New York, New York

Hey guys, I really have nothing to say. I've had a hard couple of weeks. My stepbrother just got out of the hospital (not as bad as it sounds, he had a minor lacrosse injury) and I've been in bed with a cold which may or may not be developing into bronchitis and/or pneumonia (once again, totally not as bad as it sounds). Basically, I'm pretty beat.

I just want to quote you guys something pretty.


"When I think of New York I have a very different feeling. New York makes even a rich man feel his unimportance. New York is cold, glittering, malign. The buildings dominate. There is a sort of atomic frenzy to the activity going on; the more furious the pace, the more diminished the spirit. A constant ferment, but it might just as well be going on in a test tube. Nobody knows what it's all about. Nobody directs the energy. Stupendous. Bizarre. Baffling. A tremendous reactive urge, but absolutely uncoordinated.
When I thinking of this city where I was born and raised, this Manhattan that Whitman sang of, a blind, white rage licks my guts. New York! The white prisons, the sidewalks swarming with maggots, the breadlines, the opium joins that are built like palaces, the kikes that are there, the lepers, the thugs, and above all, the ennui, the monotony of faces, streets, legs, houses, skyscrapers, meals, posters, jobs, crimes, loves.... A whole city erected over a hollow pit of nothingness. Meaningless. Absolutely meaningless. And forty-second Street! The top fo the world, they call it. Where the bottom then? You can walk along with your hands out and they'll put cinders in your cap. Rich or poor, they walk along with head thrown back and they almost break their necks looking up at their beautiful white prisons. They walk along like blind geese and the searchlights spray their empty faces with flecks of ecstasy." (Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer)

activism and meteorology

Maybe it's that time of the semester when everyone is feeling exhausted, but I would also echo Anthony and Sophia in saying that this city takes it out of you. I feel this all the more acutely since I just got back from Miami, where the weather was perfect. It wasn't long after getting back to New York that I was consumed by the usual pandemonium--last night there was a pretty good protest at Baruch against CUNY tuition hikes, but of course it involved a lot of racing cops on scooters, which is becoming something of a sport. Last week we got to experience CUNY police's crowd control tactics, which leave a lot to be desired (see this video, particularly around minute 3). New York feels more and more like a pressure cooker every day.

I am glad to be here right now, though. Being in Miami is like being in the eye of a hurricane; things are calm and the weather is great, but in reality there's chaos all around you that you might just not see. New York is more like the cold front that can move the storm in an unexpected direction. Ok, my metaphor is breaking down, so I'm going to quit while I'm ahead. My point being that this is a great time to live in New York.

Response to Sophia

Sophia,

Some of the same thoughts crossed my mind as I sat down to write this post. I am absolutely exhausted!!!!! This semester has been the most stressful and difficult few months of my entire life. I had so much work I needed to get done over break that I just shut down and did none of it. Had it been someone else who demanded that we start sticking to deadlines for this tutorial, and not myself, I would not have sat down to write this now. I am unsure of how I will be able to get my work done before the semester ends. Clearly, you feel that the city is a huge cause of your exhaustion. I feel that way too. This city has a way of draining the energy out of even someone as hyper as myself. However, I feel differently than you. While your now considering leaving, I am coming to the realization that I can never leave. I think it is fair to say that right now I am feeling far more miserable than I thought I ever would in college. I haven't felt this way since junior year of high school. And, I never thought i could feel it here! But, what worries me most is the thought of leaving the city behind. I would rather bear the misery I feel now for the rest of my life then be back in Connecticut living a calmer life.

Our emotions now should definitely be considered for this course because they reveal the emotions of every New Yorker before us. This city has a way of drawing people in no matter how hard on them it might be. And, it can also push people away! It is absolutely a bizarre phenomenon and one that makes this place so unique!

"Something Interesting"

I fear that I have nothing great to say right now. I've had an exhausting few days. I can't think of much to say about the city, except that I'm slowly beginning to want to leave. When I look at grad schools, I hardly consider the ones here anymore.

--

But what else? I've been watching this again, and again. I don't watch Keith Olbermann that often, but this really got to me. It's a great clip, you should watch it.

Besides that, I've been reading a lot about Occupy Wall Street (including Caitlin's amazing op-ed). I was down at Foley Square during the protest--my co-workers and I left work to march. But, I don't know if there's anything to say about that and the city. Simply that, I can't imagine this starting anywhere. It's becoming reminiscent of the 70s. But, I'm not sure if it has to do with the culture of the city and the sheer mass of people (which, I think, we only begin to get a sense of during these protests) or, as Olbermann suggests, it has to do with New York politics. I couldn't really say.

--

My research is coming along slowly. I regret not doing more during the break. My dad and I talked about ACT UP some when I was home (he was a doctor at public hospitals during the 80s, dealing mostly with AIDS patients). He said that, despite the fact that they were protesting outside of his office what felt like every day, he admires them for getting the national tone to change when dealing with AIDS.

It's called a direct action approach and despite being labeled "militant," they were so helpful to cause. I think I might like to compare their work to what is happening now.

Real Estate

So, I still need the weekend to do some research. But, I know I want to do my project on New York Real Estate. Either, Alphabet City, Stuy town, Harlem, or an area in Brooklyn like Bensonhurst. What fascinates me about the real estate world in New York City is how volatile the market is. It is a constantly changing market. One minute a minute is nice, the next a bad area, then it is being gentrified again. In order to understand the factors that are causing this transition you need to understand world events influencing immigration, countrywide events that also influence immigration or emigration from the city, and social and economic factors within the city. So, I can't give more of an explanation because I want to do more research on these areas and see what is of the most interest to me. But, for now I can say my paper will be on New York City Real Estate.

Transit Workers Union and much more

For my final paper I'd like to continue my research on the Transit Workers Union, particularly their activities in the 30s. I'd like to look at how other labor struggles--in Flint, Detroit and elsewhere--shaped their organizing. I'd then like to look at current labor struggles in New York (Sotheby's for example) and examine how they might also be unique to a moment in time, part of a broader movement. I'm not sure if this is too much to cover in one paper, but in this last paper I'd like to connect the goings-on of NYC to the rest of the country (and beyond). I think we are seeing a reawakening of class consciousness ight now from Wisconsin to Manhattan, and it is interesting to look at how the local struggles we witness are part of a bigger movement, and have been for quite some time.

ACT UP! (Fight AIDS)

Okay, so I think I want to do my final paper on the AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power, also known as ACT UP. They basically started in New York in 1987 because a) there was rumored to be experimental treatments that the general public was being denied and b) they were unhappy with general policies/attitude toward both the HIV-infected community and the LGBT community. It's extraordinary interesting because ACT UP has been criticized for being too "militant" but I think they demonstrate how activism and civil disobedience can lead to policy change so... something along those lines?

HOME STRETCH!!!!

1. LAST 3 BLOG POSTS- THIS MONDAY THE 21ST you must blog about your ideas for a possible research paper topic for the last paper. Then, by the 27th we must have blogged about something interesting about New York City. NOTE the syllabus on December 3rd we must blog about our research paper topics. That is a typo!!! It should say to blog about the tenement museum!!!

