The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.
That’s what Ezra Pound saw in the Paris Metro in 1913. So, a century later, I sat on the coffee shop patio outside the Syngrou-Fix Station of the Athens Metro. All these petals pushed up through the escalator and the staircase, flower-like seeking the sun and a cell phone signal.
Pound saw his fellow passengers, apparently, as fragile, as story-less and mutually indistinguishable as petals dislodged by a summer rain. Can it be so?
So here’s your task for the day: choose a picture or two or ten or all; invent the story that puts them at Syngrou-Fix at 4:40 on a Thursday afternoon. Or maybe two or three meet. Or maybe there’s a common motive for them all to be there just now. What would Leopold Bloom say, following his Meander through Athens?