PLACES TO HIDE

Prefatory Remarks:

This is not about "being alone."   People who have read this react by telling me, "Yes, S.E., everyone needs their 'alone time.'"   It causes a desire in me to strike them, hard.    Fortunately, I can control it.  But I do not control my sarcasm at their inability to be understand simple concepts or being able to see or understand beyond their own personal experience of life.

No, this essay is not about having, "alone time."   This is about hiding.   If your mind cannot grasp the difference and the significance therein, move on to an essay your mind can understand.  This one is clearly not for you.  

S.E.

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Hiding in the city is remarkably easy.  Not, as one might think, because of the crowds of people we normally associate with life in a big city or with what invokes a  feeling of loneliness in big city dwellers, but because when one finds a hidden, abandoned location, it is usually that way because people intentionally avoid being there -- that the course of normal activities of life (a normal one) for a city dweller keeps them far away from such places.   And so, one may hide there completely unseen and in relative safety.  

Having lived my whole life in New York City I have the rare knowledge of city life of 40 even 50 years ago.  What one remembers most from such remote times is that it was a quite different place and functioned in a very different way:  it was the world's greatest port, nature having granted it the perfect topography for such.   And so, if one sought isolation what leaped into the mind immediately was its remarkable waterfront.   

Alas gone are the days of the seedy docks, the lonely tugboats, and piers, the sullen and filthy saloons that one associates with a city port.   Here, particularly at night, one could find a spot of such total isolation that, with any sort of imagination, one could easily think one is in Shanghai, Cadiz, or any large port city in the world.   The smell of the ocean is virtually the same everywhere.  But the distinct advantage to the city port at night is the sounds of the harbor that can evoke extraordinary sense of distance and isolation.   All those years ago, the city still had a diverse and busy shipping industry, before the city was taken over by real estate interests (another story for another essay).  So there were always ships coming in and out of the harbor, the greatest natural harbor in the world, at all times of the day and night.  Horns, buoys, bells, etc, what you would find on any good sound effects recording called, "Sounds of the Harbor at Night," were all very real at one time.   No longer.  

The chief problem however, with hiding on the waterfront was one of personal safety.  It was, after all, the waterfront.   There was a price to be paid for venturing where you did not belong, where men from around the world entered the city, reluctant travelers, who worked hard and long on at ships often in great physical peril.   There world was not yours.   Especially at night. 

If one dared, the waterfront offered all this.

But those days, as I said, are gone and you will forgive me starting off with a piece of nostalgia, not practical at all for the business at hand.  But for me, the waterfront represented the glorious reality of what made New York, "New York."    The world of the waterfront, its atmosphere, was such an fascinating and rich one: the meeting place of commerce, industry, mercantilism, with the vulgar, brutal and frightening reality this meeting created.   It meant everything to the city to be a port and function like one, it was its raison d'etre and New York knew that it owed its existence to the fact that it was a port and so grew and lived out its life according to the will of nature, indeed, New York's harbor is a masterpiece of the workings of the earth itself. 

Sad that now it is a haven for number crunching, paper pushers -- Silas Marners, a new, genetically altered and disfigured breed of robber barons, far more barbaric and uncultured than their Victorian ancestors.   They, along with youthful "hipsters," vapid and empty-headed, who can only see the city as a playground for them to engage in all kinds of debaucheries (mostly drinking).   They could never recognize the city for what is truly is: the graveyard of a once great metropolis.  Or, at least, its symbol, for the city is truly "dead," and something ghoulish and ephemeral and without substance, has taken its  place.    These youthful bunch fail to see the great towers of chrome and steel as grave markers, the crumbling tenements and old mansions -- phantoms of a world they do not know nor could possibly understand, even if they had the spirit of interest, or intelligence to care.

Let us move on, then, from the long gone and forgotten piers of the city that no longer exists, and out, into the bright and oppressive sunshine of a midsummer's day, as there is nothing as isolating as oppressive heat and bright sunlight in a cement environment.   

At the right time and in the right conditions and in the right neighborhood the conditions of high summer this will present ample opportunity to grab some isolation quickly. An ordinary children's playground may suffice -- especially on a holiday, such as the Fourth of July.  On this day are many fewer people in the city, and those that are, seek the company of others, of friends or (more rarely) relatives stuck in the city.   They will not be sitting on hot, steaming, bench in a cement playground.  And since most families, that is, a husband, wife with children, can no longer afford Manhattan living, so there are many such open spaces that are left deserted on such a day.  One need only to bring along a book to read (or pretend to)  so as not to draw to much curiosity from a rare passerby.   There are usually benches far from the traffic of people anyway, where, in the unrelenting oppressiveness of the summer heat and humidity, one can feel a million miles from any possibility human contact.   You would be surprised.    

Industrial parks, or rather, the neighborhoods that surround them offer another sanctuary, during the day on a weekend, but especially at night.  Often a rather unattractive setting, these deserted streets and therein lay blank, dead, a lifeless world of endless cement sidewalks, where one could easily hear one's on footsteps and their echoes.    Here lie true isolation.  Busy and filled with noise during the day, these streets are dead at night.  And, if one so desires, a Sunday afternoon in the summer, offers a particular and unique desolation.   Heat beating on the sidewalks, the asphalt streets, both stretching out into the distance with no relief in site, and with no tree to afford respite from the heat by it's shade or to the eye by its green;  neither is there a diner just to step into for a moment.  No green, no people-- here is a true sense of utter lifelessness, and a quiet that is frighteningly  indescribable.   There is no traffic of any kind, no birds, bugs or scrub grass; certainly, no people, nothing.  A desert?   Yes, a kind of desert, but worse, because a desert offers the beauty of nature, or at least, of geology and earth's natural forces.   But these sidewalks were built for one thing and one thing only, to enable the operation of heavy industry.   Nothing else.  And aside from that you have no business being here, and it reminds you of that fact in every way at every second you find yourself there.   If you go there seeking a place to hide, you will be satisfied.  