2. We must send a rough draft out to each other of our papers by noon on December 4th!!!!! Okay?

3. DECEMBER 8TH WE ARE MEETING TO GO OVER THE PAPERS!!!! That is a Thursday. Lets make sure we confirm a time for that meeting so Caitlin can book the room ASAP because that close to finals the rooms will start filling up. Okay?

4. The last paper is due by class time on December 15th. I went ahead and made an executive decision to make our last meeting the Thursday of that week instead of that Tuesday so we have an extra few days to work on our papers. Okay? This meeting we WILL do at Gramercy Cafe again. Okay? So, we can confirm a time for that when it gets closer. THIS MEETING WILL WE DISCUSS THE BOOKS THAT WE READ: SONNYS BLUES, SUPER SAD, AND TRIANGLE. ALSO, WE WILL HAVE A COURSE WRAP UP!

5. YOU MUST BE AT THESE LAST TWO CLASSES!!!!!! THERE IS NOT A LOT OF CLASSROOM TIME FOR THIS COURSE THAT IS WORTH FOUR CREDITS AND I KNOW IT IS A STRESSFUL TIME BUT YOU CAN'T MISS THESE LAST TWO CLASSES! I AM NOT GRADING THE CLASS BUT I FEEL THAT SHOULD BE PART OF THE GRADE. OKAY?

6. I will be the first person to say that I have been THE WORST ONE every single time it came to making a deadline or being somewhere on time. Proof of that is how late I emailed this last assignment in. And, I was the only one to miss one of our classes this semester. Although, that time there was a legitimate emergency. But, my point is... I have not been a perfect example so coming from me this might sound obnoxious and this is something I NEED to especially try to pay attention to. Also, I haven't paid attention over the semester to this exactly. But, there might even be a chance that this message only applies to me. Either way, it must be said... WE MUST PAY ATTENTION TO THE DEADLINES FOR THE END OF THE SEMESTER!!!! WE CAN'T KEEP POSTING STUFF A DAY LATE OR EXTENDING ASSIGNMENTS!!!! THIS IS THE HOME STRETCH AND THERE IS NOT MUCH LEFT SO WE NEED TO GET ON TOP OF IT!!!!!! OKAY?

SORRY FOR THE DELAY

I do realize that this post is long overdue!!! So, as I mentioned in class... It is so odd how Scott's book, which is my historical fiction, also follows this same period of history that I keep working on. It seems like I am meant to write my historical fiction piece about this period of history. The images Scott showed us in class that go along with his inspiration for his characters were awesome because while reading the book I now have an image in my head for what Rosie looks like. Also, it inspired me to look through old historic new york times articles and google in order to see if any images from this time period inspire me for my characters. I know that the first place I will look is Jacob Riis' old photographs. So, I'll take it from there and see what happens.

Forever

Sorry for the delay in posting guys. It took 143 pages just to get to the point in the novel I'm reading (Forever by Pete Hamill) at which the protagonist, Cormac, reaches New York City from Ireland. Not that the first few chapters weren't interesting. There was a lot of important foreshadowing going on--like Cormac's father instilling in him a love of justice, which is going to make slavery's prominence in America a hard pill to swallow.

Once in New York, Cormac gets some still-relevant advice from a fellow ship passenger: don't let anyone carry your bag, don't accept drinks from strangers and ignore the come-ons from working girls. I appreciate the un-romantacized depiction of New York, which allows Cormac to appreciate the architecture of Trinity Church and City Hall while his friend preaches resentment of the structures because they were built by the English who, he argues, want to impose the Church of England "on people who're not the least bit interested" and who equate "Security" and "Order" with "God and King." While Cormac is in awe of the many languages spoken in New York, he also notices how many African slaves, bought and sold at Slave Market on Wall Street, make up the population in New York. The hard work of willing immigrants is glorified, but the importance of slave and indentured servant labor is not forgotten. which seems appropriate.

Among the Wonderful, and some thoughts

I am reading 'Among the Wonderful' and I'll confess, I feel like I'm rushing through it. I'd like to stop and put it aside, wait until Christmas break to finish it. It's quite an interesting book. Colorful, one would probably be inclined to say. Vivid. Full of life.

While I was reading it, I was struck by this minute detail:

"A distant but growing rumble disturbed Guillaudeu's meal; he walked around the side of the church, looking east until the steam engine appeared. So he was still on Fifth Avenue. The sleek coaches of the new Harlem Railroad clattered by on what must be Fourth" (Carlson 183).

I sometimes feel very privileged to know, even in a vague sense, the area an author describes. Here, she is describing Murray Hill. Even if she were not, I know Fifth Avenue, I know Fourth, I know the feeling of turning down both and examining them. There is something, I think, very special about this. Even if the New York Carlson describes is well over a century behind us,

Michael Cunningham, whom I have a particular fondness for, has similar moments.

In the excellent The Hours:

"Under the cement and grass of the park lay the bones of those buried in the potter's field that was simply paved over, a hundred years ago, to make Washington Square. Clarissa walks over the bodies of the dead as men whisper offers of drugs (not to her) and three black girls whiz past on roller skates and the old woman sings, tunelessly, iiiiiii." (14)

Again, in his new book By Nightfall:

"Finally they reach the corner of Eighth Avenue and Central Park South, where the remains of the accident have not yet been entirely cleared away. There, behind the flares and portable stanchions, behind the two cops redirecting traffic into Columbus Circle, is the bashed-up car, a white Mercedes canted at an angle on Fifty-ninth, luridly pink in the flare light." (6-7)

I think often with Carlson and Cunningham and a million other writers that this gift of describing the city isn't affected. I mean to say, I don't think they leave their apartments or houses and walk, take notes, and write. I think they have so much lived the city that they cannot do anything but write in this this much detail. Clarissa, the character of first Cunningham passage, walks through Soho to pick up flowers for her ailing friend. Cunningham describes her crossing Houston, walking down Spring to where to the florist shop is.

It isn't forced. I see clearly where she is going. I imagine he too sees where she is going because he has taken a similar path. Other writers of other places do this as well. Everything metropolitan writer, I think, has constructed a mental map of their city in their head and their characters live in, walk in it, through actual physical streets.

When I say Carlson's book is full of life, I am talking to some degree about plot because that is there an evident. But I believe mostly I am responding to the way her characters interact with the city as if the city itself was a living organism, a character as well, as detailed and varied as anyone else.

Historical Novel - AMONG THE WONDERFUL

Among the Wonderful, by Stacy Carlson

If you're still looking for a historical novel let me recommend Stacy Carlson's Among the Wonderful. It's brand new.



Also, if you'd like, I could give one of you the manuscript of a novel I wrote in my early 20s about four kids in the Lower East Side. The Triangle fire features prominently.

Meditations in an Emergency

This post is going to be about the poetry. I promise.

But first I have to tell you all that I got arrested with the rest of these nice people in Citibank on Saturday. We were held for 26 hours before we were able to see a judge and finally go home. And so this post is also going to be about dark humor and how wonderful it is.

I think Frank O'Hara is a master of dark humor:

there in the hall, flat on a sheet of blood that
ran down the stairs. I did appreciate it. There are few
hosts who so thoroughly prepare to greet a guest
only casually invited, and that several months ago.

