and then reappears across the platform at Grand Central. While the train dipped down next to my car, a little girl pressed her nose against the window. She waved to me and smiled, mouthing something I could have understood if I read lips. It was one of the purest acts of "Hello" I've ever seen. Without even really thinking I waved back and laughed. The woman next to me must have wondered what I was doing because she turned to look out the window, but the train had pulled ahead of us and the girl was gone from view. The woman missed it, but then again, maybe it was just for me.

Brief moments of joy can happen a lot more if I stay aware, awakened to a new kind of subway consciousness. In other words, it can be one heck of a great ride.

January 31, 2004 - 8:07pm - Downtown "Q"

I was coming back from my friend Vakasha's apartment. We're writing a book together and every Saturday we get together and brainstorm.

Tonight I got another chance to fulfill an opportunity that I passed up last Saturday. You don't get many second chances and I wasn't about to let this one go.

As I descended the stairs to the "N/R/Q/W" platform at 42^nd Street, I remembered the bearded homeless man I had seen there on several occasions, and I wondered if he would be there again. As I made my way toward the end of the platform I have to say that my heart raced a bit because I anticipated seeing him there, sitting on the bench, smoking one of those little Dutchmasters cigars, the hair on his upper lip stained from the tar. The universe didn't disappoint because he was there, as if waiting for me.

The "N" pulled up and I could have taken it, but it didn't even enter my mind. I was going to engage this man in conversation. I walked up and stood in front of him, smiled and nodded. He returned the smile and nod.

"Yep," he said as he exhaled a long stream of smoke. "Got no other place to go, and it's not too cold down here."

There was another man sitting next to him and I remembered him being there the other times.

I introduced myself and got their names. The bearded one was Steve. The other guy, a large man with several jackets on and a few vacancies in the tooth hotel, was Jimmy. He was actually the more talkative of the two, and when I asked what they were doing there he told me that the usual shelter they went to behind Port Authority on Ninth Avenue was closed tonight, so they were hanging out in the subways, avoiding the cops.

"They put out some nice meals there," Jimmy said. "Three times a day, sometimes. And they got chess and pool."

He then asked me what I did for a living. I told him I was a writer and he nodded as if that was okay by him.

The "R" pulled up, but I wanted the express, so I was happy to see it wasn't coming so soon. Any other time I might have been a little impatient, but not tonight. I was finally talking with these people, not feeling awkward or reserved. We opened up to each other and talked for a little while longer about life, the universe, and everything.

"Some of the shelters are pretty bad," Steve said. "You get these kids that don't come in until midnight or one o'clock, and they're really noisy."

"I sleep in the Port Authority a lot," Steve continued, "mainly on the third floor. If you sleep upright, the cops'll just stop by and ask if you're all right. They pretty much leave you alone."

The thing I noticed about these men was their hands and eyes. Their hands looked like worn leather. Their eyes told me that they hadn't had a true restful sleep in a long time. I was thankful for my warm bed that waited for me at home. Sometimes I wish I had a bigger apartment. Tonight I was just glad to have any place at all to call home.

The "Q" pulled up and I could have stayed longer, but I felt it was time to go. I didn't get their entire stories, just how they survived from day to day, from shelter to shelter. It was enough for now. I know I'll see them again and we'll remember each other.

During our brainstorming session that night, Vakasha and I had talked about duality - how we as humans set up binary oppositions between ideas and people. There's good and evil, clean and dirty, patriots and terrorists, Coke and Pepsi. But what it comes down to is that it's all cola - there really are no differences when you look at the bigger picture.

The spark for this conversation came from listening to Pink Floyd's song "Us and Them" from the album Dark Side of the Moon. When we break it all down, rather than human beings have a spiritual experience here on earth, were all spiritual beings having a human experience. There is no separation left to maintain anymore. It's time to stop the anger and bring in the love. There is nothing separating me from the homeless men on the 42^nd Street platform.

January 30, 2004, 7:38am - Uptown "4"

I'm not used to taking an early morning train, but I had to substitute on the Upper East Side. I had no idea how to judge how long it would take to get there from the East Village, so I tried to leave myself enough time. I don't like being late, especially for the first day at a new school. First impressions. In fact, I'm pretty uptight and anal about being punctual. That's just me. Other than that, I'm pretty much go-with-the-flow. Except when I'm cooking for someone and he/she is late. Or if I say, "Meet me at 7," and a friend shows up at 8. Fashionably late by 15 minutes is understandable, but not an hour. I just don't think its that hard to be on time.

