Chock a Block.

So everyone knows that our existence lies on a dimension that is coiled around an infinity of others similar to our own but different in as many ways. All of these planes of existence lie tightly wrapped and slightly translucent, like that vibrant vegetable, so that it's hard not feel that with the right kind of light and the right way of looking, you can see into the next one.

There are some places where these dimensions lie so close together that to see the next one, you hardly need any light at all. Like, of course, in New York City.

For example, in my neighborhood in Greenpoint, you can find the land of the children. Twenty or so kids without the suburban luxury of furnished basements, their dramas play out on the streets. Clustered on sidewalks, playing cards, wrestling with a basketball, eying each other. For some reason, I can see them as clear as day, but they can't see me. Sometimes I stare at them, just because I can, because they can't tell. You know you have become old when you suddenly become invisible in the land of kids. In their world, the only visible adults are the ones who make demands on them. And so I walk right through their midst, dodging their balls and scooters, unseen. A full year on this block and it still surprises me. When did I become invisible? How has the shape of my face changed in age, losing its roundness, eyelids tightening with cynicism, fading into a transparency?

But this is New York, this is how we all have to live, piled up on top of each other, seeing only what we need to see, so we can have more of the space.


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