In my view, dark humor doesn't always have to be about death. I think the line, "I am the least difficult of men. All I want is boundless love," oozes with loneliness and self-pity (very dark stuff indeed), but O'Hara also has the courage to laugh at himself. The great thing about this line, though, is that even though my first thought is, "Right, only boundless love, that's all," my next one is, "Well, why not? Why shouldn't someone, why shouldn't we all, expect that?" Laughing in times of despair can be a way to self-medicate, but it is not necessarily a denial of reality. In fact, jokes can make the most poignant statements. I think Jon Stewart's career is a testament to that. Laughing at frustrating or stressful situations can help you work through it without losing your mind.

So back to the arrest. The room (the "pen" they called it) where we were placed to spend the night was unpleasant to say the least. It had hard benches, most of which were placed directly against the wall for maximum discomfort, linoleum floors, concrete walls and no clock (though the meal times were posted). There were three mats on the ground, which we were told for pregnant women, though the guards were "nice enough" to leave them for anyone to use. Of course, when we got there the mats were already taken. We were told there were no more of them and that no blankets would be provided to us. This is around 2 in the morning (no clock...), after being photographed, finger printed, frisked, held in a cell for several hours and then led through hallways and up and down stairs, left in waiting areas and positioned up against walls for questions, while being handcuffed to one another by a "daisy chain."  We had been told several contradictory stories about when we would be released and had our personal belongings vouched before we were informed that the place where we pick our things up would not be open on Sunday, which is when we were to be released. Many of the women I was with would not be able to access their money, car keys, apartment keys, medication or other necessary items when they were let out. Etc, etc. This is all to say that there were some very cranky people trying to sleep on benches early in the morning when one of the women lying on a mat decided to entertain us by singing loudly and talking, mostly to herself. Quite a few of us found her amusing, particularly her method of asking for more toilet paper ("Hey, po po, we need some more tissue paper in here!") But after a while people just wanted to rest. One of the older women I was arrested with entreated her, "Please! Be quiet! Some of us are trying to sleep." The singing woman, who clearly had some mental health problems and/or was extremely high, bluntly said, "No! You're in jail! You're not supposed to enjoy yourself! This way you never come back." Honestly, this was the only reasonable thing anyone had said since we had been arrested. From the cops not letting us leave the bank because it was "too late" to my fellow arrestees thinking they could appeal to this cracked-out woman's sense of reason by explaining that people were trying to sleep, the entire experience had been a hellscape of incompetence and utter nonsense. This nuttly lady had succinctly pointed out what we with our detailed criticisms of "systems," "hierarchies" and "internalized beliefs" had been bitching about all day: jail was designed to torture you so you never want to return. She was my favorite person in jail.

So when after a few moments of silence in which it seemed possible that people would be able to calmly drift to sleep, she started singing, "Five, five, five-dollar foot long," I lost it. I was laughing uncontrollably for several minutes. The only other person with her eyes open asked me what was so funny, but the only thing I managed to sputter out was, "She's singing about a sandwich."

I am the least difficult of women. All I want is to smile while in jail.

Poetry

I love the beginning of Meditations in an Emergency! The way he expresses the sentiment of how New York City can make him feel lonely and unappreciated but at the same time he can't imagine being anywhere else is perfect. I can totally relate to that! New York city is a place of constant heartbreak. It is a place where you walk down the street and see several beautiful people you don't have a chance of ever meeting. It is a place where you go out to a club and several people might be mingling with the person your interested in. It is a place where you have one fun night and then the next night you won't have anyone to hang out with and you'll walk down 3rd avenue and see thousands of people out having fun and it will make you just feel alone and pathetic. However, the thought of not being in the city and taking that risk of getting crushed is worse than suffering through the loneliness at its worst. When I go to Washington Square Park and sit under the trees it is my escape. But, it is only so because I know after spending a morning recovering from the woes of New York City I am only a minutes walk from Bagel Bobs or my favorite jazz club.

The Right Moves

Here's my piece, "The Right Moves," in this Sunday's Times Magazine.

Holly Wales for The New York Times

Jacob Riis

My second paper is going to be about Jacob Riis. This was inspired by the reference to him in New York for Sale. I can't say much about it right now because I want to read How the Other Half Live and look at some of his other work before I narrow down what I specifically want to talk about. But, what I think I want to do right now is talk about his life and his work and then try to analyze his motivations for his work and see whether his intentions were as honorable as his reputation makes it appear. Also, I want to see which reforms specifically were in direct response to his work. And, if I can find it I want to see how he was perceived in the newspapers of his time.

Thoughts for my second paper and reactions to poems

Since I began to really read poetry for myself, and not because of school or any other pressure, Ginsberg and O'Hara have been two of my favorite poets. Ginsberg because...well, for so many reasons, but largely because of the sincerity of his words, the beauty of his language, and that he was incredibly prolific (and for so many reasons beyond that; I have always felt in some way akin to Ginsberg more than any other poet). O'Hara, on the other hand, had Ginsberg's base sentiment--that is, O'Hara, unlike most of the New York School, appears nearly Confessional. O'Hara and Ginsberg, of course, have many of the same influences. O'Hara, however, though extraordinarily prolific, was not comparable to Ginsberg, perhaps solely because he died young, in a tragic accident. I think about that a lot, actually, whenever I read him. What would O'Hara's later poems been like?

Anyway, "Mayakovsky" has always had a special place in my heart. I think, at this point, I could recite most of the poem by memory because I have read it so many times. I do remember, reading it young and then, sometime later, hearing the poem recited on 'Mad Men' and realizing, only then, what a marvel it was. To me, it always seemed like a fight to find oneself. It was not until college that anyone suggested (perhaps correctly) that it was O'Hara struggling through a break-up.

O'Hara, like Ginsberg, has this great ability to articulate feelings that I've largely considered ineffable.

Mother, mother / who am I?

There is a beautiful moment in Barth's novel Lost in the Funhouse (within the short story 'Menelaid') where Menelaus asks the same question and he is met by complete silence (the typography, by the way, is beautiful, seven quotation marks embracing nothing). When I read O'Hara, I think largely of that. Who am I? he asks, and the only answer (a poet) is hidden under his despair for his lover who left him. (If he will just come back once..., What does he think of that? I mean what do I?... everything is secondary to his lover.)

O'Hara has a tendency to do this. He had a series of intense, but often disappointing relationships. Even his friendships were extremely passionate. Who was he? His poetry suggests that he himself only existed as it related to others.

How common a feeling.


--

I'd like to do my second paper on the New York School (of poets, not artists or musicians). However, I can't quite decide what my thesis would be. The New York School is fascinating because, as it suggests, all the poets really did the best of their work in New York City. One or two became ex-pats, but most remained within the area. It was the 60's, approximately. I maybe would like to look at either how it began to develop, or compare the New York School to the Beats, who were of the same approximate era, had many stylistic similarities, had nearly the exact same literary influences, and, of course, lived in the same area.

I'm unsure though. I need to look into this more.

The beginnings of my second paper

For my second paper I've decided to write about street art, specifically the graffiti movement in NYC in the 60s–80s. I'm interested in examining the concept of "public space." Today we see quite a bit of officially sanctioned art that repurposes public space, so I want to look at how the illegality of "bombing"/"tagging" was important to the art form, but also how the concept has been reclaimed in more mainstream or at least more tacitly accepted movements, such as yarn bombing.

