New Yorkers are busy. I know this because they tell me. Daily. Hourly.

Over email. Via text.

Subliminally.

They tell me they’re a little busy at the moment, quite busy all day, too busy this year, stupid busy, insanely busy, really really fucking busy. That they’re overwhelmed, overworked, have too much going on, way too much on their plates, crap from their boss smeared on their face.

They offer the busy line in the hope of getting together sometime very soon, just before an apology, in the event of an emergency, in front of playing things by ear, around a point about the need to reschedule.

And, Lo, all parties unsheathed their BlackBerries, obsidian now in the midday sun.

They imply that everyone’s demanding, that everything’s another crisis just about to happen, their lives are not their own, their smart phones are sandbags with lots and lots of tiny holes.

I ask: Can society last without promises intended to be honored and regularly fulfilled, while aspirations get confused with plans, with nothing tied down and everything floating free, so long as people remain mauled by distractions, niggled by anxieties, humped by vanity, seduced by futility–so long, in a word, as we’re beholden to the business of busyness?