It's very quiet in the mornings on the train. Other than the rustle of newspapers, an occasional cough...silence. A woman dropped a penny and I could have sworn I heard a dull thud on the floor. Not the usual chatter of an afternoon of shuttling around the city.

The train hit some kind of curve really hard after the Grand Central stop and I lost my balance, falling into a man, who like most people, was bundled up in a puffy jacket. I bounced off the down feathers in his coat, but he grabbed my arm and steadied me, smiled and laughed softly. I laughed, too. It was the only sound on the train.

I thought of making some kind of comment, but I didn't. It wasn't necessary. Sometimes the eyes say everything that needs to be said.

There are the rare moments when I have that physical contact with people that can be a bit unexpected and jarring. The man wasn't fazed at all. Neither was I. I brush by people all the time, elbows knocking, stepping on heels. There's also that occasional hand that slips down on the pole and touches another hand. I think people get used to that kind of contact/connection.

After I got off the train at 86^th Street, I got more bumping and pushing than I really wanted for that early in the morning. I had five minutes to get to the school and in the middle of the stairs, halfway to the exit, all movement ceased. Everyone kind of looked at each other. Some sighed and shook their heads, while a few other people with whom I made eye contact just smiled and shrugged as if to say, "Hey, what are you gonna do?" We take the subway so we don't have to drive a car, and yet we still have traffic jams underground.

I have found that place inside of me that is centered in moments like these; when I can sit back and say to myself, There's nothing I can do about this situation, and getting upset, angry, annoyed, isn't going to do me a bit of good, so just chill out and laugh at it all, because it all really is quite a joke.

I create my reality around me all the time. If I don't like New York City subways or the crowds, I don't have to live here. I create the frustration. That doesn't mean I still don't get annoyed now and then.

Like cattle we began moving again, up the stairs to daylight. I made it to school just in time. In fact, the woman who had to check me in was late. Everything for a reason.

January 30, 2004, 3:16pm - Downtown "5"

School was fun. It's wonderful to work with children, especially in kindergarten. It gives me a different and colorful perspective on the world a world that once again is filled with wows of wonder. Actually, it takes me back to my child's mind that's still somewhere inside of me. I feel like I live with that mind a lot, but I sometimes need that prompt. Kids are a spark, a reminder that no matter what happens in life, never, ever forget to spin around, if for no other reason than to get dizzy, flop on the floor and watch the room twist back and forth.

On the train back to home there were four Asian kids bunched together on the seats, playing cards. I'm not sure what the game was, but it was played almost as fast as a speeding train. The one kid, who looked like he was ten but had the beginnings of a mustache (most likely from hormones in milk), had won $5. From the sounds of it, though, I don't think any of them ever really paid up.

Then I got an idea, in addition to renting out subway cars to retailers to sell their wares to straphangers, with Pataki's new interest in gambling to invigorate the New York State economy, the MTA should take a few cars on each line and make them into gambling cars. That way, on the way to work, people could play blackjack, spin the roulette and roll them bones. If they win, then they might be able to take the day off, if not, they'll have to work overtime. The MTA could take a percentage of the profits, charge rent to whatever mob runs the gambling, and fares could be twenty-five cents.

January 25, 2004, 1:35p.m., "F" Train to Manhattan

I had to interview two guys for an article about a book they just wrote. Id never been to Forest Hills, Queens, but its nice to have a little adventure, especially on a Sunday when there isn't much to do. I had my iPod and notes to go over, so I was set for the return ride home.

A woman suddenly stood up rather feebly African-American, looked to be in her late 70s. She started preaching, so I took off my headphones and decided to listen. The notes could wait. It was Sunday, so why not have a little sermon?

She talked about a vision she had of hell and how that scared her to salvation; how she accepted Jesus Christ as her own personal savior; washed in the blood of the lamb.

In my vision I didn't see flames lapping up at peoples bodies, she explained, it wasn't really a lake of fire, it was more like meat on a grill people was smolderin.