#OccupyWallStreet with Nathan Schneider

Take a few minutes and listen to my friend Nathan Schneider, editor of Waging Nonviolence and Killing the Buddha, on today's Brian Lehrer show.

Changing it up

First of all, I appreciate that both Caitlin and Sophia mentioned me in their posts!!!! Now, when we decided to start blogging we agreed that the blog would be used to talk about field trips, class readings, class discussions, class assignments, and other interesting occurrences happening in the city. It seems like we have done a great job of covering all of those bases so good job everyone! I just wanted to remind you again of the open nature of this blog. That being said, I am going to discuss a New York City experience that I had this weekend. Since our syllabus is overloaded with more than enough work, I don't think we can add it but I suggest that we head there one weekend just for a fun time!!!!

On Saturday night, after visiting the Chelsea Galleries, I went to Buschwick to visit Mimo. Previously, I had been to what I believe was the very southern end of it nead Bed Sty and had a pretty bad experience in that it was terrifying to be there at that time of night. However, my experience with this area which is near the L train stop at Dekalb was anything but a bad experience. The streets seemed to be bustling with people till well into the night. Everyone seemed to be smiling and social and having a good time and I would have felt perfectly safe going up to any of them and asking for directions. That night we went to a restaurant to eat tacos and a burger king and I was shocked at how many families and young couples I saw. In Burger King I even talked to one of the families. The little girl kept asking her mother where Burger King french fries came from which is a topic and the mom kept saying she didn't know. Then out loud the mom asked if anyone did know to which I responded that "Hungry Jack's which is a chain in Australia owned by Burger King gets thier fries from Lamb Weston Canada but McDonald's gets thiers from Idaho. Since Burger king and McDonalds use the same processing plant for thier fries they could get thier fries from either of those two locations but since they don't make it public where exactly their fries come from its impossible to know for sure." I knew this information thanks to my intense love of French Fries and my desire to find out how to make french fries that taste just as good as Burger Kings myself. This dream was of course terminated when I almost burned down Third North and decided I wouldn't ever try to make French Fries again. But, none of this is relevant to the post.

There were deli's everywhere! I counted three on one block on one side of the street. But, they were all different which shows how diverse this area is. There was an Italian deli and pastry shop, one thats name was written in spanish so I am assuming it had traditional food from a South American country, and one that was simpled named American-style deli. Also, the general layout of this area seemed very strange and another good word for it would be extreme. One block would be packed while one or two blocks away it would be empty warehouse covered in graffitti and would look like an absolutely terrifying place to be. Then a block away from that it would be a block of super nice apartment buildings followed by a block of run down looking apartments. But, if you went inside of these apartments they would be furnished with the nicest furniture and kitchen appliances. Even on the crowded blocks there would be abandoned buildings and empty lots with barbed wire around them next to very elegant stores and run down little restaurants.

The word I used earlier, diverse, is probably the best way to describe this area because amidst the large amount of multicultured families there were also many different kinds of people present. I saw kids who clearly looked like they were in gangs, 50 year old poets, college students, and an old man filling his coffee mug with vodka before getting in his car to drive somewhere.

Basically, this is absolutely a place to visit. If anything it is worth it just to get out of Manhattan. The air felt fresh in a way it never feels in Manhattan and the lower buildings and quiet streets were most definitely a nice change for a peaceful Friday night.

Also, as a sidenote to Sophia's post, the name of the second gallery we went to was the Tanya Bonakdar Gallery and the artist was Haim Steinbach and it was AMAZING!!!!! SCOTT YOU MUST GO SEE THIS GALLERY!!!!!!!!! I will absolutely be going there again!!!

Bright Eyes, Big City

In preparation for our second assignment, to write about an artist/artistic movement from NYC, I've been thinking about songs that attempt to capture the city. Though they don't have the same cultish following as some of their contemporaries, leading some to wonder if they will be remembered, I'm a pretty big fan of Simon and Garfunkel. Quite a few of their songs claim New York as a backdrop and contain snippets of the city.

Jim Fusilli argues that when Paul Simon "writes at street level, there can be a sense that he's revealing research rather than experience." Though his words may sound carefully crafted and hyper-literary, I find that the elements of "street" life in his songs are so basic as to not possibly require any research.  Take, for example, this verse from "Bleecker Street":

I heard a church bell softly chime
In a melody sustainin'
It's a long road to Caanan
On Bleecker Street
Bleecker Street

Ok, sure, most of us don't think about Caanan while traversing Bleecker Street, but I consider church bells to be a standard part of my life in New York (this was particularly true when I lived across from Grace Church last year.)

When I find myself having to pack sweaters, umbrellas and shorts when leaving my dorm, I find myself thinking about this line from "The Only Living Boy in New York": " I can gather all the news I need on the weather report."

"The 59th Street Bridge Song (Feelin' Groovy)" could have been dedicated to Anthony, and all the other New Yorkers who are in a hurry to go relax:

Slow down, you move too fast.
You got to make the morning last.
Just kicking down the cobble stones.
Looking for fun and feelin' groovy.  

A nervous newcomer to the Northeast, this is my winter mantra:

Then I'm laying out my winter clothes
And wishing I was gone
Going home
Where the New York City winters aren't bleeding me
Bleeding me, going home                    ("The Boxer")

But of course I know "April Come She Will."

Galleries and whatnot

The galleries we went to today were beautiful. By far, the most incredible, for me at least, was the first we attended for the artist Anthony Goicolea, called Pathetic Fallacy. Pathetic fallacy, we discovered, is the act of treating inanimate objects as if they had human feelings. Or, I suppose, simple anthropomorphism. Goicolea—an extraordinarily talented Cuban-American artist who graduated from the University of Georgia—however deconstructs and representatives this topic beautiful. There was one image that was particularly arresting. Unlike the others, which were all generally wall-bound, this one was lying in a case. It was a beautiful sketch of a tree that partially opened to reveal a spine, and it was simply breathtaking. Goicolea doesn’t use color often (he relies mostly on a black and white, sometimes red—which produces a startling effect—or dull blue, green, and golds), but despite this—that is to say, despite the obviously non-realistic interpretation of his subject—there is something startling life-like about it. Not human, not even with the spine. Simply something alive. A good reminder of the life around you.


There was another gallery—this one I sadly can’t remember the name of—and, though I think Anthony loved the bottom floor more than I loved anything we saw, the top floor was, like Goicolea’s work, arresting. Hidden behind slanted walls, there was a small room. On one wall there was horrible kitschy wallpaper, and on the other there was a large black box that in bold questioned You don’t see it, do you? I stared at it for a very long time. There were no colors, only black and white, and the words, which were in a bold white and very even and proud, were oddly challenging. I don’t think I saw it.

***

So I don’t know if this is relevant, but I’ve been working on a paper (fictionalized, or really semi-fictionalized) for another class in the style of W.G. Sebald’s Rings of Saturn. As the entire idea is to talk around your city and write your thoughts I thought I would share it:



This is not my city. I must be like Baudelaire, dragging myself along streets that are no longer mine. Today, and only for a few hours, I went into my office to read, and pass the time by not reading and talking to friends. By the time I left the scaffolding that had been there for months previously—perhaps even years—had been taken down completely. I could see the blue sky. It had been raining earlier that day, a sort of torrential disaster that you feel even in windowless lower-levels. After which, the blue sky seemed absurd.


