One of the most enjoyable moments I had when I visited New York City recently was at the laundromat. Something about a moment of stopping. Being squashed into the the almost subterrain warmth and hum. A child moves from bench to bench uninhibited, chatting to the other washers. We all sit and wait for the world to be removed from the fabric of our lives. To start new again. In this moment it is the machines churning, not us.
And the workers who move from door to door, loading and unloading, folding piles for all those rich bastards whose money props them above the grime. I felt like I was watching the digestive process of the city at work. Sucking in the street grit and night sweat from too much heat. Sucking on the texas oil barons and the chinese factory workers. Tumbling hands and tired bones, sluiced and drained back out to feed the sewer rats. Eating up lives to put a clean white face on it.
The machines churn and I let my thoughts run over the same warn thread. Over and over and over. Until they slowly subside and I am ready to face the world again.
I went back to take a photo, but there was no evidence.