She found an audience in me and told me that we were all fallen angels that could find a place in heaven once again through salvation. She said that she was an angel now and it was her mission to spread the word of God to people along her every day travels.

For fifteen minutes she told a completely circular, well-rehearsed, but heartfelt testimony of her soul-searching, repentance and salvation, ending it with a call for all on board to accept Jesus. A few people listened now and then, but most ignored her. Maybe they'd already been to church, or maybe they were atheists.

We slowed down to 14^th Street and she looked at me hard, saying, You can be an angel of God, too.

I wondered if she meant that the guy was God ready to take her to the choir invisible, beyond the pearly gates to meet her savior in heaven.

The 2^nd Avenue stop was coming up. When I got off the train of doom and gloom and damnation from this woman’s very lucid diatribe, I found the other extreme of religious fervor Hari Krishnas dancing, banging drums and tambourines, singing their hearts out. It was a nice balance to a bitterly cold Sunday.

January 24, 2004, 10:23 am - Downtown "2" to "Q" to "L"

I decided on a serpentine journey from the Upper West Side to my home in the East Village. I could have just taken the "2" from 72^nd to the "L" at 14^th, but that would have been too quick and easy, so I made my exit from the "2" at 42^nd Street and made my way to the N/R line.

There was an Asian musician playing some kind of electronic clarinet/saxophone on the "N/R" platform. A little girl and mother stood in front of him while he played Beethoven's Für Elise. The girl was enraptured by the song and the man seemed to be playing just for her, smiling the whole time, his eyes locked with hers - two people sharing a moment in New York.

An older woman and her 20-something daughter stood on the platform in matching down, puffy, ankle-length black coats. They looked like twins, only thirty years apart in age.

I'm trying more and more to be observant of the world around me, to look at the cracks in the sidewalks, the ice glistening on tree branches, the mouse crawling away into some dark recesses under the tracks. Life is constantly taking form all around me.

By choice I cram myself into a shiny metal box on wheels with forty other people and we are all having a moment together. There are forty different stories going on at the same time, even down to the simplest story of a father thinking, 'I have to pick up my kid from school', a woman getting off from work and finally being able to read her new mystery novel, an old man who gives up his seat for a young girl.

I missed a moment tonight and I never want to have to say that again. I should know better. Why haven't I learned by now? It's the second Saturday in a row that I've seen this particular homeless man sitting in a seat on the 42^nd Street platform. I assume he's homeless, but I don't know what else to call him. He has lots of bags and smokes little cigars, not really giving a tinker's cuss about smoking laws. Most of his shredded wheat beard is white and long, but the hair above his lip is brown from the nicotine and tar.

Last week I nodded and said hello to him. He returned the smile and nod. Tonight I passed by him and wanted to stop, but for some reason I didn't. It could be that the "Q" was pulling up, but I could have waited for another train. I could have asked him his name, gotten his story - had a moment.

January 22, 2004, 11:32 am - Downtown "F" Train

I've seen lots of people selling stuff on the trains and in stations batteries, CDs, bootleg DVDs. For the first time today I came across a woman walking from car to car with three burdensome Gap bags, selling three towels for $5 and two slippers for $5. I wasn't sure if she meant that you got a left and right slipper for the money, or if it was two pairs. When I asked her, she shot me a face composed of a raised eyebrow, twisted mouth, and without even a slight upward turn of the lips said, "Honey, what do you think?"

I thought she was crazy for trying to sell that kind of stuff on a subway. Who would buy towels on a train? Two women did, and another one bought the slippers (2 pairs for $5).

As if she had forgotten, the woman quickly reached into her purse and pulled out what looked like scarves.

I think the MTA should rent train cars to different vendors. One day on my subway travels, I might need a bottle of water, a pair of socks, gloves, maybe even a last minute gift of a candle or flowers. There could be little booths inside the car. Other larger retailers like The Gap, Kenneth Cole, Bath and Body Works could rent cars entirely on their own. With these rentals, the MTA would increase revenue and be on their way to lowering the fares back down to $1.50. They should get more creative like this to find monetary solutions to what seems to be their perpetual fiscal crisis.

January 21, 2004, 12:30 am - "4" Train to Manhattan

I went to the Board of Education today to renew my substitute teaching license. I've never used it. I want to have it just in case I get the courage to accept a sub job and stand in front of kids I don't know. It sounds scary, but it might be fun.