Paris changes but nothing in my sadness has moved! In the streets the rainwater had already begun to evaporate and my grief felt precise, but rather stagnant.


Right before six my co-workers and I stand below the boarding dock and smoke. We are just below Canal Street, on a corner where you can see the Hudson, and the wind, even on otherwise still days, rustles the trash on the sidewalk and our hair. At certain moments, when the sun is at its apex or just beginning to set, there are two buildings across the water that become literally gold, that shudder faintly against the skyline. The river does the same, if one gets close enough. The water—at moments, gold, at others, iridescent, like oil—can make me homesick. Or rather, it can make me feel far away from home.


My grandfather had a boat and when I was a kid he would take my cousins and I fishing. He could spend hours this way; we could not. We would get loud and fight; we would cry. My grandfather was, for no better words, at peace on the water. Until one day when, after securing and closing the boat, we continued to fish on the dock. At which point my grandfather, partially blind from cataracts that surgery could not reverse, slipped off the dock into the water, where all our fishing lines were tangled.


I was convinced at that age—five, perhaps six—that the world, right then, had fallen off its axis. It was like seeing a giant stumble. I was scared that he would get punctured by a hook; I screamed. His hair was silver then, though it is white now. It looked like a fish’s scales, and when it hit that water, and when he came up for breath and met the sun, it appeared dully metallic. I leaned against the dock, and reached, still crying. He had overcome his panic and was moving toward the ladder. My hand caught on the barnacles on the side; his did as well. There was blood on both our hands.


The moment before he fell, in which I saw the reality of his fall without comprehending it, he was encased by the late afternoon light and looked like one of the saints whose icons are hung upon his walls.


Above Canal, going east on Spring, the Hudson becomes a memory. For awhile the sidewalks are empty and, if you stay on Spring, you see very little of interest—office buildings, apartments, a restaurant here, or a café. To the west, there is a bar that I have gone to once, though the memory feels, somehow, typological and infinite. I remember saying nothing at first then everything at once and letting everyone order for me, and pay. It was hot for June. We were close enough to smell the Hudson.


Approaching Houston, on the west side, it is hard to pass fewer than two subway stops. I never see anyone exiting or entering, except, sometimes if I happen to pass the ACE on West 4th. Though even then, it must be a certain hour and I must remember to have my head pointed somewhere other than the ground.


G­– kissed me on the A going to Brooklyn and before that as we were waiting on the platform in West 4th (and, of course, before that as well, a handful of times I care not to enumerate). G­– kissed me and we said nothing and we were, perhaps, better for it. I felt, in some sad, ego-fueled way, that we were the epicenter of the train’s collective stares and spent the entirety of the trip wanting to leave.


There was a summer when I wanted everyone to look at me no matter where I went. I was haunted by the feeling that I wasn’t real, or that I didn’t exist. I felt like Kierkegaard’s Johannes, holding onto me must have been like embracing a cloud.


G­– clung to me as though as he didn’t see me as an actual body or, perhaps more precisely, as though he didn’t regard any individual body part to amount to anything of value. On the A he fit his fingers very closely against my spine. I hung onto him as I might a pole. And he kissed me, as I have said, mostly to fill the silent. The subway was consumed by a weary weekend silence that makes everything feel deadened and inert, the air even feels lifeless, and people appear, in some ineffable way, subhuman until they depart. And we kissed.


We were not beautiful.


It is not simply that the city comes to life in certain areas; it explodes. And it not only sheer numbers, but the feeling of exuberance and life, which moves like electricity in these populated areas. I see this walking down Houston, and up towards the Lower East Side. I see this in Soho, and Noho, and the West Village as well. All of these hubs of activities, and energy, a strong, consistent current that seems to penetrate the sidewalk and the air. During the day people walk, crowd the sidewalk—I do not know where they go—and at night, they are loud masses in black, huddled in front of restaurants and bars.


Dusk, though, can become quiet for a small amount of time, and sometimes I think it is the only time of day when I am happy here, when the city is something truly recognizable.

The Lower East Side, for no discernable reason, always reminds me of greater poets and so, when at dusk I wander through quieter streets, their words beat through me as though it were my pulse. I think of O’Hara sometimes. R­­– told me once that O’Hara had a way of invading your sleep. I mostly think of Ginsberg.


Strange now not to think about him, and almost impossible, for I’m under the impression that every street that I walk down, he must have walked down once, and loved. Much in the same way I am convinced that he read—as I read now—Baudelaire’s Les Fleurs du Mal and was convinced that the beauty of every metropolis was indebted to that man.


For every street—from crowded Houston, to filthy Broadway, and vibrant Bleecker—reminds me of a poem, or a song. They are constantly the words of others. The absences and ecstasies of the city are not mine, perhaps will never be mine, perhaps can never be. They belong to greater men, though their verses are within me.


Ginsberg speaks of his greater loves of the Lower East Side. He speaks of his greater loves of Lower East Side and often, when I am walking home from work, or during class, or in the middle of a kiss, I feel those words rise up. His greater loves—


I have never been in love, not in any way that has mattered. I often wonder about the men Ginsberg had loved (an innumerable list, perhaps, as O’Hara would say) and I think that I too would love them.


Though, perhaps, this signifies nothing.


My room isn’t near the water. At night, when I go out to walk or smoke, I loop around a few blocks that don’t take me anywhere and I wish I were somewhere other than this. I feel ghostly, often, and non-existent. Like a foreigner, I feel that I’m speaking in a strange tongue.

#OccupyWallStreet

I really have nothing insightful to say right now, but maybe we can start discussing this?

R.E.M.

Please forgive me for taking a few days to get to your posts this week. I had the opportunity to write a little something about the breakup of R.E.M.

R.E.M. - Madison Square Garden, June 19, 2008

For your consideration:
"Leaving New York."

Movies

With the depressing story in Patriot Acts followed by the several tragedies that occurred in Midnight Cowboys it is clear that this was not meant to be a very positive week. At least On the Waterfront had a positive ending even if it took a few deaths and beatings to get there. Despite the depressing content, I think it was very beneficial to see a darker side of New York.

I am particularly happy that we saw these movies right before reading the chapters in Caitlin's book. Before learning about the effects of gentrification it is important for us to know the New York City of yesterday and today. Midnight Cowboys showed us a shadier Time Square than the one we know today which was an adequate representation of many parts of Manhattan at that time. It also showed us how that clashed with the prim and perfect wealthy Upper East Side residents. Today this clash is fading because virtually all of Manhattan is in the process of being gentrified or will soon be swallowed up in this process along with many parts of the outer boroughs as well.

While On the Waterfront was technically in Hoboken, what happened there could have easily been a story in Brooklyn or Hells Kitchen. These union or political "Bosses" who were really just gangsters had significant power from at least the 1890's straight through till the 1960's (complete estimate). It is an important part of a larger history of corruption in New York. It is important to remember a fading part of history especially as many warehouses and factories on the water are closed down every year and the docks are beginning to look more and more like ghost towns. Also, the corruption of these little unions can and should be compared to the corruption of those looking to gentrify and reshape New York City.