And you cannot imagine the sense of absolute desolation such a place provides late at night in the dead of winter, with the freezing wind howling and perhaps, if you're lucky, a moderate snowfall.   No man in his right mind would be found there then, no man would have business there.    Except, to escape.  

Now should you be inclined to experiment in this setting you must be sure to dress properly.   One of these wintry, middle-of-the-night jaunts can be painfully cold.  Again, I speak from experience of years ago, before the horrors of gentrification, I would have gone out in the freezing cold, deep into the night, to empty and vacant streets of Red Hook, or Long Island City, or even the Bowery and adjacent streets.  If these excursions taught me one lesson it taught me this: always wear more than you think you'll need: gloves are a unconditional necessity as is a very warm hat, a scarf, and many layers of warm clothing.   Long underwear is a must, as are warm shoes.   You may find yourself, as I have, walking quite a distance from whence you started, as there is a tendency, under the right conditions, to become lost in time and space, to forget where and who you are.   (After all, this is one of the principle purposes of hiding, isn't it?)    On such walks, you may find yourself much further from your car or subway than you anticipated and believe me, the cold will try to get through you, into you, to kill you -- particularly if you begin to tire. 

(Now, you must keep an open mind while reading the remainder of this essay -- it contains material you will find no where else.   I already know that some of you cannot "hear" this or take it in, make it your own, or learn from it.   I understand if you cannot, although I lament for you if you truly seek the escape that brought you here.)

It is such a night --  a frozen, mid-winter night, with sweeping, icy winds blowing bits of loose garbage in all directions and high into the air, with haunting, mysterious sounds all around you that seem to have no earthly origin -- that no living human being would violate.   No living human being.   For it is under these precise conditions by which you are most likely to achieve the highest desired effect, to truly lose yourself, as I have said, escape the world, break from from our temporal stream or our reality.   If you are especially practiced at this, and I say this with no fear of ridicule, (for who can ridicule me?   I am beyond such things)  you may find yourself, seeing, or if even luckier, interacting, with, I kid you not, those who dwell in (words truly fail) the beyond, or what on might call the spirit world.   Yes.  I have done it.   I have seen them, spoken to them.   They are real.   But in order to achieve this, one must truly "lose" (for want of a better word) oneself to present moment;  you must separate and distance yourself from your current, "reality" (which is just one of many) and by so doing, open the door that will allow you enter the realm of the spirits.  Or allow them to enter yours, I'm not sure which it is.

Not easily done.  But once achieved it is a vastly rewarding and fascinating experience.   Perhaps and I think, largely, because it seems to be with deceased relatives with which one will have the the most frequent encounters.  I suppose their familiarity, hence "nearness," in some sense of the word, allows that to happen.   And it is almost always delightful to interact with them.   Under ideal conditions, friends and loved ones out of the past -- like a dream -- appear and disappear, sometimes without a word.   It is quite comforting.   

Warning: do not make the mistake I have made on more than one occasion of acting thus:  I was not thrilled with seeing a certain distant cousin of mine who passed on years before, but who was always a source of great annoyance and irritation to me, irritation beyond words.  Initially, I made up my mind not to interact with him, but, just as in life, the pain in the ass persisted until I burst out with anger, calling him awful names and telling him to go to hell.  (whether he did or not literally, I don't know, but he did leave).   The bastard knew what he was doing for there were two policeman sitting in the parked, unmarked car, just next to where I was standing.  They heard every word.    You can imagine their take on things.   It was only by quick thinking and fast, calm, intelligent thinking that I was able to convince them that I was in no danger, nor a danger to anyone else.   Again, not easy under the circumstances because, as I knew and as I could tell by their reactions, they could not perceive my pain in the ass cousin. 

So, there is the principle problem: you can easily draw unwanted attention to yourself by anyone within earshot (which, I admit, is unlikely)  and by so doing, close the door to the spirit realm and be forced to return to your regular time and place, return to this reality.  It is not a pleasant feeling.  So, be smart and learn from me.   Do not get too emotional, either with happiness (you will be tempted to hug and cry at the sight of some) or anger, as these extremes can break the spell.   Try to stay even, keep walking, keep walking, and speak only in a low voice.   Before you know it, you will have concluded your journey and be ready to return home to obtain much needed rest.  

My fellow wanderer, seeker of concealed and secret places, I hope you can achieve what you have set yourself upon.  It is worth it for those who really want it, I should say, for those who really need it.   And the need can be great.   Very great.  We forget, as adults, the comfort and security of hiding, of being unseen.  We forget so many things, as smart as we are, we forget.  Some we must re-learn, some we never do.   The lucky ones, the truly lucky ones go through life never having to look back, however, and know how to live fully in the present moment.  To those I plead that you fall to your knees and thank God for your great and good fortune, for you have been given a gift whose value cannot be measured.

As for the rest of us, well, we do the best we can with what we have, and try to remember that which out of the past, may help us survive the present. 

I have given you some valuable and powerful information here that is only known to the very few.   Very, few.    Use it wisely. 

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