Back on trains. Subways and the elevated which run through this city like food being digested, going down the throat and going into the colon only to shoot out into a million pieces of freedom, or one long log of misery that had to be forced out.

Yet, there is very little constipation here in Gotham. All who move through it, both night and day, do so with a purpose as Midwesten tourists look on in utter awe of steel buildings and bums, trees in Central Park, concrete constantly beneath their feet. These are the people who are blocked up. Either from excitement or sheer fear, they can not take a decent shit until they are home, safely tucked away in their suburban beds with thousand stitched sheets and cups of tea at night, Sleepy time, Oolong, perhaps a glass of brandy or a shot of whiskey when the other is in bed dreaming of a lover across town, or the teacher at their kid’s school. Yes, back home where the toilet never clogs, where what they think is freedom, the American way lies on a doormat that says, Welcome.

I spoke to a tourist from Indiana who said, my New York dreams are coming true, with a large grin as his wife admired the white horses in Columbus Square. I responded, your New York dreams huh. What is that? Rape, murder, theft, perhaps a good mugging? His grin turned sour.

So, I ride the trains at night reading Baudrillard’s AMERICA. I am captivated by this Frenchman’s point of view and how similar it is to mine. Maybe I am a foreigner in this country. Could be I was dropped here long ago by Europeans in search of a good joke. Left here to fend for myself. I laugh. This is my place of birth. My home. How I wish to be adopted.