New York through film

Though the two movies we watched this week share little in common other than the fact that they take place in New York City (they don't even take place in the same borough), they both depict what seems to be a zero sum game of success and wealth in the city. Midnight Cowboy does this by showing the bizarrely symbiotic intersection of the glitzy world of NYC--pristine penthouses and high-end jobs--and its sketchier side of desperate junkies and prostitutes. On the Waterfront's portrayal of corrupt union bosses that exploit workers demonstrates even more plainly the phenomenon in which a few big winners rise to the top while most people are left behind.

The stark juxtaposition between the rich and the poor is something many observers of New York (and indeed most major cities) have noted, and I think we will have an opportunity to discuss this further when we look at New York for Sale, which examines this through the lens of the real estate market and urban planning. I'm looking forward to getting all of your perspectives on that.

Movie Time

Despite being set in New Jersey, On the Waterfront has something very New York in feel. It might be the view of Manhattan that is constantly in every scene. It might be that Hoboken feels somewhat like a borough of Manhattan (perhaps because it is in the Metropolitan area). Added to this the fact that the Father in the film is said to have actually practiced and resided somewhere on the West Side of Manhattan, and that the movie was based off a series of stories about crime centered on the waterfront of Brooklyn and Manhattan. The effect, overall, is oddly New York though somewhat outer-borough.

On the Waterfront is incredible for so many reasons. First, and not only, it is gorgeous because of the cinematography. Though sometimes decidedly outdated at times—think of all those close-ups on the peoples faces—the sense of place in the movie in fantastic. They did, in fact, do most of their shooting in Hoboken, which accounts for the beautiful instances of the Manhattan skyline in the background. I personally love the rooftop scenes, with their endless rows of diverse roofs, and smoke rising, the pigeon coops, and sometimes the waterfront in the distance. It’s really quite a beautiful movie. I don’t think it’s a subtle movie, but it does bear analyzing. For instance, on the rooftop are we not supposed to call into question the parallel between Terry and his birds? They are both, essentially, inherently, trapped.

On another note, Midnight Cowboy reminds me of how gritty the city—I’ve heard—once was. Those fabled times when Times Square was sketchy rather than the commercialized zoo it is now. It is interesting to see the city then. Anthony pointed out the lack of diversity. I would say that the city was diverse, but not as it is now, and not in the same way. That is an interesting comparison to note. Plus the movie, which was filmed in 1969 and we gather is supposed to be contemporaneous, shows a different sort of take on the culture and era—there was one moment when they, quite literally, shoved their way through a protest. It is interesting to have the counterculture—specifically that counterculture (apparently hippie), because there are other countercultures presented—be a backdrop rather than a focus.

Patriot Acts Response

[sorry for the delay, computer issues and the like]

I took a class last semester called “What is Islam?” that not only gave a good background to the religion, also posed many questions about Islam in the modern world. In particular, we read many chapters from Mamdani’s Good Muslim, Bad Muslim, first at the start of the semester and then, again, at the end, right after the assassination of bin Laden. I bring this up because the issues Mamdani raises concern Adama’s story.

Mamdani posits that, after 9/11, there were two types of Muslims in the view of most Americans—good and bad. This view was solidified by the fact that shortly after the attack President Bush spoke to the American people reminding them that they should not conflate Muslims with terrorists, and that good/American Muslims will demonstrate this by helping America with its aims (that is broadly to keep our country safe, but also the various international policies that arose post-9/11). However, Mamdani rightly concludes that by forcing Muslims to prove their goodness we are assuming inherent badness from them. Beyond that, we are attributing inherent morality with a religion. Even further, we are conflating a religion with an entire personal identity and with morality.

So beyond simple horrible circumstances, I think what signaled Adama out was the fact that she was a highly visible target. She noted that when she first went back to the city she was wearing a niqab, which is (Scott, please correct me if I’m wrong, it’s been awhile since I’ve taken the course now) one of the most restrictive coverings one can choose, and thus one of the must visible. When Adama was at the airport and she was met with cries of “Go back to your country, you Talibini, go back to Osama bin Laden,” it was not simply brought on by the fact that she was Muslim, by the fact that she was visibly Muslim.

Again, someone correct me if I’m wrong but when I was younger I do vaguely remember a series of hate crimes against Sikhs. A visibility thing. Something to set them apart.

I almost feel like there’s nothing left to say, because we’ve heard it so many times. I don’t mean to be jaded; I feel fresh despair for every new story but I can’t help but to recycle the same rhetoric. She was punished for being Muslim. Our country became, at its highest levels, systematically bigoted and jingoistic. The idea of visibility stands out in this story because of how much I’ve found Islamophobia deals with appearances (do they look Muslim?) and how she was proud to veil, but then gladly stopped—all her choice. It does, ultimately, I think confirm what Mamandi proposed: after 9/11 all Muslims were bad until they proved themselves good, and unfortunately the government did not want to listen.

Similarly with images, I believe America had a tendency to conflate the image of the terrorist (and, of course beyond that, the endless stream of the towers falling, that hellish inferno) with all of the Muslim and Arab/Persian world. They were so deeply entwined for so many for so long that stories like this do not surprise me. I do want to put two things forward.

First, I’m sure you’re aware that France has been passing laws against—technically any covering of hair or face, but it is clearly an anti-burqa law. Thoughts?

Second—I’m a huge fan of the Daily Show and Jon Stewart actually had a very moving speech right after bin Laden was shot. He said that because we have removed this symbolism of hate from the world, we no longer had to think of the Muslim and Arab world and think of him, we could think of the revolutionary action in Egypt, all of Arab spring, and so much more. It simply reminded me of this story.

"Lost and Found"

I'm listening this Sunday to the WNYC show "Selected Shorts." One of the pieces on the show is an essay by Colson Whitehead called "Lost and Found." It's a look at how we all have "our" New York, complete with its own history. This isn't the description of this week's show, but you can listen to the piece, read by Alec Baldwin, if you click here and look for this episode.

New York “Lost and Found”
This special program recognizes the 10^th anniversary of the tragic events of September 11, 2001, and celebrates the resilience of the human spirit and the character of New York City. Colson Whitehead’s essay “Lost and Found” was originally published in The New York Times Magazine on November 11th, 2001—one of a series of special commissions asking writers to celebrate the city in the wake of the 9/11 terrorist attacks. For this program, we offer Whitehead’s essay in a touching reading by Alec Baldwin, paired with an arresting story by the Japanese writer Haruki Murakami, “U.F.O. in Kushiro,” read by Ken Leung.

Colson Whitehead

Alec Baldwin

Read the piece here, originally published in the New York Times Magazine.

Wow

While her story is a terrible one, the truth is that it is not even remotely close to being the first story of that nature that I have ever heard. And, I highly doubt that Sophia and Caitlin were shocked by what they read or that this was the first time they have ever encountered the horrors of the post 9/11 backlash against a multitude of people that it didn't make sense for America to target or relate to Osama Bin Laden.

