The Landscape of Time: Reflected
It was early, 7:30am, I have been here eight weeks. Already I knew this was the time of day when the city is at its best. In many ways the streets are confused. What happened only hours before? Where have the countless faces gone in this flat light? All that is left are only remains, waste and reminders of the day past, blowing through the streets and littering the gutters. Memories lost, or not worth holding onto, drifting, floating only long enough to be swept away. Even the street sweeper can’t remove the petroleum sheen left, the shadow of extinction relived each day. There is a time when it is not quite dawn when the fear that it won’t pass stops you, and you wait. And as quick as that, the moment is gone, and a new day begins.

On this new day, fresh newspapers line the doorsteps. The coffee shops start their queue. And the flowers move from inside to out along the sidewalk storefronts. It is Saturday so the streets are empty. Save me. I walk MacDougal to Bleeker, slowly, as not to disrupt the easing in of new light and time. I have a love for this; it is now when I feel closest to this space around me. It is in this time I feel my own beginnings and my own dawn. In these mornings I find the deep fresh breath of life and embrace it.

It is mornings like this that are the only time I am able to get anything done, before the crowd or the confusion.. I am glad I’m not staggering home as some of the people I see surely are. My step is light and brisk and my eyes clear and afire. My world these days usually is limited to a ten-block radius around Washington Square. Today however, that will change. Today I get onboard the bus, I haven’t been avoiding it, I just have no need. The subway takes me where I go. Today will actually be the second time I have ever ridden the bus.

At the Stop I notice a park, it is the Time Landscape designed by Alan Sonfist. What strikes me is that it is a tiny island taken and inspired by the time before these streets, and before these people. Native plants, trees and flowers grow wild and free. Heralding from the time of the Canarsie tribe in the land of the Sapokanican. When I listen I can hear their voices, especially in this quiet, but I have to listen carefully because their voices are easily mistaken for birds, and wind.

Suddenly I am starting at the very beginning, this land is a new land and I am an explorer, this ride will take me the length of this island of Manhattan, of New Amsterdam. I am leaving Zantberg, or Greenwich Village, as it is now known, headed into the unknown, headed into the future. Starting at this very beginning. 
Suddenly, I am back reading the sign for Sonfist’s creation, back on this day, at this moment.  Set for me is a stage, I the audience, waiting to see the story unfold. As I stand and wait I fell connected, as I am now not only traveling a distance, but through time as well. I look at the low buildings around me and realize how very quickly the changes have taken place. This landscape has a progression and a development; I too have the same before me.

A bus is parked up the street idle, the driver asleep behind the wheel. I walk up West Houston to the next stop to make sure I am at the beginning and not the end of this ride. I then decide to ask the driver. When I ask him where I can catch the M5, he invites me on board.
“ Eight hours of sleep, and I’m still tired.”
“ Sometimes that happens,” I say.
I take my seat and we launch. I sit on the single side as I find the seats quite close and my frame incompatible. I am on board. I hold on as the wheels spin faster.

As we lumber up 6th, a distance I walk often, it passes in a blur. So many strides melt into one long blur, as if on ice and the images too fast to separate. Was I fully awake? Recognition washes clean through the points I see. That restaurant there, this street and that, all too fast in passing to truly absorb. But I sit and take it in, holding tight to the seat in front of me. We, the driver and I, have traveled forty blocks inside of ten minutes. Was it even ten? Probably more like seven. I am in a new stream swimming faster, moving faster, the landmarks; a connecting seamless string through space, across distance, over time. The buildings have grown to the near infinite of Midtown, looming high over-head scraping and passing through the limits of sight and perception. On we go and my progression continues. What is this place now before me?

We clear Chelsea in a blink and a flash. Until well into the fifties I am the only person on-board, and we don’t stop. I joke with the driver that he is my chauffer.
“ Get you where you need to go,” he says.
He is right. The streets are empty and the bus moves faster. What once took hours passes by in minutes. Time and space are changing before my eyes. This spot and that, here is this and there, that.

As we pass the Hilton I wonder if those famous sisters do actually live there, or not. I remember a meeting I had some weeks before with a family friend. We had burgers at a place I couldn’t name. He wanted me at Tuck, where he went, or HBS. I told him that wasn’t me. I’ve known him over twenty years, he was moving. He would become one of five people I know who have moved to California in the past two months. I think about this as the sliding continues, as the blur continues, connected by the string. The landscape is changing; as my landscape is changing. Time as the catalyst.

Space became linear, a shift from my experience. Almost exclusively, since I arrived,  I have traveled by subway. When I surface each place feels separate, on the bus, these spaces are connected, and I to them. Internally the map is being laid out, the grid a solution, and I floating in it, the cartographer. We move past Bryant Park and I remember my day there during Fashion week watching the people in costumes. Then past Rockefeller Center and I think of winter and skaters on ice spinning.

They are filming a movie on 52nd; the set is idle with big screens, bright lights, and a strong population of grips loitering. The window in front of me is open, letting in both the cool fall air, and the sounds of the city it is fresh and new. I see the fountain I had photographed when last here, it is a sunburst of water still.

