The very valuable hand check for exposure.
The Faceless International crew on the J Train to Brooklyn
The Faceless crew doing the largest Abby Road ever. DUMBO
One man from Detroit meets one man from Ukraine, one man from Geana, then one man from Poland, one man from Columbia, one man from India, one from Jamaca, then one man from Trinidad and finally takes a portrait. Takes a portrait. Each of these men where a major part of a certain point in my travel in one day. The only American I talked to was Jimmy the pizza pie maker from Brooklyn, who gave us 5 pies for dinner under the Manhattan Bridge overpass. The man from Ukraine about 53, was a doctor in Ukraine before the USSR fell and is now a day laborer in Brooklyn. His wife wanted to move to the US and he didn’t. Ukraine holds a rosary and tells me about his faith on the train to Manhattan where I was to meet a girl from Moscow to talk to her about a class on multimedia. I told him I would pray for him and his son he told me about named Yuri. The driver from Geana only speaks English and likes tea time. He drives us and the group to the train station for 25 bucks. His story is short. The Polish man was in his fourth year as an immigrant and was sitting on a park bench with a cafe at 10 at night. His name is Caro and has no friends or family. “This country is hospitible”, he states behind a shy grin. 7 minutes later i was saying goodbye. Columbia and India were my cab drivers. Jamaica helped us get on the right train and worked at a hotel in Jamaca for a bit. Trinidad was a man who sat across from me and told me I was where I was supposed to be.
And tomorrow I will be in Ukraine. What is God teaching me?
The hand rail is cold that my for head leans against. My eyes lost in the freckled imagination of the subway’s floor. Like a solar system invaded by shoes, the white, off-white and grey specs blur as I forget to focus. Fuel gage at four hours of sleep, I like to find straight paths and walk them with my eyes closed, walk them as long as I can until I feel insecure. My hands behind my back i take steps knowing nothing is physically ahead yet I still open my eyes out of fear. Bodies beside me sway, the rhythms exist on my way to Manhattan. This train moves with my two dollars. The girl next to me is from Mexico and is sad. She has buried her head into her arms and is crying. Embraced is her friend beside.
This city train ethnic with Unitarianism bleeds diversity without war. There is not time for war. Not on a train ride from work to home. From one mind set to the next. I made money and now I need to be home. What is the difference between our insecurities and our stereotypes? I have killed who I was commanded to and now I need to be home. Our social concerns and our emotional cisterns? How many cultures do you actually know about and do actually talk about like you know about them?
“Who was that boy you were talking about?” another girl who recently sat down asked her friends next to her. Sets of three, that is how woman go anywhere. My ears filter through the various conversations as my eyes drift off. New York has called again and so has my 28th country.