Since I was a sophomore in high school I have been learning about the horrors of female circumcision and about the way the innocent suffer, often at the hand of the government designed to protect thier rights, because of racism. While reading such accounts or watching documentaries on them I always used to be disgusted by what I was learning. However, the reality of it never quite hit me. Promptly after finishing a reading, documentary, or discussion about what was happening in the world my brain would start to be consumed by topics more close to home such as my school work or my love life. Knowing about these stories wasn't enough to truly come to terms with the fact that they are not a part of a far off place that doesn't effect my life and the people around me but rather a series of disasters that is happening in my own backyard to people that I might have passed on the street at some point.

For me, it was the mention of Varick Street that suddenly made me feel like someone had hit me in the chest. I walk back and forth on that street to get to and from places. I sneak into clubs on Varick Street. I go on dates on Varick Street. I show my friends from out of town Varick Street just to try and show off how I know cool spots in the city that they as tourists most likely won't know about. I do all the typical college shenanigans that college students do and a series of immature shenanigans to attempt to look cool on Varick Street. Suddenly, I couldn't help but think back to every moment I've ever spent on that street and picture myself lying against the wall of a building while a 16 year old girl is being strip search and forced to open her butt cheeks for a 30 year old FBI agent.

This left an eerie feeling in my stomach in a way that I have never felt before. It made me truly see what is happening around me for the first time. And, what I took away from her story was a simple realization. When I hear people around me make comments like "The terrorist are from Afghanistan and the Middle East." or "The terrorist are Muslims." or the words Arab and Muslim being used interchangeably it really is my duty to correct them. While these comments aren't hatred infused comments and while they aren't on the same scale as a 16 year old girl being forced to be strip searched, it is the ignorance behind such lines of thinking that lead to the acts of cruelty Adama suffered. Every single day such comments need to be shut down in regular conversation because together these ignorant comments shape the mindset of a society which inevitably leads to the dehumanization of certain people and therefore the abuses that Adama faces.

If the government creates such practices of abuse clearly it is not afraid of the risk of exposure. Which must mean that the government is confident that the people will not oppose these measures enough to oppose the government itself. Therefore, the mindset of the people must be addressed first!

Patriot Acts response

That line, "I didn't know I wasn't an American until I was sixteen and in handcuffs." Wow. What a great opening line for a story. Too bad it's a true story.

The sad/funny thing is that as the forward by Karen Korematsu reminds us, suffering injustice at the hands of her government in the name of "security" puts Adama in good company in American history. I wouldn't go so far as to say that her experience makes her "more American," but it certainly doesn't make her less so.

Though Adama's story is extreme, it also has many elements in common with the stories of countless immigrants in New York, past and present: detention (and fear of detention), working multiple jobs to support a family, discrimination, having to explain her customs to kids in school...a lot of this sounds familiar. While this story is appropriate for a book on post-9/11 America, it could also fit into a collection of stories about immigrant children. After all, how many teenagers only learn that they are undocumented when they are about to apply to college? The constant fear that that brings, I would imagine, is something akin to what Adama felt when she tried to board an airplane. Even having officials barge into her home in the middle of the night reminded me of stories I've heard about ICE raids. Last year I met an undocumented Haitian man that had to wear an ankle bracelet the way Adama did. So although there hasn't been (I hope) a rash of young girls being falsely accused of planning terrorist attacks, and although Adama's story is highly disturbing, it also strikes me as part of a pattern that dates back many years before 9/11.

Occupy Wall Street pics

I thought you guys might enjoy some photos I took of the occupation of Wall Street the other night (be sure to hit "Read More"):

 This poor man is doomed to have flyers thrust at him for all eternity--a New Yorker's hell.

From A to Z

Since you've all posted about a NYC book I've never read but that you've found fascinating and insightful, I thought I'd quickly do the same. Several years ago someone turned me on to David Dunlap's From Abyssinian to Zion: A Guide to Manhattan's Houses of Worship.

The book is set up like a travel guide, pointing out and describing all the places New Yorkers pray and meditate, etc., but it has an added feature of remembering as many of the old and forgotten houses of worship as it can, publishing photos and describing, just for example, a church, All Angels', that once stood in what's now the middle of Central Park.

Book Review/Jazz Club/Panel Discussion

So, I guess this week the theme ended up being book reviews. And, with such good suggestions it makes me wonder whether we should take another look at the syllabus and see if we should make some changes. Since the three of us have a book we are suggesting I am assuming that means that we clearly have all read at least the book we are reviewing. So, maybe we cut a book or two that we have all read out of the syllabus (such as Catcher in the Rye) and instead we read the books that our other two classmates suggested. Also, I have a copy of the book that was presented at the panel on Tuesday night and maybe, since Scott is familiar with it and currently teaching it, he can pick a story or two from it for us to all read and I can make copies for all of us. I feel that might also be a necessary contribution to the course seeing as the 10th anniversary just occurred and that is such a significant part of the past and present of the city that is the focus of this tutorial. But, lets discuss this all on Tuesday!

Now that all of that is out of the way, on to my book review. Crossing the Blvd is a collection of oral stories that was collected by Gallatin's own Judith Sloan and her husband Warren. It is a collection of stories from refugees who now reside in Queens, NY. It captures all of their unique stories about where they came from and how they ended up here along with their varying perspectives of New York, American culture, and our American government. I love this book because it shows how diverse this city is and how many opportunities there are to learn about the world just by getting out there and conversing with the people around us.

Now, about our Jazz Club experience... Caitlin, Sophia, and I went to Fat Cat. It is located on the corner of 7th ave and Christopher Street just a block away from the renowned Stonewall. Needless to say, there is an interesting and very liberal crowd that frequents this club. While many music lovers roll their eyes at Fat Cat and suggest a more traditional club, like the Lenox Lounge or the Blue Note, I dig the atmosphere here. I love all the games that are available to play and the neon lit back room. The jazz was very good and I think we had fun seeing the varying people inside from the NYU students to the business types who stopped in for a drink and some Jazz after work to the artsy foreigners who came in for some chess and intellectually stimulating conversation.

Jumping on the book review bandwagon...

I’m reading Tom Angotti’s New York for Sale for one of my classes, and I wanted to share this little excerpt with you guys: “New state legislation in 1974 marked the beginning of the end for strict rent controls and the phasing in of rent stabilization, which allowed for gradual rental increases. One of rent stabilization’s unforeseen consequences, however, was that is extended the life of tenant organizing and rent strikes, now a virtually permanent fixture in community life.”

This strikes me as a theme throughout the book—though constantly faced with the prospect of displacement, gentrification, the prospect of a waste treatment plant in their neighborhood, etc. communities in New York have organized heavily to try to create the city they want to live in. As an outsider, I am frequently struck by the culture of activism that exists here. Last year I think I attended more demonstrations in New York than were even held in Miami in that time period (and I didn’t even go to that many.)  I imagine this has a lot to do with the history of the place—it has had a lot of time to generate that kind of culture—and of course the sheer density of people. But also I think the city promises so much, presents itself as the center of the universe even, so it seems natural for its residents to allow themselves to have high expectations. Whatever the reason, I feel grateful for all these organizers past, present and future that make sure New York is a city worth living in.

Super Sad True Love Story

I began to reread Gary Shteyngart’s superb Super Sad True Love Story this week, due to a mixture of sickness, lack of interest in my current reading selection (Genet’s beautifully written but difficult Our Lady of the Flowers), and the simple fact that Shteygart has written an incredibly moving and humorous story. Super Sad True Love Story takes place in the near future, in an America that is recognizable though very different, right here in New York. America is about to default on its credit (to China), there is a long war between America and Venezuela, and they live in, as Lenny Abramov says, a “post-literate” society. It is an extraordinary work of contemporary fiction.

