GroupThink

New York City is typically considered a metropolis of individuals, a community of distinct entities, each defined by a specific reservoir of values, perspectives, and frozen yogurt preferences (I like green tea and original swirl Pinkberry with mochi, mango, strawberry, and lychee, if it's summer).

However, New Yorkers may actually be subject to a psychological phenomenon that undermines the very notion of cosmopolitan individualism.

This morning, when I crossed over 42nd street on my way to work, I noticed an older, slightly greasy man with a large blue jacket racing to the other corner of the street. I double checked the walking sign, and saw that the "white man walking" or pedestrian green light was on, and that there was still another minute or so to leisurely cross the street. I rolled my eyes and looked back down at my shoes, which proved to be more interesting than Midtown East during rush hour.

In about two seconds, I felt a breeze by my left ear, and turned to see a woman in high heels, and two men with brief cases running (one of them inducing a slight asthmatic episode) towards the corner of the street now populated by the aforementioned greasier gentleman and a short man handing out flyers for a new Turkish restaurant.

I again checked the sign, and saw that pedestrians still had a very explicit "go." Literally, we had the green  light.

I then quickly checked behind me and saw several people, having taken note of the earlier joggers, make similar decisions to sprint across the street. A small Thai woman pushing a stroller jogged a bit to keep up with the older Mexican lady walking four dogs.

I was unsure as to what we were running, or from what we were running, but since everyone after the runners in suits seemed to follow suit, I presumed I was also expected to do the same.

So, I walked into the office with pit stains and a throbbing knee. My doctor has advised me against running, but in this situation, I felt I had no choice.

the higgs particle & other beginnings

Today, we are reborn.

And by "we," I mean me, you, Man, Matter. It's the Higgs Boson collision of Man is Matter, an explosion that will propel into creation a new vision of the world.

The curious, blurred vision of a little girl with three gray hairs and two left feet, and a strong affinity for spinach and thunderstorms.

Man is Matter originally formed to chronicle my adventures in London in the summer of 2009. I made observations about high tea and about British accents and about yellow tomatoes in Borough Market. I desperately recorded every moment, even the most mundane, hoping to hold on to every bit of London summer that the U.S. Border Patrol allowed.

When I returned to America, I found that my discoveries did not cease with the close of my summer travels, but that I continued to unearth treasures in the gullies of oblivion: the sterile, fluorescent aisles of Duane Reade, the rocky seats in front of the homemade ice cream parlor in Ridgewood, the open urinals in highways of Rajasthan.

When I could not leave my seat, I explored time, taste, touch and sometimes stuck out my tongue to check if it were raining. And when I had the opportunity to explore outside my own senses, I discovered mischief in the Dominican Republic and complex familial interactions in India. There were Mayan massages in Mexico and gray suits in Washington, DC. There was the man who sold $.75 coffee in the cart by my office, and the smiling blonde who sold $2.00 coffee at Oren's down the street.

Every day there was someone, there was something, of note.
And as with all things beautiful, I soon lost touch with the meaning of it all, with the meaning of discovery, forgot how rare it was to laugh on Tuesdays, to touch someone on a Wednesday afternoon, to figure out how you like your burgers cooked. The need to observe the world was reduced to an ephemeral phenomenon, something I did in my spare time, after I finished everything I was obliged to finish. I soon found myself searching for something I was missing, but searching in the wrong places, making futile attempts to move mountains, when all I needed to do was skip a rock into the river.



And, as the geographer told the Little Prince, I soon stopped recording life, because it became ephemeral, subsumed by the falsity of obligations and futures and responsibilities.

But it's precisely this quality, this "danger of a speedy disappearance," that prompts the Little Prince, and that has reminded me, to fall in love all over again.

I tasted the summer rain yesterday. My legs had goosebumps and my Calvin Klein flats landed in puddles and my hair formed its own sort of Indie-fro, but the rain tasted sweet, almost like warm milk and almonds and dates and peaches.

2009, when I tried desperately to claim all of London for my own, to grasp through slippery fingers a city that would forever evade me, is not unlike any other time, not unlike every other day.

So, once again, I shall desperately grab and clutch and scratch and fight, fight for a stillness and pause that will forever evade us.

I reclaim Man is Matter.

We're kickin it old school.

the perils of functioning in society

On St. Patrick's Day, I was infected with a terrible case of melancholy, as I allowed myself to be taken over by some existential angst and seeming warranted self-pity. I bought a green bagel with roasted red peppers, tomatoes, tofu cream cheese, and a large coffee, and sat celebrated the Irish through carbo-loading and "methods of reasoning" flashcards. The streets were teeming with green 20-somethings, and I found myself lost amid a sea of inebriated, swaying emerald on my way to hot yoga. I made my way through masses of joyous meatheads, and on my way back, I trudged through the same crowds, though the proportion of those still standing had slightly changed. As I sat by my window, slightly shaking from a raucousness reverberating through the thin walls of my new bedroom, I felt a profound sense of loss.

The following day, I woke up with a renewed perspective on my First World problems, most likely induced by a full night's sleep. I finished all my laundry, did extra hot yoga (along the lines of a double shot of espresso), and generally felt good about industriousness of the weekend (it had been a good green bagel). After my shower, I decided to take a stroll around my new neighborhood (i.e., head to the overpriced grocery store one block away). It was a particularly balmy evening, and I decided to dress to impress (myself), and wore my diamond earrings and my  yellow birthday scarf and my red lipstick.

I walked down 35th Street and caught some people staring at me. I noticeably turned away from the regard, to make a point about sexual equality, but I secretly thought, Rucha, you still got it. You got grey hair and you haven't seen daylight all weekend and you inexplicably smell like glass noodles, but you got it.

I walked into the grocery store and felt a slight breeze, the normal draft that follows a door opening.

People continued to stare. I continued to be falsely indignant, and clandestinely proud.

I had to itch my left leg (a continuation of the aforementioned First World problems), and so bent back and realized there was no fabric for me to scratch.

My whole skirt was tucked into my underwear.

People were still staring.

I did not still "got it." 

I officially lost it.