Take My Pulse

Entry by: Godai41

4th September 2015
My Pulse, Plus au Moins, a la NYC Environs

You asked about my pulse, so I’ll take you up on that challenge. Here goes. Notice I totally eschew numbers, statistics, definitions, the like.

You want to know about my pulse, my hood: that’s what I’ll give you: the pulse of my flow.

You want my pulse. Here, take it.

Here you get the true, not merely the real, state of the pulse, not the Union.

Many of the stop-off points along my routings have closed.

Betimes I used to meander to Shakespeare’s bookstore at 716 Broadway. Gone now. A brother or sister store remains uptown East on Lex. I sometimes flow that way.

Fellow beaters along my flow—flow ers, not flowers—have disappeared too. Darryl did ceci et cela working at the corner stationery--mag, lottery tik endroit— that has morphed into some composite of yogurt treats I can’t decipher as I rush by. He used to help me pace my motion and once reached through my bus window to give me a fleeting handshake while I waited for the dim light to proceed. He, some brief sound I hear from the past reminds me, now beats in a different dimension I have never encountered.

I never even had time to stop and learn how to spell his name, Daryl or Darryl. He went the eternal route before his employer even knew where he resided in the Setup.

The Bus Stop Cafe always gave me a rush! Gazing for a second at the insignia of the then named Public Service Coordinated Transport of New Joisey ☺ on the panel above its awning I felt besieged by my own movement. I wanted to stop and revel in the memory. No way, I pulsed on. Next time I passed they had renovated—garbaged—the insignia and all its lore and lure. That very minute I pulsed way down.

Other cohorts, just as the Bus Stop Cafe, still stand but in an altered state as I run by.

Some have closed for “good,” I discern, I catch from the conversation of the hangers out as I, distraught, hurry by. Whose “good”? I frantically beat to myself and only myself. Hunan Spring and Sung Chu Mei belong to that group.

Hunan Spring, that spring of first love, has devolved into a bank.

Sung Chu Mei sullenly stares at me as I flow by, elegant in its remains.


Tried to paste a poignant photo of the
still standing hulk of Sung Chu Mei
here but the system wouldn't allow it.

Pulsing on, I glean the re-emergence of my B&H dairy friend, shuttered by a nearby gas explosion but still loving its dedicated visitors waiting in line to breakfast, revives, and yes, against the current, re-opens.

If my journey allowed me to pause, I would stop to laugh at the closed Caribe. Why? Of course, you know, its van bearing the original address on Perry still roams about my environs and I often leap out of its way. Peripatetic, it, homeless, trucks along.

Even rushed, propelled, forbidden to still myself, I still quiver when I envision the edifices of my close corpuscles, the two La Parisienne delis whose flavors wafted my way as I journeyed on. New but somehow less fervent cells have grown up in their place.

Do you have it, my pulse, or at least beats and pieces of it?