i landed at laguardia and immediately doubled the hop in my step. new york. the concrete jungle. metal and glass shoot out of concrete to neck wrenching peaks. every skin color under the rainbow speed walking to and fro.
women in dark suits and men with links on their cuffs weave through the sea of pedestrians—the extra thick wheeled strollers, the men in uniforms, the school children, the homeless and the fashionistas—each on their way to somewhere more important.
as i stand on this unlit corner i see more people in my periphery than i can catch in an entire day in georgia. i see thousands and thousands of tiny glass portals into tiny ant lives. the flickering glow of their flat screen tvs billows out of their lofts and casts a muted light on my face that somehow resembles the moon.
a lady with leather pants and a leather face sprints in front of my taxi, her boy toy in tote behind, shirt unbuttoned, cigarette burning. it’s six am this morning, and its obvious they’re venturing home for the first time since tuesday. just one story of millions that took place on this random week night in the jungle.
when i left brooklyn i considered it an epicenter—a hotbed—of local and sustainable food. the meat hook, and marlow, with their always stuffed cases of perfectly cut meat—never even frozen—the green markets, the private chefs, and the cooking classes. hogs raised in queens and honey bees on the roof. leaving the city and heading south, however, there is one shining piece of the puzzle of which new york cannot attain.
the dirt.
a people separated from dirt is a people separated from earth—from the mother, from the creator, from g-d and the holy spirit, and from jah. for dirt is from whence we came. if the dirt is alive, and if from dirt we came and shall one day return, what can one say of a place with no dirt? is this place a façade? can it really exist? a place with no dirt is a place dependant, and can a place as such truly be free?
“the great cities rest upon our broad and fertile prairies. burn down your cities and leave our farms, and your cities will spring up again as if by magic; but destroy our farms, and grass will grow in the streets of every city in the country.” –william jennings bryan, speaking at the dnc eighteen ninety six.
nyc with all its freedom, all its accomplishment, all the modern marvels of man. the sports teams and the fashion lines. madison ave and the bowery. secret freight entrances on not secret streets leading to back room card games, and all night benders. the subway and the high line. pizza, hipsters, delis, wall street —none of it exists without the dirt.
