Nietzsche in Gramercy Park
By Farah Abdessamad
It’s the tinkling of the keys that grabbed my immediate attention. I ignored the traffic lights.
The set of keys protruded from his hands, fat and dangly. Three people rushed, out of a brown house towards the gate. The oldest man closed it behind a couple, and tucked the keys back in his pocket. I stared at the bulge, later at the group. Did they pay for some Airbnb experience? This was disappointing, transactional, even slightly vulgar.
Next, I circled around the park, clockwise, softening its rectangular angles. I heard the singing accent of a Quebecoise, deeply immersed in her phone conversation. A (faux?) fur wrapped her saggy neck in the park, over a long coat. Was she, exercising? Now this, was what I expected from Gramercy.
In a poetic pre-spring late morning, my shopping list included organic raspberries along with a copy of The New Yorker, and the inevitable blank space left for impulsive urges. And, as I strolled down Lexington, I hit the annoying park again.
I’ve grown quite fond of harsh geometric patterns since I moved to the city — it comforts my crippling OCD (we all age). This park stood in the middle of my way, like a pest, like dog poo one tries to avoid, all too late. I wanted to honk back at it, but it wouldn’t move. It stayed there, with an unabated smugness.
An employee opened and promptly closed the east gate, as if to contain lurking thieves. He headed towards the shed. There was something both ridiculous and fascinating in the proto-survivance of the antiquated private park. Was a sole enjoyment necessary? I wouldn’t mind a bit of spatial solitude, that’s true. I could sympathise. Did it bring flavour to frivolities? Probably, if anything, kinky comes in cheap and astronomical sizes. Under a 24/7 surveillance, can one authentically relax? Humanity cosied under much less inviting circumstances. Can you, finally, bask in exclusivity when thinning bushes barely grant privacy? That’s up to the exhibitionists.
I sat on an imaginary bench on the proletariat section of the park — outside, contemplating the caged fence surrounding the bourgeois Quebecoise. Societies evolved, yet privilege persisted, both inherited, and mimetically acquired. It was all relative, I was also the privileged of someone else. Still, the dichotomy exuded, glaringly.
The sun had begun to sway the naked branches. I peeked for early burgeons, prematurely. Perhaps it would look lush and fluffy in several weeks. More crowded too, I immediately thought, as a follow-up remark. I rushed to the next season, to the next hurdle, when it was about taking stock of the hourglass. I didn’t know then.
My one-time occurrence turned to a weekly habit. A stroll, a crossing, a circle around sharp edges of a fence, and back to Irving Place with a rectitude that straightened my back. Lines told me it was time for brunch, the absence of psychic reading board laid on the sidewalk that it was not yet afternoon. The redundancy provided the false confidence of immutability.
A homecoming, of some sort, to the unwavering creases of the enclosure, where it bends slightly. I quietly saluted the two chivalresque knight statues posted in front of the Gothic 36 Gramercy Park East. A flow, of some sort, to the former Gramercy swamp, drained and valiant, winking back at its old-Europe poise. A man of faith waited by the synagogue stairs. We exchanged a furtive and cordial glance.
Each Saturday, as I walk the familiar trail, I recall where I was the previous week. A step triggers the memory of another, the consideration of ethereal contemplations and the usual questionable decisions.
The same queue at the brunch place. Nothing changes? The same resigned anguish examining barren flora, until, one morning, the entrance of lovely daffodils shook things up.
I moved to the city two months ago, and a national emergency is being proclaimed. Since my first stroll and today, it seems that chaos has taken hold of the outside. I maintain my ritual, a promise, of some sort.
In a Nietzschean embrace of an eternal return, I nodded. New York has seen worse than the soliloquy of a self-philosophising girl with muted headphones. Are my steps taking me to a place I agree with? If I were given the chance to do it all over again, would I be walking the same route?
Repetitive actions allow the mind to wonder slightly, to breed a fertile ground for ideas to germinate. It was an intimate spring, staring at knots and working my way through unlocking them.
The offer of an eternal return is often mistaken for infinite loops in a vast and boundless cosmos, or a purgatorial repetition. It is more than that. It is the belief in fate, the love of fate, and beyond its mere acceptance, it is to thrive for fate to turn an excruciating burden in a liberating feat — amor fati. “Let’s try this again”. Not differently, but identical. To live life to the extent that its eternal reoccurrence may bring you peace. The lesson and murmur of Zarathustra dissipated behind a vision of thick moustaches.
The angles are rounded and I go east before west when I reach the park. I read the old letters from the pulsating past my former steps carry. All things flow. My regular visits have impacted me. The park stays the same. Does it truly? The end of my circle is the beginning of another and I see connectedness in a way previously unsuspected.
My eyes settle on several targets, birds, shapes, conversations, and my feet follow. I no longer care about keys and closed gates. I don’t notice who honours the immobile feet of Edwin Booth, as an ode to his Hamlet days. An unapologetic Gertrude comes to mind, then a floating Ophelia — there is so much to learn and see.
On my latest stroll to Gramercy, early morning this time to apply new social distancing recommendations, I soaked in the sun, commanding from the eastern side. It casted zebra stripes on the familiar bloc. Who cares about expensive phone calls, other worlds and barriers, I come back in endearment. The rat-resembling dogs look like odd creatures in their exclusive plot of pebbles. From curiosity, Gramercy donned a comical attire.
*
I admit my misjudgement. I succumbed to hastiness. There would be no crowds this spring. Fences from the park incarnated the prelude to our announced places of self-confinement. New York City paused, as the blooms illuminated Gramercy and the streets. Non-essential shops have pulled down their metallic curtains in a moving adieu. What is essential then, if not bookshops and ceremonial promenades? I was left to weigh on this question by my windowsill, chasing after an impossible ray of light between the towering post-war high rises. They obliterated the view, I longed for my Saturday strolls.
As I nested at home in unison with the city, I often reminisced the park and my familiar steps. I assigned myself to a similar disciplined but indoors — with a regular check-in, an examination, like the doctor caring after a broken wing. Fat pigeons, washed-out purple and grey, are cooing outside. They stare at me as I would look at fish in aquarium. Zarathustra speaks again, “in truth, man is a polluted river. One must be a sea to receive a polluted river without becoming defiled.” Let’s do this again?
In my memory, there are neon arrows by the park, in case lost, in case tempted to jump across for a shortcut. Why would one seek this? The attraction of the inaccessible faded. The park was an unintended and early invitation to pause, a call for gratitude. I gained something else, while the outside was still within reach and as banal as ever: the opportunity of a weekly comforting conversation, and a discreet witness.
A gift whose keys I keep.
I sneaked out, later, for a reunion. I needed to see it again, whisked in the pre-apocalyptic madness. I entered the perimeters of the sleepy rectangle, and abruptly left, conscious of having lacked deference. I went back home, encountering a handful of mask-adorning humans as if fleeing. I jaywalked. There were no cars in any case.
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Farah Abdessamad is a French-Tunisian writer based in New York City,
