Standing in Doorways (SID) is a newsletter dedicated to essays and stories of lingering in those spaces on the margins and along the edges, where decisions build character and challenge notions of access and separation. You can read more about SID here. Subscribe below to follow! Thank you!
A fiery silk heat clings to me as the escalator descends into the tunnel. Behind me the cathedral roof, fitted with translucent panels, a portal to the evening skyline, is overwhelmed by the thick bronze-edge marble slabs of Moynihan. The brilliance of the stars blotted out by radiating light waves, matched only by the dalliance of the night made dull and sluggish by the mid-August heat.1
All of us on our way down hear the last echoes of the static electronic voice as it loses its human edge within the dissipating tones of life in the civilized world above: “Empire service to Albany now boarding on Track 5.” The words are transmogrified into babble by the reverberations caroming off the stone, concrete, and steel in the tunnel that winding, constricting, and rattling beneath the city.
I should pause to thank the Magnolia Bakery with its vide variety of delectable treats for the greasy fingerprints that tarnish the the sleek brass rails. Cookies and cupcakes and slices of cheesecake in caramel drizzle, with strawberry icing, classic New York style; and scones and cookies (did i already say cookies?…did i mention cookies made with bananas?…did i promote cookies made with applesauce?…did I say cookies?…did I say sexual tension?).
There is musty sweet smell coating the tips of my fingers from the velvet treat. I savor it and inhale deeply, my trimmed nail almost in my nostrils. And I wonder if I should risk giving the old hawk-tuah to my fingers just taste the residuals, knowing I had just touched the germ laden handrail—and me without my sanitizer for protection.
I notice a clear difference between the size of the patrons in a city bakery and a country bakery: the city walks off its calories city block by city block, sweating in suits and tight dresses and high-viz tee shirts and work boots, the country rides along its lazy lush green edges and slowly fills in the narrow roads.
Along the decent, the transition from the last grated metal step I remember most. One focuses intently as the faded yellow edges vanish: lift feet, lift the baggage on wheels, lift dangling clothing. All to avoid being sucked into the grinding machine gears of the moveable stairs, unaware of being sucked into a different machine, a social, economic, political machine.
The tunnel beast exhales its sharp caustic vapors and a dimple forked tongue penetrates the open spaces between shirt buttons, through form fitting undershirts, through sports coats and open blouses, through tank tops, tickling the blonde hairs clustered around nipples and thick dark strands under arms. Beads of sweat form quickly as I take that first step into some underworld.
The air is all stagnant, congested with stench and vibration; and it lingers—not like the smell of some velvety treat. Thick small flecks of dust and mortar continuously crumble beneath the footsteps of the surface dwellers scattering from the work-a-day world.
“Where you headed?” He shouts above the noise of the engine. His crisp white uniform is faded to a rumpled cream at this time of the day. His hat tilts awkwardly revealing strings of matted hair and sweat that stretch like old pealing wicker along his reddened face.
My own muffled words are inaudible at times to my own ears as I shout back.
He points down the track and says, “Albany, last car.” He moves on to the next passenger unaware of the anxiety growing within me at gap between the train and the platform, or in regards to the distance that will be closed by the person seated next to me, or how the emails I draft and the personal words I pen on my laptop will become public.
But it’s that spot just before I step out from the pageantry and majesty of the city, step away from a risk, and prepare to head back to life.
This place feels different today. The routine of going to and from the city that I once described gracefully feels like boredom and repetition today. I don’t remember any of the faces, the sounds or the smells, the blurred shapes passing by in yellow cabs, Tesla Ubers, blue and white Citi Bikes. I barely notice the variety of colorful outfits and accessories, the skin tones, and hairstyles, the click and shuffle of shoes and heels, or the LED lights—I remember the beautiful women as the pass, the whites of their eyes accentuating dark almonds. I turn my gaze as they pass, out of politeness I’ll say.
How fitting it is at the edge of the platform to pause briefly in the dissonance and experience a brutal pang of realization that this is becoming a routine rather than an experience. Down the tunnel the concrete and scaffolding, the lighting and polished tracks disappear into bland shades of grey and black. I still cannot remember which way the train is actually headed at departure.
I realized then I wanted to write about this image, and I was reminded of a small book written in 1934 by Dorothea Brande: Becoming a Writer. I first heard of the book while reading Ray Bradbury’s Zen and the Art of Writing (1996). It appears to me that Brande is the progenitor of the modern “How to” guide for becoming a prolific writer—assuming we don’t count Aristotle. The morning writing (pages), the agreement or the commitment for 15 minutes, the strategy of establishing topics for regular productivity, the use of separate spaces and tools for creative output (alright maybe she stole it from Woolf), and output and content as a strategy to develop a writer’s quality. She also states a grave warning to those unwilling or unable to meet the challenge of the daily trudge through letters, words, sentences, and pages by saying:
If you fail repeatedly at this exercise, give up writing. Your resistance is actually greater than your desire to write, and you may as well find some other outlet for you energy (39).
For Brande, exploring the multitude of voices and structures available in writing is the achievement of success. The critical eye is a secondary tier of reviewing and editing used as a tool for expanded theme and plot with clarity.
Standing at the open doors and feeling the compressed air of the other passengers rushing behind me, I am imbued with a critical eye that questions this routine, the stability of it, the motivation. How often does caution triumph over authenticity? Not just in the exercise of writing but in the exercise of navigating the hard, paved streets of living.
But as I prepared to enter through the doors of the train, spread wide for an embrace, it was only a type of boredom, combined with a congenial and risk averse decision that amplified my anxiety and halted my steps within that liminal space.
As the chasm widened and I prepared to step aboard the train that would pull me through the sarcasm of my 40’s, I paused and wondered what would it be like to grab another juicy red bite from the bakery and wander back out into the city without a map, letting desire command and resistance shuffle off along the platform.
If I ask Brande for help, would she? “For pity’s sake….set me a task”2 (24).
Alright last weird one for a while. I promise…I think….
Barth, John. The Tidewater Tales. Dalkey Archive Press, 1987.
The meta is so cool (yeah Woolf!). Really interesting to hear your process and the concept. And woah - these images:
“The tunnel beast exhales its sharp caustic vapors and a dimple forked tongue penetrates the open spaces between shirt buttons, through form fitting undershirts, through sports coats and open blouses, through tank tops, tickling the blonde hairs clustered around nipples and thick dark strands under arms. “
It felt like this ride where the words were already there and they emerge from your pen/fingers. Because the image is so strange but also so smooth at the same time.
“The air is all stagnant, congested with stench and vibration; and it lingers-not like the smell of some velvety treat. Thick small flecks of dust and mortar continuously crumble beneath the footsteps of the surface dwellers scattering from the work-a-day world.”
Really enjoyed reading this Brian. In these two sentences you make it sound like a dark underground lair with the people above unaware of what goes on below their feet, and yet the smell of the velvety treat wants to pull us back to the surface for more and, possibly, ultimately escape
“How often does caution triumph over authenticity? Not just in the exercise of writing but in the exercise of navigating the hard, paved streets of living.”
For me, this is also an everyday battle and one that I’m not sure I’m winning 🤔
Brilliantly done 👍🏼