Traditionally, in the aftermath of a New York Comic Con, I find myself wandering the streets of the city without purpose, enjoying the anonymity — no-one is going to ask for my help! — and the New York-ness of it all; in 2024, I wandered the streets for hours, listening to music and feeling at one with everything in an indefinable, utterly necessary manner. (It helped that I’d had such a bad few days prior that just not speaking and exercising alone felt really good, to be honest.) This year, that wasn’t really an option — while I had the time, I didn’t have either the raincoat or the umbrella.
Instead, I ran between awnings and storefronts and tried not to get too wet on my way to, and then returning from, brunch with a friend. And in the process, I has this strange, my-mind-is-clearly-overworked-and-going-places, thought that appeared unbidden in the forefront of my head: I think the city is trying to talk to me.
What had actually happened was that I’d noticed just how ubiquitous language is in Manhattan. There are signs everywhere: storefronts, ads, building names, fliers, graffiti. Everywhere you look in the city, there’s writing and it’s all colorful and eyecatching and ever-present, this cacophony of words that’s at war with each other: buy these bananas and STOP and this mobile plan is better than yours and by the way have you seen how cheap these burgers are. As I was ducking in and out of small places of shelter, the idea of, “what if there’s actually a hidden connective thread in all of this that I’m not seeing?” popped into my mind.
There isn’t, of course; it’s a strange science fiction idea that I’m sure has appeared in something I’ve watched or read — Danny the Street in Grant Morrison’s Doom Patrol but wihout the letters re-arranging to make coherent sentences — but for a brief second, an eyeblink, the possibility was in my head like the briefest of glimpses into another world where things are just that little bit more interesting.