The cinephile in me wishes I was citing something by Jim Jarmusch. David Lynch. Ingmar Bergman. Alas, for this one, we're going with Penny Marshall and a vehicle driven by a pre-A list Tom Hanks. I can't help being swayed by what sways me and will not feel ashamed if this particular body of water is more Great Salt Lake than Angry Pacific. That's the sea and this is my boat.
That final scene of Big is remarkable. Not only did Marshall manage to show a grown man in an overcoat staring at young children and not evoke anything with the -pedo prefix, she made it sentimental. In this case, and on these days, I feel myself transported directly into the same heart chord as the protagonist. He's there, in the same physical space as the world he is witnessing, but he's removed. He's staring at a world that once was his and soon will be again. He's in a body that will soon disappear only to emerge some distant day in a different context. His timeline's been interrupted. His present is uncertain. The Big Damn World is just doing what it always does and pays no mind to the landscape of the displaced but all-too-present foreigner in its midst.
Yesterday I'm in Prospect Park for perhaps the final time as a resident of the borough of Brooklyn. There are a handful of joggers, a couple dogwalkers, a few tourists snapping photos of denuded trees. The sun is out, so there are some other amblers. It's a weekday morning and the air's got that late-autumn chilly snap to it, so it's no surprise that I follow some of those sinewy trails without seeing another soul. There's the empty green space where I ate mushrooms with friends a few months back. There's the knoll I rested on to read the New York Times with my ex-girlfriend and a thin blanket so many Sundays ago. I've covered that ground and my shadows are still out, nudging me into one final sense of appreciation. I've got my earbuds in, the playlist on shuffle, and somehow DJ Algorithm is hitting it just right.
O, to walk. The anonymity of New York City is frequently cited disparagingly. I have it as an asset on my ledger. I see the counterpoint, the whole idea of this being a heartless place what with all our ignoring of the homeless, the indigent, the star-crossed lovers we pass by unawares. But do these detractors see the beauty in sauntering with a soundtrack of our own designs, fodder to exercise our semi-conscious on the treadmill of self-reflection? Do they see the good of escaping into our own mind even as we stroll through overwhelmingly public places?
I'm all too aware that I will relocate to some strange place where people greet one another. Family, friends, strangers alike. There's something beautiful in acknowledgment of someone never before seen, if only to offer a Hot Enough For Ya. I'd file it under Community. But goddamn it's been beautiful to walk straight through the belly of the beast and have it leave me well enough alone. For all the talk about this place being heartless, it sure does seem to understand the concept of Me Time. And that I appreciate. Always will. And so I'll soak up a little bit more of it in between these Fare Thee Wells and goodbye dinners and soggy-eyed gatherings that pass for parties. I'll likely need it.
That final scene of Big is remarkable. Not only did Marshall manage to show a grown man in an overcoat staring at young children and not evoke anything with the -pedo prefix, she made it sentimental. In this case, and on these days, I feel myself transported directly into the same heart chord as the protagonist. He's there, in the same physical space as the world he is witnessing, but he's removed. He's staring at a world that once was his and soon will be again. He's in a body that will soon disappear only to emerge some distant day in a different context. His timeline's been interrupted. His present is uncertain. The Big Damn World is just doing what it always does and pays no mind to the landscape of the displaced but all-too-present foreigner in its midst.
Yesterday I'm in Prospect Park for perhaps the final time as a resident of the borough of Brooklyn. There are a handful of joggers, a couple dogwalkers, a few tourists snapping photos of denuded trees. The sun is out, so there are some other amblers. It's a weekday morning and the air's got that late-autumn chilly snap to it, so it's no surprise that I follow some of those sinewy trails without seeing another soul. There's the empty green space where I ate mushrooms with friends a few months back. There's the knoll I rested on to read the New York Times with my ex-girlfriend and a thin blanket so many Sundays ago. I've covered that ground and my shadows are still out, nudging me into one final sense of appreciation. I've got my earbuds in, the playlist on shuffle, and somehow DJ Algorithm is hitting it just right.
O, to walk. The anonymity of New York City is frequently cited disparagingly. I have it as an asset on my ledger. I see the counterpoint, the whole idea of this being a heartless place what with all our ignoring of the homeless, the indigent, the star-crossed lovers we pass by unawares. But do these detractors see the beauty in sauntering with a soundtrack of our own designs, fodder to exercise our semi-conscious on the treadmill of self-reflection? Do they see the good of escaping into our own mind even as we stroll through overwhelmingly public places?
I'm all too aware that I will relocate to some strange place where people greet one another. Family, friends, strangers alike. There's something beautiful in acknowledgment of someone never before seen, if only to offer a Hot Enough For Ya. I'd file it under Community. But goddamn it's been beautiful to walk straight through the belly of the beast and have it leave me well enough alone. For all the talk about this place being heartless, it sure does seem to understand the concept of Me Time. And that I appreciate. Always will. And so I'll soak up a little bit more of it in between these Fare Thee Wells and goodbye dinners and soggy-eyed gatherings that pass for parties. I'll likely need it.
No comments:
Post a Comment