I remember vaguely sitting in my literature class reading a book of poetry from the poet laureate of San Fransisco. Before him we had read some other poems by a Japanese woman describing her life growing up in white America. And before that were the beat rhythm words of an African American woman strolling through New York City. To me it was absolutely boring. To my teacher is was a journey through deep intellectual chasms of meaning all enveloped by the same urban theme. Somewhere in all of her ramblings I picked up that every book of poetry had at least one story or line regarding the subway. Whether it was the station or the cars, or the dirty bums, there was always something. At the time I thought nothing of it.
Years later I'm standing under the armpit of a large smelly man in a ridiculously crowded subway car during my usual trip to work. Helplessly I'm trying to take short breaths to avoid the stench of what I think is soup, when a miracle pocket of space opens up behind me and I squeeze against the wall hoping the air will smell fresher there (although nothing is really fresh in a subway car). To my right a bunch of tired looking people are sitting in there own worlds and I glance over to study their faces. There is always a wide variety of faces on the T, and it never ceases to amaze me that no one person is the same. In the corner a young man is ready Ayn Rand's "Capitalism". He looks serious and well-put-together, like he knows where he is headed in life. I squirm to get more comfortable and receive an elbow in the ribs from the large woman beside me. She apologizes without looking at me and I grunt a little.
It's then that I got a good look at smelly man in front of me. He's young, college age, probably unaware of the concept of a shower and wrapped in an expensive-looking scarf that did not match the rest of him. He was peering down into a pamphlet that read "Yoga: Body and Mind Control". I think I must have rolled my eyes without realizing it. I recognized that very pamphlet from a moment with a homeless man who tried to sell it to me as a book of secrets for a buck. He said it would enlighten me and teach me to meditate. Apparently that wasn't as important to him as a dollar bill.
For a moment I'm distracted by two girls who crawl through the mass of bodies to my left. They are obviously college kids talking as if the rest of the world doesn't exist. Apparently they were describing the various lobes of the brain...temporal, longitudinal, something something. It was all very educated but sounded oddly juvenile coming from the two of them.
Instantly I felt trapped, suffocating with the stench of soup and body odor, and surrounded by the future of the world. My head was full of words and I wonder if anyone there had a clue what life was all about. Human being have got to be the dumbest species in the world. Even an ant knows its purpose and does it without question. Humans, on the other hand wander from path to path and question everything. We invent ideas and believe everything, and nothing.
The smelly man turns the page and furrows his brow. I wanted to scream at him that it's all a bunch of crap. He seemed genuinely perplexed and intrigued as he turned his pages into some wondrous world of hogwash.. I wondered, if I were to create a religion where we worshiped only colors and meditated on the color wheel for answers to the meaning of life would people read my pamphlets? Sadly I believe they would read anything as long as it meant they could get something out of it. People won't believe in God but they will believe in themselves...controlling their minds and bodies to some higher plain of nothing.
I sighed heavily. The subway is an exhausting place. All of these ideas and concepts and meanings squeeze into a tiny metal box to form a tightly woven knot that smells like soup. It was just too much. But once out in the open air I got the feeling that my literature class poets were on to something. I had spent the last 30 minutes contemplating the mysteries of humanity and I didn't even realize it.
