BIG STORM! the media warned. UP TO A FOOT OF SNOW! meteorologists said.
Ha. I’ll believe it when I see it, I said.
The evidence is in. I am a skeptic who yields to evidence: Yes, there is snow.
Skinny Cat doesn’t care about the snow, as nothing will interfere with her feline duties, especially that of sleep.
She may be old, but she’s as steadfast a worker as they come.
Beached kitty-whale
How the hell did I chalk on the TOPS of my boots?!
Given so much killing, this would not be the worst way to live:
(From a building across the street from Temple Emanuel-El, on Fifth and 65th.)
—–
So this is a bit of a cheat—I adapted this from a comment I left elsewhere:
I grew up in a small town in the Midwest, moved to successively larger cities, and now live in New York City.
Needing to get out of the house today, I bopped over to Manhattan and strolled through Central Park. It was a bit late—the light was low—but I could catch a few images of this grand and humble place:
(stretched this one out a wee)
(jacked the contrast on this one)
I wandered around the neighborhood east of the park for a bit, taking in the discreetly exclusive apartment building between Fifth, Madison, and Park, exchanging greeting with doormen leaning out of doorways, and peeking into warmly-lit restaurants serving dinner this Thanksgiving. This is the genteel and lovely New York of near-past movies, recalling generations of families lucky enough to live within those warm lights.
Not that most New Yorkers have done so, of course. This was (and is) a city of working people, crammed together in slouching tenements which call forth a history neither genteel nor lovely.
Still, it is as easy to fall in love with the romance of hard times as it is to yearn for a sepia-lit life overlooking the park. To live amidst the tumultuous grace of history!
One of the things I love (and mourn) about this place is precisely that sense of history: when I walk through the Financial District early on a Monday morning I see the old iron sconces on the side of one building, the Art Deco doors on another, and the amazing mosaic at the entrance to the ITT building. It’s all still there.
Except, of course, it’s not. The old tenants have moved out and a pharmacy or bank or Starbucks has snuck in, and where o where is the idiosyncratic New York I moved here to find? Where is our tumultuous grace?
It’s there and it’s gone. New Yorkers are constantly bemoaning the loss of the ‘real’ city, the one which existed when they were teenagers or first moved here or yesterday, the city which justified the high prices and the crowds and standing-room only train cars. But this is the real city, today, and while I wish there were still Italians in Little Italy and working-class Jews on the Lower East Side, there are Poles in Greenpoint and Russians in Brighton Beach, hasidim in Williamsburg and Crown Heights and mosques in Bed Stuy. The Hare Krishnas and Scientologists lurk in the Union Square train station, and I even saw one brave soul setting up a McCain/Palin table not too far from the saxophonist. People from California and Cameroon and Oklahoma and New Zealand are tucked into corners all over this city, criss-crossing and occasionally bumping into one another. There’s the Stonewall Bar and the Cathedral Church of St. John the Divine (finally fully open this Sunday) and the wrecked earth from the Sept. 11 attacks posed in Battery Park.
This city erects and erases and absorbs its histories and cultures, mystifying and horrifying and, finally, gratifying those of us who are still learning when to hustle and when to slow down.
Where is your tumultuous grace? It’s there and it’s gone, wherever you are. Pay attention, wherever you are.
The South Street Seaport is fake fake fake.
Walking past the Abercrombie & Fitch and Ann Taylor and all the other crappy chain stores huddled around what used to be an actual working location, I felt like Elaine Benes, punching out an air ballot of her fake orgasms with Jerry: fake fake fake fake.
Ever been to Faneuil Hall in Boston? Used to be real, now it, too, is fake. A tourist suck, designed to hoover out the pockets of those yearning for a glimpse of history.
At least Times Square doesn’t bother with the pretense of authenticity.
Anyway, as crappy as the Seaport is, you can at least get some nice views of the East River, the Red Hook docks, and, of course, the Brooklyn Bridge:
The Manhattan Bridge is partially obscured by pont Brooklyn, but you can glimpse the Williamsburg Bridge in the background:
Yeah, I’d like shots of the sun on bridges, but gray mornings suit me, too.
Besides, if I wanted sun, I’d live in California.
Okay, one last shot, down Wall Street:
Yes, this shot of Trinity Church is an iconic one, but who am I to argue with iconography?
Little people live in the A train station, specifically, at the 14th St/8th Ave location. I only took photos of one figure, but I think I’d like to get them all.
They’re everywhere.
I like her smile.
I’m thinking of changing my avatar to one of these photos.
While my politics are pink(o), red isn’t really my color. Still, I like the whole hole-in-the-cube thing.
We’ll see.
It really is too bad I lack talent.
I’d like to blame the light, the camera, but, really, it’s me.
I don’t know how to reveal the architectextuality of this city: that a part of my fascination lies in what is just beyond. The curves in the road which lead you to peer around, to see what else there is. The buildings behind and above and nestled next to.
Not exactly a palimpsest—buildings remain—but the constant jostling for space. A cause of despair and marvel.
So I lack talent. I try, nonetheless.
There is something here. I could spend the rest of my life not catching it.
Guess which is which.
AbsurdBeats 