After I posted a picture of the Chrysler Building on Facebook, with the caption “Always look up,” someone commented that I was a tourist with a LOL. I chuckled, marked the comment with a LOL emoji, and continued scrolling.
Always look up
I’ve been thinking about this all morning. Calling someone a tourist is generally considered negative. We all have an internal image of tourists. Mine is usually white, loud, American, wearing khaki shorts, tube socks, sandals, a polo, sunglasses, and a neon-colored fanny pack. Someone who shouts in English at those around them—as if that will make them more understood.
I’ve been around that corner of 42nd and Lexington more times than I can count. I love Grand Central. I took my TESOL class close by for five intense weeks. I’ve ridden buses up and down the length of Manhattan. I also love the Chrysler Building in the skyline. It’s so elegant compared to the Empire State Building. But somehow, I’d forgotten that the building I love is where it is.
I don’t even know what caused me to look up. I got off the subway at Grand Central and headed east, on my way to yet another MRI—this one has three other letters after it (IAC) to “ensure clival mass is not touching CN VIII on the left,” according to my neuro-otologist. My tinnitus, which has always been an issue since my proton/photon radiation several years ago, has gone from a faint scream that I only noticed when everything’s rather quiet, to a sound that is akin to a strong, high-pitched wind howling in my left ear at all times. I’m currently listening to 80s pop music while writing in order to drown out the sound. According to my neurologist, this is a common late-term side-effect of others who’ve had radiation. Yet another gift of the brain tumor. Apparently paralysis of the left eye, coordination issues, and possible seizures weren’t enough.
Anyway, I looked up, and was stunned to find the Chrysler Building before me. The clouds were breaking up for a moment, and the way the light struck the building and the backdrop of the sky made me reach for my phone. I snapped the photo—even missed the light changing to the pedestrian signal to take more than one, and then when I did start walking at the next light, I stopped for a second to get a better angle—then made my way to 41st and 3rd Ave for my MRI.
I used to be shy about using my camera in my phone. I didn’t want to look like a tourist. There’s a time in my life when I wouldn’t have done what I did. I’m not sure what, exactly, convinced me to stop being afraid. Probably the improvement of the camera in my iPhone had a lot to do with it, but mainly the fact that I’ve decided I should be a tourist at all times.
I’m not talking about the obnoxious type of tourist. I’m talking about being ready and aware of the beauty of life in all its forms at all time. I’ve walked past the Chrysler Building plenty of times and not realized I was there. Similarly, I’ve walked in the shadows of mountains, in the openness of the prairie, and not comprehended the what I was crossing. Certainly, I’ve had other things on my mind, which were often needing attention, but it’s important to let thoughts rest for a moment every now and again.
As an artist, as a human being, I need to let myself live and find inspiration wherever I find myself. If I’m in a strip mall, if I’m in a wheat field, if I’m on a street corner, I need to breathe, look around, look down, look up, and snap a picture. Because the fact that I am alive in this moment of time is pretty fucking amazing.