Late late, so quick quick:
A., a photographer and secretary in my CUNY department, has been hosting an Italian artist the past couple of months, and while she’s had fun with him and has learned from him, she’s also a bit bumfuzzled by him.
He’s a dreamer—a dreamer! She says this with her hand in the air.
A few weeks ago he was looking to fall in love and stay in New York, but now he’s looking at all of the reasons to leave.
Fall in love! He’s here for two months and he wants to fall in love and have a relationship! He did not fall in love; he leaves for Italy in a few days.
He’s gonna stay here and he doesn’t have a job? How’s he going to pay the rent? She gave me a look.
It’s good he’s an artist; he should stay an artist. But what was he thinking? This is New York!
That’s one of the things I like about New York: You can say you’re an artist or a writer or a dancer and people will take you seriously, because here these are practical occupations. You are not dismissed as a flake for pursuing this work, even with the recognition of the unlikelihood of making of living doing only this work.
New York: the place for practical dreamers.
AbsurdBeats 