We Buried The Water
There's a bar in the west village that gives the lie to everything.
There's nothing remarkable about it unless you make your way down to the basement and even then you have to find someone willing to let you through the cellar to the wet room. There's a door with no lock, and on the other side there is earth. Roots come down from somewhere above, the floor is dirt and mud, and along one wall flows water. Years ago it was a stream that cut through the island. It left a swamp along it's edges and between Greenwich Village and Wall St. was an impassible marsh. We filled it in with stone and dirt, and we built above it. We buried the water beneath our streets, and we forgot that anything came before us.
One morning I knelt in the basement and let the water flow through my fingers. It was ice cold and the current was far stronger than I expected. It felt clear in the darkness and for a long moment I had to resist the urge to cup it in my hands and bring it up to my mouth. Just before I thought to stand, it hit me. I closed my eyes in wonder as the sensation grew out in wider and wider circles.
I felt the ground beneath the stream, thick with packed earth and the bones of animals and fish. I felt the banks around it, the trees that reached down to drink from it, and it was connected to everything. I moved east through the city and I saw graveyards and the remnants of farms. I felt granite north and south, and our tunnels and subways felt small and unimportant. Central Park fit halfway between what was and what we built, and even the streets and avenues flowed with forgotten paths and burrows.
When I brought my fingers to my lips I struggled to remember everything. I was cut off from a world I didn't know was there, but I couldn't bring myself back. I sat for a long time on the packed dirt floor and wondered if it meant anything at all.
By the time I got back upstairs there were a few people drinking in the bar. I sat on a stool at the very end, and the owner leaned in as she handed me a beer. I tried to smile, but all I managed was confusion.
“It's overwhelming, isn't it?” I nodded as she sipped her coffee.
“It's good to remember,” she said. “But you can't remember everything, and you can't remember for too long.”
“I feel like suddenly I don't know anything at all.”
“I know what you mean. Although, there are worse realizations to have. It's a pretty good place to begin.”
I nodded again as I drank my beer. It was cold and crisp, and when I closed my eyes I thought I could taste the entire city at once.
And then it was just a glass of beer.
Guy New York