We hit the park at CPS. The horses are lined up for the day, ready to meander, clop-clop, through the forested streets of the park. There are nearly thirty carriages this morning, triple the amount I have ever seen. I wonder what it is like for the horses to be here. All the horses I have ever known have always had space to run and dance and play. These horses don’t have that, and you can see it in their eyes, on their faces. I feel sadness for a moment, until I realize that maybe these horses have the best job going, better than even the racers for the crown. They were given the unique task of creating a perfect day for their riders. Where the thoroughbreds last maybe five years, these workers are out there for twenty, so maybe they are just tired. With this thought I feel better and we pass by.

In Columbus circle there is a Shelby Club rally, the noisy racecars are spread out by twos half way around the circle. As the light turns green there is a thunder that rumbles through everything in  sight. The obelisk reaches to the sky from its watery launch, a point in the echoing growl of combustion.

We skirt the corner and head further up. Was this half way? It was in my world, but it was only the beginning. They are building a new residence at 15 West; they start at 3 million for a single bedroom. I wonder if I would ever have 3 million, and then I wonder if I would ever spend that much for an apartment here. This was another world. Yes, this would be uptown. 

Julliard on the left at 66th, and though it isn’t audible I can hear the music swirling and spiraling upwards like a flame. Ahead are green lights to the horizon. By now the bus stops regularly. People get on, mostly on their way to church, or to Temple. Three stops in a row, an older guy, laden with bags, gets on and takes five minutes to gather change from various locations. Do these people not know they are taking the bus, or how much it is? I grew impatient and am surprised.

We then take a left and head to Riverside. Winding up through the trees to Grants Tomb. I have actually been in a few of the buildings along here and I note their passing. There are’t many single-family houses left, and none past 80th. We stop outside the Riverside Church, which could be the largest I’ve seen; at its side it looks to contain the world. A mother and daughter get off, the daughter is visiting Vassar next weekend, and very excited. I am again traveling through time, I remember the first time I was going to school, and then I remember the second, only just weeks ago. I remember what it is like to suddenly feel like you can see twice as far, as optimism and possibility dawn like a promise. 

At 135th we leave Riverside and head back in. We have entered Harlem. We are back inside, instead of just a flight on the edge. By 160th Spanish is the language of choice. It is definitely a great spot to get a good Taco, something I have been searching for. Had I had an actual metro card instead of just my single fare I probably would get off and search, but I don’t. It is hard to believe this is the same city. This is the unknown to me. I have once traveled to 125th on the “A” going up the park by accident, but I didn’t leave the station and I returned south soon after.

At Washington Heights the bus stops. This is the edge of the world, so it seems. Giant apartment houses loom far off into the distance. A new forest has been planted. I am surprised because I thought the route was continuous. I am on the southbound in a short minute, so in many ways it is. Because of my rush to catch the southbound bus, I miss my chance to say farewell to my first driver. This new driver is not as welcoming and wears no smile.

By this time people are out and about. We stop on almost every block. The bus fills, and my window is closed by someone who is cold. As we head south it is now more like a bus, and less like a tour as it had been. The trip uptown had been a mostly empty bus with a total of about ten riders. All of whom rode for only a short while. Coming back the seats are all taken by quiet tired looking faces. I remember the horses.

This shift in reality makes the return down Riverside less exciting. At Columbus Circle there are no Shelby’s and it seems to be just another day. Even the horses have gone, only a few are left waiting by the curb. This commonplace aesthetic changes, however, as we pass by 6th and go on to 5th.  I am most familiar with Fifth from every time I have ever visited New York. My time with my family spent walking the museum tour. I am surprised to see a white picket fence in front of the Trump Towers as we turn, some publicity stunt surely. I know these blocks well, though it has been awhile.

Through an announcement on the bus driver’s radio I learn it is Polanski Day and that the parade is starting at twelve, which is two hours yet. As we travel south the streets are lined with barricades for the next thirty blocks. Already there are people awaiting the parade. Two women get on as we leave turn the south-east corner, they have been riding, and their boots are well worn. The bus slowly empties of commuters as we head south. Three German tourists get on with the obvious reservation of where we are headed, my fellow passengers are quite helpful, they soon get off with a “danka”. We pass by the lions at the library. Two Russian women argue the price of the fare, but eventually acquiesce when they are assured they will get where they are going. At Union square; 5th turns to Broadway, and I am back inside my own ten blocks. The park is already filled as it often is. The market is alive with produce, and the stands of Art, T-shirts and sunglasses flank all sides visible.

In the blink of an eye we are back at Houston. Down past the Strand and Grace Church, past NYU and Bleeker to our start. As we get off I ask the women how their ride was. It most definitely was as perfect as I imagine, as I can see in their faces. The weather was ideal. The horses they had shared the morning with had certainly fulfilled their expectations.
“Quite wonderful,” she said with an aristocratic scowl. I gave her a smile because she needed one. I had returned

I am back at the Time landscape, and I’m not sure what has changed, but I am certain it has. I am now connected, as though the random fragments of time and experience have magically been aligned and the world has become whole. The fabric has been woven and knotted. My progression from then to now has been complete. My development is just beginning.