I took the "4" Express back to 14^th Street and couldn't believe what I heard. It must be the newer trains the - ones that are still shiny and have the automated voices mainly on the "1/2/3/9" and "4/5/6" lines. The brakes released and the train played the first three notes of "Somewhere", like I heard last week at 72^nd Street. I realized I was wrong about the number of notes - it's not four, but three notes still conjure the song in my head. It was nice, but maybe the MTA could get the trains to play the first few notes of something else for a change.

January 17, 2004, 9:32 am - Uptown "N" Train

Some days I'm not in the mood to deal with all the noise in the subway. Sometimes it's just a cacophony of aural assault. I bring my iPod with me on these days when I just want music and no screeching brakes that shake the very marrow in my bones, like metal fingers down a chalkboard; I didn't want to hear crying babies, supplications for money, incomprehensible announcements of "due to a prior incident" - nothing except the random mix of music coming through my headphones.

My iPod makes me feel a little removed from the whole subway experience, as if the music separates me from the world because its my world, in my head. Like when Men At Works "Down Under" plays and nobody else knows why I'm smiling nostalgia for a classic from the early 80s. But that's what I wanted today.

I transferred at 42^nd Street to the Uptown "2" Express then got off at 72^nd Street for the "1" or "9" to 86^th. It was too cold to walk the 14 blocks to my friend's place.

My iPod died just in the middle of a Bach Partita and the sound of the city crept back into my head. I felt like a subterranean Quasimodo as the downtown "2" across the track screeched to a stop, but instead of yelling, "The bells! The bells!" inside my head I saw myself hopping around with my hunchback, covering my ears, lamenting, "The brakes! The brakes!"

Then something unusual happened. The "2" train played a song, and it wasn't the automated voice followed by the happy ding-dong of closing doors. I believe it was the brakes being released - I'm not really quite sure. I waited until another downtown express train stopped across the way. When it pulled away, the same thing happened - the same song.

It was only four notes and Leonard Bernstein must have had something to do with it. The train, in what seemed like perfect pitch and tempo, played the first four notes to "Somewhere" from West Side Story. It really did. "There's...a...place..." for popped into my head and that was it. The last note hung in the air, wavering, then trailed off with the sound of cars rattling.

I discovered today that besides musicians, the trains have now decided to make music. It made me want to hear the rest of the song, so when I got to my friend's place, I found a Broadway songbook and played it on the piano: "There's a place for us, somewhere a place for us." Somewhere in the city, a train was playing the same song.

January 15, 2004 9:23am "M" Train to Brooklyn

I had an interview this morning at a charter school in Brooklyn. I think I want to be a teacher. I figure I can see if I like it by being a teacher's assistant. I don't know. One of those crossroads in life is coming up the kind with a fork of decision in it.

I always get a little wary about leaving Manhattan. Brooklyn and Queens don't make sense to me. I guess because they're not really in a grid pattern that I can easily understand. It was snowing and 10 degrees. I like this weather.

I walked down Avenue A to Essex Street to get the "J" or "M" train to Flushing Avenue. I had no idea what that meant I was just following directions the principal's secretary gave me. When I got into the station I didn't know which side of the tracks to be on. I found it a bit confusing - there's no uptown or downtown description, just destinations, which mean nothing to me.

I asked for help from a woman who was reading The Da Vinci Code, a book I read recently (synchronicities happen every day if I'm just open to seeing them), and she assured me that I was on the right side of the track for Brooklyn.

The "M" pulled up and I slid into the car. The only other person was a guy who looked like the Michelin tire man holding a huge basket of flowers. With all these big, down jackets people are wearing now, they all look puffy. For some reason he seemed a little embarrassed about carrying the flowers.

We suddenly emerged from the tunnel and were above ground. I like being on an elevated train. Looking back I saw a breathtaking sight of the city wrapped in a cold blanket of white swirls. Snow gives the city a muted quality, telling everyone to slow down, you're moving too fast. Snow gives New Yorkers a welcomed respite. It should snow more often.

We reached the Hewes Avenue stop and the conductor's voice came over the PA. Somewhere in the garbled mess were the words: being held.

