The other day I get off the train and the path chosen went through a construction area. the roads were shut down, no automobile traffic existed, no honking, or motors reving, and it was amazing at how quite everything was. And I had noticed it at first, the pitter patter of peoples shoes, everyone was on their own course, their own path because it didn’t matter if they crossed the street now or in a minute when the ‘walk’ symbol was displayed, there was nothing there to watch out for. After getting closer to the end of the construction area, the noises started and the rythem of people was getting harder to decipher. The city drowned out what I was so enthrawled with and started up its own rhythm. I’m talking about cold hard machines giving their drivers the choice to choose their own path.
There is art in life all around us, no not billboards, magazine layouts, or Roy Lichtenstein. But the way that organic and non-organic matter is married. The swooping curves of power lines against the background of a tree line. The rhythm of people walking in masses down busy city sidewalks. Their heads bobbing up and down like a Wack-A-Mole, 50pts a hit, racking up the tickets for a toy that is worse than something out of a cracker jack box. Like drones marching to their desks at work, listening to their Kenny G or whatever on their headphones in their own world, missing out on the rhythm of everyday.