I take every chance of waking indulgement to chronicle the passing elder woman and her garb of pearls on 72nd and Central Park West to the after school digits tapping on knocked knees during train rides. In every tick and stampede and sight often ignored there is nothing more serene than sleep in the big city.

The innocence and sometimes vulgarity of falling asleep in public spaces is something that fascinates me. In an artsy anthropological sense of course. The summer season leaves for many horizontal torsos with backs to the sun and eyes closed to the sounds of men at play. That being one of  the masks that paint the city of Gotham. In their petty coat dressings + top hat now mom jeans + dads hat. The armor that one must at least know it exists let alone being able to assemble is crucial to the survival of the isle and her 4 sisters.  

We as New Yorkers walk, ride, run, shuffle, duck, trip, fall and stand still for a collective of hours. Our mornings whether freelanced to the wind or adorned in laden suit and iron regimes are pounded into the body like the brick and grey we call our playground. So in the seconds or long departures that it takes for the body to give in and the armor to fall, we are only ourselves. 

Pure and candid in the simplicity of our stillness. Removed from this world and into the candor of a dream or merely a blank canvas. If only for a moment, we relinquish our sheilds and take respite on the battlefield. Submerged in a couldron of personages and tastes that many of which are highlighted on the subway rides and the entrance and exit of. The dials on the social meter while underground are factors that one can not help but notice. The myriad in the masses all bear the same fate. Passing the f**k out on the A train thats running local on the F line for no apparent reason but to smite you. 

I, like most logical beings, take the subway when needed and relish in the access to here,  there and everywhere. I do not discriminate in my voyeuristic approach to public transit. I've seen them all.  An Indian family on the Q train with mom, dad, grandpa and the kids ( one with his hand still inside of a party size Doritos nacho cheese bag) leaning and supporting one another as the rocked in sync. The two strangers side by side, both alike in headphones, lost in their own soundtrack to the after 6pm decent. 

In the late 1970's into the 80's photographer Bob Mazzer left testimony to these idle tempers and brought humanity to the forefront of his lense. Framing metro patrons of the London Underground in their essence. Mazzer's photographs not only hold the subjects and surrounding Janes + Johns to a light of truth and human interaction, his images imprint the reality of shared connection. The contrast of urban hyrogliphics speeding as fast as the man made tracks and the slightly open mouths of those who slumber in solace is mesmerizing. 

he roads that divide within this epoch of instant gratification via technology and its hand around our pockets, the political degradation following the current administration and the constant passing tides of change within our species are but tags clipped to the sheep that we avoid to count. In all of our individuality as an earth species it is the natural that binds us and affirms the beauty of our kind.

We have ushered in the time of curated personality where the 15mins has been extended as long as your social network will allow. Taking our Kodak smiles and Coca Cola laughs straight to the source for endorsement and influence. The walls of fact and fiction are woven together to quilt our own reels of the post card worthy and diary mentions. The only fragments of truth we have left without aid of our surroundings are found in the blimps of traffic. When no one is thought to look someone is always able to see. The wayward ways of our upright and walking calendars and scribbled actions to expense are no match for the biological. We all have to stop at one point to tether the mind and reboot. Metropolis is by nature intense as f**k, and so worh it. 

Detail 2

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