It was impossible to walk away, for under his gaze I was hypnotized. The life force within me, that delicate, intricate organ--my source of love, paused and rendered me breathless for a few fleeting seconds before the conducter announced the next stop.

This was not the first time we met like this by chance, and always at 96th street where simultaneously he embarked and I boarded the #3.

This time the train had paused too, for what seemed like nanoseconds and, on seeing each other we engaged in the same old silent ritual of staring into and through each other, oblivious to the others--the passengers who occupied our space.

An artist--Michaelangelo perhaps, might have rendered the scene in "Still-Life" had he been there. He once humbly explained of himself that he is not as great an artist as people say, for to him Art afterall, is everywhere; he merely reveals it.

This scene then; the chance meeting, the distant, desperate, silent conversation and frozen stares between two beings--He & I--in awe of each other, is etched in my mind like a work of Art. I throw cursory glances at it now as I write.

But only nanoseconds before the train departed and we went our seperate ways.

Perhaps we'll meet again...

Is life without desire truly unthinkable...? I think it is.

Elusive though it may be at times, satisfied though I may be most times, my desire for more, more, more; more love, pleasure, sweet pain--dare I say...motivates me, helps keeps me alive/revived each day.

There are days when I desire to be free, free from the masks I wear when I dutifully fulfill the roles of mother, daughter, sister, coworker, friend, student, Carla...I desire just only to be ME.

Sometimes I achieve that desire, but then a new one spawns and the neverending circle begins again, luring me, teasing me, seducing me, taunting me...desiring being that I am, just like yOu.

These days, the lure of the island in my dreams taunt me. I long to get away and I do in my dream, but the awakening is truth. I awake to New York, to work, to my family--feet planted firmly in reality.

THE MAN IN THE WHEELCHAIR

Why do all the kids laugh at me and all the grown-ups stare? Why do the teenagers throw rocks at me? Why doesn't anyone talk to me? Why do all the doctors say I'm fine when they know I'm going to die in about 9 months? Why do the muggers push me down and take my money and my wheels? Why do the mothers pull back their kids when I go by? Why do all the dogs bark at me when I go near? I'm only 62. Why should I die? Maybe I'll cry.

[ Written by Jason Frix, 5th grade P.S. 87, Manhattan ]