A spiritual guide to Manhattan

Whole Earth Review, Wntr, 1989 by Sparrow

A Spiritual Guide To Manhattan I've been meditating 14 years (not continuously, just twice a day) with the Ananda Marga Society -- and this is the first time I put it to use, except to relax when drunks picked me up hitchhiking and went 90 MPH. Y'know how they have rainfall maps of nations, with colored sections? I wanted to do a "High Spirituality Zone," "Low Spirituality Zone" map for my nation, Manhattan.

This is simply what I did: visited major NYC venues, sat down, closed my eyes and performed meditation. I sat in a rattan Elysee Club chair (Bloomingdale's), on a tourist couch (U.N.), on a marble ledge (Grant's Tomb), on the floor. Depending on my guess about the proprietor, I'd ask permission. I'd sit at least a half hour; some sessions exceeded 1 hour.

Afterwards, I'd write my sensations fervidly on sheets of 8-1/2 "X 11" scrap paper. I was surprised how distinct the images were. Perhaps every place does have a "vibration."

Anyone is invited to replicate my research. Please send your findings to: Manhattan Ethereal Survey c/o this magazine.

I began this as a joke on the New Age idea of "power places," but as my studies proceeded, I began to think Manhattan was one.

THE AMERICAN MUSEUM

OF NATURAL HISTORY

77th St. Entrance Tribal Life of N. Pacific America room

This is the room with the totem poles; a place one intensely wants to take one's girlfriend to -- it's dark and sexy, and you can almost see the light bend around the wooden turtles. Also there are murals of Indians in what look like togas.

Between a bugeyed owl and a red-white-and-blue fox, on a wooden bench, I sat.

Eyes closed, I felt a tutelary essence -- the sense of being forced to learn. Children cried and shuffled, as stout women said, "Let's try to keep these lines together." Not much has changed here since 1904 -- an era of High Charity -- and the charitablesness of this chartable institution made me drowsy.

True, I sense the secreted Truth within the huge muskrats around me, but another force blocked it. Was it the Spirit of Teddy Roosevelt, whose statue's in the lobby, that happy Imperialist who reached The River Of Doubt in Brazil in 1913 and named it after himself?

BLOOMINGDALES

1000 3rd Avenue (at 59th St.)

This was only the second time I'd been there. The first time, perhaps because I'd gone with my old acidhead friend, Binks, it seemed like a funhouse: with multutudes of mirrors, and grinning men appearing, anxious to spray you with things. On a landing of the escalator, a man in a dinner jacket played a grand piano, with the word OPIUM propped up on top. "My firs subtitled hallucination," I whispered to Binks.

But this time, at 10:40 on a Tuesday morning, it all seemed tired and facile -- even the fishnet stockings on the young purse saleswomen. "I don't like most of this stuff!" it hit me in the coat section. "It's boring!"

I picked the 5th floor because it had the most chairs and was out of harm's way -- and I couldn't bring myself to ascend further.

I was directed to a heavy woman with a gorgeous telephone voice, Sharri Garvin, Customer Service Expert for the furniture dept., to ask permission. She had The National Star on her desk ("Hey, Look At Oprah Now!") and agreed easily to my request: "I tell you, people do a lot of things to our chairs -- meditating will probably be one of the calmer ones."

Sitting down, I wondered, "What do people do to Bloomingdale's chairs?"

I closed my eyes.

Salespeople paced by at great speed, with the air of nearing someone on the phone with a lot of money.

"Is Mr. Subotnik on the floor?" came an announcement on the intercom, which reminded me of the famous Frank O'Hara poem

and suddenly I see a headline LANA TURNER HAS COLLAPSED!... I have been to lots of parties and acted perfectly disgraceful but I never actually collapsed oh Lana Turner we love you get up

I'd been sprayed twice by cologne agents on floor 2: both Obsession and Ralph Lauren: which was a distraction -- or is there a piped-in scent at bloomies?

"It's 66 inches, which only gives 6 inches to play with," a successful man said to his wife.

The computers were down, and there was some swearing due to that among the nearby sellers. "The thing that gets me is he's just playing with us!" a woman exclaimed, after "shit." Did she mean God?

I had the sense of air streaming by, but not just air -- some kind of happy moving molecules.

The strength of a store is it's a receptive place. Like Lao Tzu says:

Theuse of clay in moulding pitchers Comes from the hollow of its absence; Doors, windows, in a house, Are used for their emptiness: Thus we are helped by what is not To use what is.

The Museum of Natural History wants to explain the Ichthyosaurus, and impress you with its breadth, but Bloomingdale's wants something from you -- it wants to rub its little machines over your credit cart. A store is an event waiting to happen. Which gives meditation a chance to bloom.

Afterwards, I went to the bathroom -- a surprisingly grim place, with a very lengthy wait for the stalls. 5 men were in longer than I have ever waited for 5 men.