You would think with technology that allows me to call someone in Europe on my cell phone, NASA intelligence that can put a rover on Mars, and GPS tracking that can tell me where my parent's car is within two feet of their location you would think the MTA might have a PA system that actually works. I think they do it on purpose, like its some kind of tradition to aggravate stranded commuters with indecipherable messages. Like The Da Vinci Code, MTA announcements may be filled with cryptic clues to some ancient mystery.

As I was thinking all this a woman walked in from another car and stopped in front of me. Ever since I've become more open to talking with people on the subway I must be putting out some kind of energy, like a big neon sign has been attached to my head that blinks in red: "Talk to me."

"I wonder what's going on?" I think she said to me, but she was looking around at nobody in particular. And then she sat down next to me. She was bundled up so tight from the waist up that she looked like a tick about to pop. Below, she only had on a pair of baby-blue sweatpants.

The flower man looked over and seemed to snicker as if he knew what I was in for.

I'd say that I've met quite a few people in my life so far, but never someone that talked as fast and as long as this woman. I was trapped in a tornado of words as she told me about her job as a preschool teacher and a litany of information, something like this: "I was forced to resign from my last teaching job, the principal was trying to destroy my career, I wasn't sure if I was going to work today, but my by boss called me and told me I had to, but it's so cold, I can't believe it, but it'll be great because by the time I get there the kids will on naptime..."

By this time I just settled in and smiled I couldn't be angry because maybe she just needed someone to listen.

"...when I got out of bed there was a snowbank outside my window because I live on a side street, oh, isn't it cold, I wish they'd shut the doors, oh, there's an MTA guy, go ask him what's going on, when are they going to shut the doors, I wish we would get going."

I couldn't get a word in except for an occasional "uh-huh", "oh, wow", and "that's too bad."

After 10 minutes I knew everything about her and I didn't want to know any more. The doors closed and we continue on our way. After another 10 minutes we made it to Flushing Avenue. I told her it was nice having her talk to me and to take care.

I think she had a lot more to tell me because she looked disappointed at my departure.

January 15, 2004 10:45am "M" Train back to Manhattan

On the way into Brooklyn, because of my talking companion, I didn't have a chance to notice the stained glass at the stations on the "M" and "J" line. At Lorimer there were vibrantly colored stained glass flowers, including a sunflower bursting in orange with others along the length of the platform. I wonder if people notice them. The Hewes Avenue stop also had wonderful patterns that caught the light and made it dance. There were some complex overlapping geometric designs and circles at the Marcy Avenue stop.

I smiled at one woman and said, "It's winter. It's January. It's supposed to be cold."

January 9, 2004 - 11:14am - Eastbound "L" Train

Doing this diary is really opening me up to talking with people. As a writer, when I'm on assignment, I force myself to talk to people, but most of the time when I'm out and about I smile and say hello that's the extent of my contact with passersby.

But now that I'm writing about my time on the subway, I feel I should actually have new experiences by initiating a conversation, or taking one a little farther to find out more about a person. There are fascinating people here in New York City. I pass them all the time and now understand that the subway is the perfect opportunity to meet these people. I've met a few duds, too, who would hardly give me the time of day, but each subway trip has become a whole new adventure to find out who I'm going to meet next.

Betty lives in the East Village, right in my neighborhood. I've never seen her before, but she's been there ever since she moved from Augusta, Georgia in 1958. She still has a bit of a Southern drawl, looks to be in her early 70s, and is short with white hair. It's been so frigid out that I could barely see her face peeking out from amongst the scarves. She looked like a little cherub sitting there on the "L". She also had a great button on her jacket a big cowboy boot stepping on what looked like a tree. Bold black letters declared: Smush Bush!

"I like your button and I hope we can," I said to her, pointing at the button, instigating a conversation.

My friend Kenneth told me that the easiest way to start a conversation with someone is to complement them on something they're wearing, their hair, their bag, whatever you see that you know the person took the time to purchase and adorn themselves with.

We started talking about how the democrats are making asses out of themselves on TV, fighting with each other, not giving a good image to moderate people who may be swayed to vote against Bush this November.

"The next four generations are going to pay for what he's doing to our country and the world," she said. We talked more about how the economy wasn't getting better except for the rich who were getting the big tax cuts, jobs were scarce, and all the other things that Bush has managed to mess up in only three years. Sometimes I think I complain too much about the government, but it's my right as an American to do so.

