Reading is Fundamental, y’all.

I saw a pregnant woman on the subway this morning. I was standing and tried to make eye-contact with her. If she looked at me I’d ask if she wanted to sit and then I’d see if someone would give up their seat for her.  There was something girlish about her though her hair was completely gray, cut right around her shoulders and she dressed like a woman not a girl. In one hand she held a cup of coffee, in the other, she gripped a bagel with jelly. I wondered if she’d be embarrassed if I asked someone to get up for her.

She ate the bagel like she was mad at it. But she didn’t look annoyed just ravenous. It was amusing, even arousing, and I imagined making a video of her. It would be a family joke for years to come.

But I didn’t know her so I just admired her eating the fuck out of that bagel.

[Photo Credit: jkingsz]

Enter light. And it was nice out this weekend as the clocks changed.

This morning I heard two women on the subway talking about the weather. One, in a Rosie Perez accent, said, “It’s supposed to rain tomorrow. They say it will be in the ’40s and chilly but I find it chilly today, dammit.”

[Photo Credit: Jamel Shabazz]

Still Diggin’.

There’s a slightly surreal quality to a subway station during the day when the light from outside falls inside–through a grate, or in this picture by our man Bags, through the stairwell.

The things around us are so easy to miss. This morning on my subway ride to work, though, I looked up from a magazine article and paid attention. First, uptown, before the train got crowded, a fat guy a few seats to my right, placed half of his Cuban sandwich on his left leg, the melted cheese almost touching his jeans, as he texted with both hands. And to my left, a trim, smartly-dressed guy who looked like he stepped out of a GQ fashion spread–skinny legs, red pants, no socks, black suede loafers with an ornate design. He sent a text, too, on a large Samsung smart phone.  Surprised to see a SoHo dude like that get on at Dyckman.

Later, a middle-aged mother–Russian, maybe?–and her two boys, both wearing brown coats, not older than ten, her arm around the young one, the one with glasses, pinching his cheeks, holding him close. And the scowling teenage girl wearing combat boots who fell asleep, her head leaning to the side, her face not so angry in sleep, revealing the tenderness of her age.

Then a woman sitting next to me, hard and firm, angling for position. I didn’t want to give up my arm location, established because I was there first. I was finished with the magazine but I didn’t lean over and put it in my napsack, resting on the floor between my legs, because then I’d give up my position and she’d surely take advantage. A stranger, no words, no recognition even, but engaged in silent combat.

Soon it was crowded and I couldn’t help but smile at the young boy with the small head who, packed in his huge coat, backpack weighing him down from behind, looked like a turtle. Or the tall girl with the pom pom on her hat that made her look six feet tall.

And when I got off the train at my stop, there was the short man with the small, tight mouth that I often see, though he’s usually with his wife, who also has a small, tight mouth. They remind me of people whose dogs look like them and it makes me wonder if people are drawn together for similar reasons. Passing through the turnstiles with a school of commuters, up the stairs, a pretty Asian girl wearing a North Face jacket and black tights is at the top of the steps waiting to walk down. She halts and waits. As I move by I turn my head slightly–though never is slightly so obvious when we’re talking about a man–shift my eyes and and take a look. Sure enough she’s got a backside that could stop traffic. Ass for days, the kind that makes men–or women, for that matter–do foolish things. But I don’t stop, I keep it moving. It’s just that I took a moment to notice.

Hizzoner…

Legs.

On the train last night. The New Yorker magazine vs. the New Yorker on a tablet.

Over at Flavorwire, dig Andrew Lynch’s minimal posters of subway lines.

Miss Subways on NPR. Listen.

I’m on the train the other day on my way to work. A woman I worked with almost twenty years ago gets on and stands in front of me. She doesn’t see me and I look down at my book because I don’t want to make conversation.

We weren’t friends but worked in the same restaurant for about a year.  Well enough to remember, long enough ago to forget. I read my book and then looked up, her crotch a foot-and-half away from my face.

We got off at the same stop. She didn’t look at me and I didn’t get the satisfaction of her seeing me but not being able to place the face.

[Drawing by Adrian Tomine]

More NYC history over at Narratively.

Last night I was waiting on the uptown platform at 103rd Street. There was a kid playing the guitar across the tracks and at first I didn’t notice him but then I couldn’t help but listen. He wasn’t playing a song just jamming. I waited for him to finish so that I could applaud. He was good. But he didn’t stop. So I saw that my train wasn’t coming yet and ran up the stairs, crossed over to the other side, ran down the stairs and threw a dollar in the kid’s guitar case.

“You are doing work,” I said.

When I got back to the uptown platform I was able to capture this just before my train rolled into the station.

Soul Surfer

Listening to that dude play made my day.

[Photo Credit: Frederick JG]

Over at Lenscratch…

dig this wonderful photo gallery by Robert Herman.

Life Photo Gallery of the subway back when.

It’s always fun when you see a dance crew on the train–so long as a flying foot doesn’t clip you by accident.

[Photo Credit: Humans of New York]

The classic.

Take the A Train.

Guy on the train next to me this morning. Paper folded the old-fashioned way. Don’t see that much anymore. Like my grandfather used to do. I asked him who taught him how to fold the paper that way and he said, “My father.”

He sounded apologetic. “It’s just the way I do it.”

I told him it was a beautiful thing.