michael-dean-k/

An otherwise simple walk to catch a train into the city had a dimension that I guess I’ll describe as “apocalyptic wonder.” I don’t mean that in the “end of the world” sense, but in the “unraveling” sense of the word. It was like every phenomenon—a passerby’s limp, a tasteless building, Broadway advertisements—came with a decision: I could see it with my usual categories, almost like through a foggy glass of analysis, or, I can imagine and wholeheartedly believe the most generous and profound interpretation possible. And when you inherit that 2nd option as a lens, it’s like one thing builds off another until there’s a cascade and you just have chills over extremely ordinary things. A grumpy commuter is not someone to judge, but someone deserving of parental love, and you imagine you and them as if you’ve been very close for a lifetime, and just for a second you infer some emotional dimension you would’ve never otherwise known. It very much feels Scroogish, like you’re a deadman with just one evening to remember life from its most charitable angle. I don’t know why I’m feeling this lucidity: could be a new surge of dad hormones, or the frigid weather, or the tie around my neck is too tight, or maybe this new frenzy of spawning new software to wrap around my problems is priming me to believe that I can just spin up my own mental frames to see anything anew, as I please, whenever. 

My friend Andrew, I imagine, would read this and joke that it’s a low-grade form of Claude psychosis. Maybe, but maybe the good kind? I’ve always thought there was something slightly off about seeing normal life with ecstatic wholeness, and that the line between psychosis and mysticism is thin. When LSD was first invented, it took them a decade or so to shift the framing from psychosis—they called it “psycho-mimetic,” a madness simulator—to psychedelic (“mind-manifesting), and eventually mystical, transcendental, entheogenic, etc.

I don’t know what it was, but now that I write this on the train, I’m right back in my regular head. And obviously I love writing, but it makes me think I really need to make sure I have chunks of boredom each day, non-linguistic moments in between things. Infant care sort of produces this feeling too, but it’s different because that is about fusing attention with another being; what I just experienced before was something like full immersion in a chaotic environment. Pure Horus. I guess I’ve found it hard to make time for this because, since time is so limited, there’s a pressure to prioritize and converge in the little time you have: I have a book to launch! (I will be announcing the essay prize winners in early March.)

Anyway I think I’ll post this to Notes. Usually I’d just post a riff like this to a secret corner of my website, but in January I stopped logging, and said I’d try to just use Notes as my public note-taker. So if I want to really remember anything, I have to share it. I think the idea of sabotaging the thing I love—capturing fleeting thoughts in prose—and forcing it through a habit of the thing I’m scared of—public judgment of my every idea through metrics—is a good principle to do more often. It’s weird to take something that really is more like a journal entry and open it up to strangers. I’d basically be okay sharing this with anyone I know, but it make me anxious to think a stranger could find this, and this would be 100% of what they know about me, and they’d have no idea about Essay Architecture or whatever, but I think that kind of disregard is exactly what I’m trying to go for on Notes. If my email essays are on topic and polished and narrative building, then each Note should be its own thing, out of context, unrelated to the last one. And so I’m glad to share something like this after a shipost about snakepit.

The other night, a cohort of drunk teenagers were screaming the lyrics to "Champagne Supernova" on a quiet train, trying to get a sober passengry to sing along at 10:45pm. At first, this looks belligerent. It was belligerent, but I tried not to judge, and instead imagined them as supremely wise beings, uniting in song and joy, with an inner knowing that this moment won't matter to anyone else (and might not even register to the majority, scrolling with headphones). Outside of this log, everyone will forget their judgment in a few weeks, and we'll flatten them into a caricature of youth. But to them? Maybe they'll remember this on their deathbed. Two of them could get married. I wondered how my life might change, for the better, if I were as careless and inconsiderate as them. I started singing along the lyrics in my head, because I liked Oasis once twenty years ago, and even imagined myself standing up and singing, being the bold #2 that gives the rest of the train permission to join. If that somehow erupted, no one would forget it. But they quickly changed to another song, and then another, and I didn't recognize any of them. Realistically, I would never do it. I'm too conscientious, mired in etiquette. Even though this just might be a band of idiots—possibly the same kids I caught running on the tracks a few weeks ago,¹ filming it, probably trying to go viral—I sort of envy their disinhibition. It's not that I yearn to be a menace, more like, I can't quite conceive how much I limit my life by deferring to the feeble opinions of others. Across the aisle, I saw a woman in distress, kind of over-dramatic, saying to the stranger next to her, "I'm going to complain to the conductor! This is horrible!"