We got off the subway together at First Avenue and walked down 14^th Street to the post office. It seemed that our paths were going in the same direction for a little bit of our lives.

While we waited in line at the Stuyvesant Post Office she went on to tell me about Marguerite Lopez, our local East Village congresswoman who actually lives right on my corner. I should go meet her. Betty also told me about a meeting coming up with local democrats who are going to talk about strategies to win next year's election both locally and nationally. I gave Betty my card and told her to email me about it.

A lady in line behind us yelled to me that I should go to the window that just opened up. I told her to wait a second and laughed with Betty at people's absurd sense of impatience in New York, as if that extra five seconds while I say good-bye to a new friend is going to make that much of a difference in the big scheme of time and relative dimensions in personal space.

Betty seemed like such an aware and active pip of a woman. I'd like to have her energy and belief that change is still possible. I want to believe that Bush wont be re-elected. Maybe it's time I did something pro-active on a local level and stopped complaining about the political system. For now I'll wear Betty's button and go to a meeting to see what it's all about.

I believe that if I remain consciously open to new experiences in my life, to new people, new ideas, then a life that I never knew possible will spread its wings and take me on infinite journeys.

January 7, 2004 - 3:35pm - Uptown "N" Train

In the past couple years, it seems like more and more mosaic tile work is showing up all over the city subway stations. I'd like to know who does this. I'm going to find out. I wonder if its the same artist.

The work is really exquisite. I rush by it a lot at different stations. There are some exceptional works along the "N" and "R" lines. Next week I'm going to ride around and make stops at all the different stations with mosaics and then write about them.

A Latino man wore a hat with "Life is Good" embroidered on it. I pointed to it and said, "Bueno." He smiled and nodded. I wonder if I'll ever see him again.

January 5, 2004 - 3:35pm - Downtown "N" Train

A friend of mine was in town today and wanted to go up to Rockefeller Center, see the tree, hoof it around Fifth Avenue and look at things we couldn't afford. Even though it was after Christmas, the tree still looked quite awesome and beautiful. I wondered when they take it down and what happened to the mammoth piece of wood and needles. Maybe there is a special place in tree heaven for Rockefeller Center trees.

We were both thankful that the pre-Christmas crowds were gone and we could actually walk down Fifth Avenue without being trampled by hungry consumers from Long Island and New Jersey dragging their screaming children behind them.

After a bit of shopping without buying we got on the downtown "N" train at the Fifth Avenue station, one in which I had never been during my five years in NYC. When we sat down I was relieved. I feel like an old man sometimes. I'm only 31, but I'm not used to the walking around. My knees ached a bit and my lower back hurt. They should have chiropractors on platforms giving 5-minute adjustments for $10.

There weren't too many people on the train. Suddenly, the door at the north end of the car opened, the screech of tires echoed clashed in my ears, and a man walked in singing some song about chariots, trumpets and God. The door closed and his voice filled the car with sweet music. I'd seen him many times on different subways.

After his song, I gave him some change and decided I should talk to him. I usually avoid striking up conversations with subway musicians, vocalists, artists. I don't know why I do this. Actually, I do know. I'm usually in too much of a rush to take the time and just ask the woman who just serenaded me with an aria for her name, or where the Asian flutist learned his craft, or how long the kid that plays those Rachmaninoff piano concertos in Times Square station has been studying. That reminds me of this blind guy, always in a white shirt, black pants, who plays the most divine violin, each song perfectly timed to the duration of each leg of the subway's journey. I haven't seen him in a while.

"My name is John," said the singer while he waited for the next stop. He smiled. "I've been doing this for 10 years. This is my job, this is what I do, it's how I make my living."

I got off with my friend and John at Union Square station. John hopped across to the "Q" Express train that had just pulled up.

I forget sometimes that I'm not the only one in the world, that there are other people who are struggling, trying to pay the rent, and at the same time live their dreams.

John likes to sing. It makes him happy. It made me happy and brought some light, love, and music into a quiet and sedated "N" train.

Tim Steffen is a freelance artist and writer. To learn more about Tim and to see his illustrations and read excerpts from his children's books visit www.timsteffen.com. To view his resume and writing samples, please visit www.home.earthlink.net/~timsteffen.