Stillness in Motion

Play any film backward and it’s elegy. Play it fast-forward and it’s a gas.

There’s a brand new poem up on the subway, they’re finally sunsetting the pre-pandemic “Passage” that has become such a recurring sight, it has calcified to the walls of my vision; at this point, the words are simply imperceptible to the eyes of your average commuter.

This new, shiny verse is much more comfortable in its discomfort. In its nostalgia for the fabric that once sewed the stitches of love between two that long ago puckered. If you’re glued to your phone on your commute, there’s a chance you’ve missed it, so I’ve written it down from memory for your convenience. Unfortunately, there’s been less chaos in my life, of recent, so I am not nearly as funny, feeling a little try-hardish.

There’s always uncertainty at dawn, the passage of time rocks on, and your mind is the stage manager, an inarguably constant presence but questionable necessity to the band. I’ve been thinking about how the wavelengths of the external world, the physical landscape interact with the electrical currents inside of us; creeps in this petty pace—Tomorrow. Tomorrow. And Tomorrow—what do we do within? How does our circadian rhythm of motion relate to the pre-destined movements of the outside world, of crossing paths, fight or flight moments, and big moments? The clockwork of being either an elegy or a gas? Sometimes I feel like Patty Smith, righteous in her ideas but, most of the time, I feel like a New York Times reader who can’t solve the riddle of the weekly Cartoon. Or Weyes Blood, peculiarly and perpetually somber in her art.

Now this new poem, no longer haunting my daily commute, has inspired me, amid a tidal wave of boredom, drowning all curiosity and creativity. So I write. Or try to.

There’s a comforting discomfort between stillness and motion. There’s stillness in stolen time. Stillness in stolen thoughts, looping memories, wounded hopes, and stained smells. The stillness of lateness, the power of passivity, to be still within, to continue to traverse your external trajectory of chaos, bubbling with the guilt of your impolite tardiness until you arrive. “The trains were a mess,” your friends know this is not true. Will the stillness find equilibrium with the internal and external? Will they forgive you?

The buzzing stillness with each breath after you brush a stranger’s pinky finger with yours. “I think that was my soulmate,” you half-joke.

The stillness of the ticking microwave, staring into a splintered reflection of your eyebrows and half a reflection of Trader Joe’s Chicken Sausage and Eggs Breakfast Burrito.

The stillness of the dead phone (cue the I’m-so-not-addicted-to-my-phone-mantra). The perplexed faces on the subway stare in unison at the Citi bike on the subway, a mutually agreed upon stillness overcomes us.

The stillness of the nauseating Uber ride, the impending Venmo, and the soul-shaking hangover.

The stillness of planted ankles on subways, you stand against the tsunami-like motion of the A train’s blaring horn. Stillness in chaos.

The stillness of no emotion in motion. You fold into the subway seat, the cart screeches. You are still. Weekend after weekend. Month after month.

The inner yogi extracts from within. Stillness in sweat dripping onto the mat as you hold on for just one more breath.

The stillness of twiddling thumbs, twisting ankles.

Life is not happening to you but from you.

The stillness of anger, of words you wish you hadn’t said, of realizing you’re maturing. The stillness of time. The movement of being still. The timelessness of clockwork.

The stillness of dead-end conversations that linger on. The stillness of precise haircuts, inflation, rainy Saturdays, sunny Sundays.

The stillness of peace and picture frames.

The stillness of long bathroom lines and short waiting room times. The stillness of salty tears, serpentine staircases, and soft smiles. The stillness of wet grass wallowing in the wind.

Stillness in knowing what will be will be. Stillness in slow elevators and secrets. Stillness in motion, in sustaining friendships despite the petty pace that won’t slow down. The stillness of each breath. Frank Ocean. Pickles. Good candles and facials. The stillness of a silent laugh, the stillness of sleep, the stillness of the morning.

The stillness within you.