Our last meal as pre-child adults was at Panera—something quick and light on the way to the hospital (plus she craved it)—and as we ordered our “pick twos” on a digital menu, I was struck by the beauty of a jazzy Christmas song that would have otherwise been extremely ordinary. It was “White Christmas” by Booker T and the M.G.s. My guess is that the stakes of an extraordinary moment—in this case, one of anticipation—can totally rewire musical taste (or preference in anything, really). Works that we attribute meaning to sometimes have nothing to do with objective qualities of the art, but in the circumstance in which you experience it. 

Four Santas at the edge of Bryant park, each with a bike carriage and $60 glow light speaker, each blaring a different holiday song, co-constructing a wall of cheer, a terrible cacophony that blends with traffic and engines on 42nd, and for some unreasonable price, you can take selfies for $100 as they lap the Christmas market. People must do this. Otherwise they wouldn’t come back. If I were an out-of-towner, and in a festive mood, I guess I could see the appeal of a postcard moment like this, of being ushered around the center of the world by the boss himself, it just feels a lot funnier and weirder when you know the same place on a cold January morning commute. I am not a Christmas cynic, I’m just struck by the novelty of the sight, and in lieu of a picture, this is what comes out.

A gloomy day, where smoke rising from tar blends in with clouds, and through fog I see men in orange vests, smoking cigarettes and adding to the blur. Traffic is backed up, there are honks, and a baby wails through an open window of an SUV. I am walking south on Bell, where pidgeons flock, and realize the enormous weight of everything, all before I enter this French coffee shop. Upon entering I twist out my own head, assaulted by audiovisual XMAS slop; dear god … can I have a sricacha caesar wrap and a London fog? I contemplate emails and henchman and billionaires and babies and such, and so when I sit, I try turning off my mind. The XMAS slop is back, along with the chatter of screaming kids, and the woman to the left of me yapping on a mobile zoom call in a foreign language, and the couple to my right speaking Greek. This is too much, so I look for peace at the marble tables outside, but when I look at the fake wicker chair, I notice it’s covered in worms and birdshit. I realize this is a pessimistic log, a chain of unfortunate events, but sometimes this is the way reality presents itself. And even if it feels fresh to occasionally write with cynicism, it’s not a place to live; the literati too easily withdraw from polite society and cocoon themselves in with their own cannon, drooling acerbic puss into the gutters of Substack.

I’ve lived in New York my whole life, but I have nothing to say about it. Meaning, in Manhattan at least, I have no recommended pizza spots, no bagel stores, no upscale restauraunts. Almost every out of towner I meet seems to know the city better than me. I am willfully and unwillingly, an idiot in my own home. I stumbled in and just gawk at the mystery, still, every time. I mean of course I know some trivial facts (like how the skyline mirrors the bedrock), and I show them off when I can so my national and international friends don't get suspicious. 

Really, New York is a metropolis, a city of cities of cities. Austin is equivalent to Astoria, just one of several downtowns in Queens, one of five Burroughs. And so you’ll find whatever you need here, meaning, aside from the obvious places, you can surrender to the city and get swept into some odd and novel experience each time (alternatively, you can get caught in identical loops, only going to the same places). When I was in the psychedelic society I found myself in Gowanus, Brooklyn in the apartment of a 70-year philosopher with cancer as he took LSD and hallucinated St. Teresa Avila. When I was trying to start a virtual reality company, I was in Zillow’s headquarters putting headsets on executives, telling them we’d “put Manhattan in a briefcase.” When I needed money, I walked the same path every morning through Bryant Park, to the same corporate job. Now, as I start a family, I’m in a suburb at the edge, moving a little farther east every 3 years, and now I take the LIRR in to meet traveling writers. After many years, you realize New York isn’t one thing. Your take on New York is a reflection of yourself at that phase in life, and the city changes a lot less than you do.

When someone tells me New York is this particular thing or that, they're telling me who they are.