How rare it is to see something new! We are surrounded, flanked on all sides by its abundance. Yet we look it straight in the face, hold our drinks, throw our eyes down, throw our eyes up, and define it as rare.

Such insults.

For most with this problem, let me advise – a simple creak of your head around its tired axis will do. Allow me to illustrate:

Walking to my door along the street routined with my own footsteps, I must simply (and genuinely) bend my head to the left. I will see there an old woman sitting by her porch. She will remind me instantly of my great-grandmother (naturally). I will note that this is because of her legs. I will note that they are swollen, quite horribly swollen, two beehives softened by the rain, tucking themselves into her shoes. It will be hard for me to move my eyes then. Moving my eyes and walking – you can forget about it. I will then secretly decide to make her my great-grandmother. At least until I reach my doorstep. Just a driveway or two. It will feel right. I will walk slow.

And now a few steps back.

Where we are now: Midtown. Fifth Ave. Hotels spray their yellow-lit tops into the sky. The Palace, the Ritz, the Peninsula. Too much, too much.

On the street: Fresh-faced midwesterners look, chew. Paroled bankers smile the unshaved smile of money. Laughter is thrown like car keys to whomever is willing to park. I hear it even through my earphones. I'm too close. I skedaddle.

Fifth Avenue. More and more. Taxi cyclists launch their eyes and words into the crowd, see if anything catches. Limo drivers stand in traffic with their windows down. Respectfully dressed older gentlemen speak of unrespectable things. I have music in my ears and I keep looking. Seeing is easier, sometimes, without sound.

In the subway everything is warm. Up there, the air slaps you around - too many currents, too many faces, too many directions. Here it stands. It hugs your neck. The train pulls in. Doors open.

I’m in. I look around. Who is Brooklyn bound already? Czech and Greek grandmothers finding fluency in confusion. Black-jeaned toddlers of the Queens Institute for the Arts in a soon-to-be-regretted sleep. Oh home. I sit.

Here comes Rockerfeller Center. Top of the Rock. Who lingers at the top of the rock in this weather? Surely, analysts, accountants. Now, these are not dirty words. They are people too. Let us observe:

Enter Birgit. A burly woman of efficient Austrian blood, she inspects the car thoroughly. The doors close. A ziplock bag is produced from her pocket and she bites down on something crunchy. Her cheeks inflate and deflate. Her eyes keep moving. Birgit loves mistakes. Loves them. The harder to find, the better. If you can't find a good mistake, why show up? Her eyes chase everything. But the distribution is perfect. Everything is precise. Dissatisfied, she takes out a folder. Her eyes pounce into it.

On our left is John. John doesn’t wear a tie, John wears whatever he wants. John breaks the filters off his Marlboro reds’, he keeps his sideburns from the seventies when the East Village used to be his. But I am being unfair. I know these people. I see them every day.

Thirty-fourth Street. Backups. Reserves. The car fills up. They blackberry in figures, possibilities, probabilities. Twenty-third Street is empty. Several Russian programmers look on poetically at the car situation. A few dive in. West 4th brings turmoil. Accountants flee, poets charge. Black pushes back blue. Notebooks are unfolded. The poets write standing up. They jot down figures, faces, possibilities. The train keeps going.

I look around more. Who else is there? The hassidic diamond-sellers and the brothers cancel each other out. Russians are left standing. I turn to a grandfather-turned-programmer. I ask him about his story. The OJ Simpson by the door keeps cracking his music too loud, he tells me. That's his story. I laugh. He's not laughing. He returns to his Le Carre translation.

Balls. I keep looking around more. My body is tired. It’s tired of me and my dirty habits. It wants to sleep, to rest to relax to detune detox, to let go, to gargle some beer, to sleep to sleep but..

Who else is there?

On the next stop the train empties and my eyes land on a K.D. Lang in a pinstripe suit and sneakers. She sits upright, she sternly examines a folded newspaper, she grips it with apparent strength, she holds it close to her face, the fingers of her other hand make small and slow laps around her inner thigh. She becomes bored, folds everything and watches the ceiling.

I keep looking. Soon the train will bust out of the tunnel and everybody will look up. They always do. This is the moment that I wait for.

Across from me K.D. Lang has gotten her blackberry out. It’s an old model. She leans forward in her seat, her eyes fix and focus like a tennis player. I try to float her a smile, I’m a sucker for short hair. She thumbs at the small wheel. On the next stop she gets out.

Balls again. I keep looking. The train is bound to fly out at any minute. I can tell by how the blank scenery behind the window changes. We’re getting closer.

Any moment now, I can feel it, the evening will splash through the car and the heads will lift. Even when it’s dark outside they meet it as a sunrise. In the morning when the train dives in, the heads turn down, they look away but here - here, they move up (slowly), eyes open (slowly), mouths spread, slowly, everything, for an instant, floats. There’s nothing like it. If you haven’t, you must really see it for yourself. At least once. Turn your head. Something's going on over there.