A Sunday in Chinatown

Sometimes it just takes a walk through streets you haven’t been down in sometime to remind you of what world you enjoy existing in. Shoe repair people on the street with their machines – with his machines-and a pile of shoes next to him. A few blocks down, after passing by grand fish markets busy with capitalism and rare moments of pause, an old woman sits with a cardboard box turned over and a bag of nuts to sell in front of her.

Not too far from that, a group of kid are gathered around a machine that makes fresh cream cakes. It was their Sunday afternoon as well. Amazing in their youth and smiles. In their happiness to be with each other. Across the street from them, fruits I still don’t know what they are were being sold by a girl trying not to look at the other kids in front of the machine. She’ll get some when her shift is done.

The theme of work is so dominant in everything I write. Why shouldn’t it be – we are defined by our jobs. Tourists are snapping pictures of everything they don’t see in their everyday lives. BOBA is everywhere. BOBA on a Sunday afternoon is a pleasure when you’re walking around streets you don’t normally walk around.

Everything being sold – I keep seeing the people in the factory making those very things. Now they are supplying foot traffic. Eventually it will end up tossed away. Even as I write this now, some kid is bouncing a ball on the floor above. Probably made by some factory somewhere before it got shipped over the ocean and ended up on the floor above my head. That theme – tracing the route of jobs – the amount of hands that have touched a product – is going to run through the story. I has to.

Getting much deeper that is for sure. The Pulitzer announcements are going to come out tomorrow. Can’t say I’m not excited about the announcements. Who knows? The beauty of not knowing. Someone was reading Kerouac on WBGO this morning. Whenever I hear his words the world around me usually changes. Voices of ghosts do that.

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