Wednesday, December 23, 2015

The rasta’s back. In the corridor of the West 4th Street stop, after an absence of a couple weeks—or was it a couple months?—when he was replaced by a demure, raven-haired lady who strummed her acoustic sitting down. Rastaman is back. Same guy I used to see up at the Bryant Park stop, evidently haunting me. When I saw him tonight I felt a pang of rage, just at the monotony of it, the insulting dreariness, compounded by having stayed at the office late with vexing work. But as I walked by him and heard his idiotic wacka-jawacka chords coming out his fuzzy little amp, my mood lifted. He played an open A, as though that meant anything. And maybe it did. Some things never change for a reason.