This place pulls on my soul like a riptide. It is the in between moments that grow wildflowers in my imagination. The waiting..... on line for tickets, the enigma of direction, the platform at the train stations, the passage from one to the next, the blur of gravel between the tracks, the portrait of the masses held by the traffic officer at junctions, the trash truck bursting at the seams, the rickshaw piled high with cargo, the bamboo trellis at construction sites with silhouettes climbing about their upper eschelons against the whiteout of sky, the movie that spins from the backseat of the rickshaw, the cacophany of sounds at the airport arrival lane, the constructivist installations of the laundry lines along the way, the color blocks of saris that spill like waterfalls over the wretched facades of cinderblock apartment complexes, the dignity of design even within the shanty towns, each outdoing the other with the inventions of resource,the puzzled faces on the average Indian when they notice I am appreciating such banality. The un-Art of it all......
