Skip to primary content

Iris | Apr 18 2004

Waiting for the train, I like to pace. Sometimes I sit and read, but more often I pace, pacing but a short way, perhaps the distance between three or four poles. The reason I don’t pace further is that I like to remain within range of the optimum place to get on the train, given where the exit will be at my stop. I don’t understand people who don’t do this. What is it like to get on the train in a particular car and never consider the consequences of that choice, down the track?

Today, pacing, I noticed the tiles around the words Eastern Parkway. The subway walls in New York, if you don’t already know, have tile mosaics that spell out the names of the stops. These mosaics were created long ago, by forgotten people, and are routinely, numbingly, beautiful. The individual tiles, now faded, resemble irises; they have the same patternless pattern of colored flecks.

My eye was drawn to the S in Eastern. I noted how its curved edges were constructed from broken fragments of tiles. Once, long ago, someone stood on this spot and cemented all these tiny shards in place.

That’s all. While pacing I noticed some tiles and stopped to investigate. Then the train came.