Most extraordinary is Shteyngart’s beauty of language and his ability to describe New York with an appreciation and melancholy that could break your heart. As the New York Times says, Shteygart’s portrayals of the city “are infused with a deep affection for the city that is partly nostalgia for a vanished metropolis…and partly an immigrant’s awestruck love for a place mythologized by books and songs and movies…” Despite the darkness of the work overall (though the darkness is hidden well under the overall satire of the work), New York itself, the city of Shteygart’s dreams, retains its beauty.

There is one beautiful moment (there are, in fact, multiple beautiful moments of this) when Lenny describes the city on “a day…when the sun hits the broad avenues at such an angle that you experience the sensation of the whole city being flooded by a melancholy twentieth-century light, even the most prosaic and unloved buildings appearing bright and nuclear…and when this happens you want to both cry for something lost and run out there and welcome the decline of the day” (204). New York City is lost for Lenny, who it would seem grew up in a different era, one before the “decline.” His accounts are, more than anything else, nostalgic for that.

Shteyngart is, of course, neither the first to write of the city nor the last. I feel, however, that he joins a very important tradition. I feel, ultimately, that despite the hardships one endures within it, writers will continue to write of it affectionately and movingly. Think of Henry Miller, or William Burroughs, or any of the other downtrodden writers. Despite their struggles (Miller was, after all, destitute essentially, and Burroughs was… beat), their descriptions of the city are so full of love and carefully crafted detail. Shteyngart similarly creates a nation on the edge of despair, but the one thing that remains is the beauty of the city.

Though, of course, I’ve noticed that there is an essential longing that is pervasive within these works (the feeling of it was beautiful once), what remains clearer is the devotion of artists to the city. This, I think, will always remain.

Williamsburg

Within seconds of stepping out of the M train at the Marcy Avenue stop the differences between Williamsburg and downtown Manhattan became apparent. For starters, the subway stop is not only above ground but on a bridge on top of the city street. As we walked down the steps and onto the street I was shocked to find the street nearly empty and that most of the stores on it were closed on a Saturday afternoon. As we walked around I realized that it wasn't just a quiet area. This was the vibe of all of Williamsburg. It's a very quiet part of the city with a lot less activity than Manhattan. You can expect to walk down any random block on a Saturday afternoon and expect to see nobody else walk by you. And, if there is someone else walking down the street, there is a chance that it could be a Hasidic Jewish man going down to the waterfront with his son or a hipster discussing poetry with his girlfriend, both of which we saw walking down the street. The only signs of significant weekend activity were the basketball courts we passed by which were filled with several African American men playing pick up games of basketball. This, along with the friendly nature of all of the people we came in contact with, definitely made Williamsburg feel like a suburb which is not at all what I would have expected of an area so close and connected to downtown Manhattan.

With a few exceptions, the buildings are only a few stories tall and most of which have this shabby run down kind of look that comes complete with some form of graffiti present. And then, as you get closer to the waterfront there are abandoned warehouses side by side with construction sites for new luxury apartment buildings. Which, given the abandoned look of the neighborhood and the nations ailing economy, makes me concerned about whether or not there is or ever will be a market for this extensive development. The walk from the Williamsburg bridge down to the Brooklyn Bridge brought us through a more residential area. Then, after walking past a housing project, the area right by the Brooklyn Bridge looks dramatically different than the area around it. It's not the buildings that make it look different. They are still warehouses next to apartments next to shorter buildings. It is the people, lack of graffiti, and content of the stores in the area that stuck out and made it clear we were entering a more gentrified area. The people are dressed in suits and dresses rushing to eat at the fancy restaurants that greeted every other street corner. Rather than seeing a hardware store or little grocery store the windows greeted us with antiques, art, and books.

Caitlin was absolutely right in saying that it felt like a social experiment. Nothing felt like it fit in Williamsburg. I had to keep checking Caitlin's google map on her phone to make sure we had not wandered into another part of Brooklyn because each area we passed seemed like it could not be in the same part of the city as the area we just left. This made me very curious about both the history of this area and about what surprises the rest of Brooklyn might potentially have in store for us. We should definitely explore more of this borough in this class.

I have been thinking about Baudelaire a lot, and Haussman’s Renovation of Paris. In 1857 Charles Baudelaire published Les Fleurs du Mal, overcome by nostalgia for his lost Paris and, beyond that, the cities and civilizations before it. “The Swan” remains my favorite poem. “Paris changes! But nothing in my sadness has moved!”

I have been thinking about Baudelaire, and that line in particular, because I feel uneasy in the realization that often I love the city not for what it is, but for what I knew it was, and what I feel it still should be.

Beyond all, the city now makes me nostalgic, the same way the Parisian streets did for Baudelaire. In Brooklyn, Anthony, Caitlin, and I passed a building covered in gorgeous, bright graffiti, and I could only think, for an instance, about the graffiti under the bridges in Athens, absurd images of swarms of bees and slogans of “freedom or death,” and I began to yearn for it. Despite its trouble, I had started to miss Greece. At the restaurant we ate at—some Southern-inspired, hipster locale—my dish reminded me of my mother’s cooking and beyond that her and her sisters, their town in Georgia. Going down by the water, reminded me of being young and having my grandfather take me to the beach. I didn’t miss the beach; I missed being young.

The city has stopped beings the ends for me. It has begun to exist only in relation to pervasive feelings of melancholy.

I don’t think about the city much anymore. I should say, I don’t have my own thoughts on the city because it tightens and rips and cuts and somehow destroys me. Passing the empty factories in Williamsburg is, actually, quite an overwhelming feeling, perhaps ineffably so. You feel the rage of such a waste of space (and the homeless you see everyday…), some vague sense of shame (for the greed of the city, for what it became), some wonder (that this factory, and ones like it, created this village and its skeleton is still standing), and sheer amazement (at the beauty of its silhouette against a cold skyline, somehow, inexplicably). Mostly, though, thinking too hard on it simply makes you sad.

Not only that, my impression of the city feels, perhaps as Foer would say, “once-removed” and my consideration of it is, in no small part, influenced by artists who have loved it before me. Across from the factories was a great patch of land. As O’Hara would say, “I can't even enjoy a blade of grass unless I know there's a subway handy…” I have become a flaneur. I walk the streets to clear my head, and think. I think about Ginsberg. I think, very clearly, his words: “my greater loves of Lower East Side.” Not because I have had any, but because he had and my thoughts and feelings are somehow only cemented in his words. My “absences and ecsasties” are his. And O’Hara’s, and Dylan’s, and Baldwin’s, and many more I can’t name. Even when I lead my own narrative, create my own observations, I feel as if I do not.

Do not misunderstand me. I am in awe of the city. Every morning when I wake up, and see the skyline, I find it unreal that any place could be as stark, and sharp, and sublime. Like Baudelaire, I want to continue to write of my city. But, like Baudelaire, I fear that I am searching for something that is lost. As bright and live and pulsing as the city can be, it still feels like an echo. Williamsburg felt like a book already written, put back on the shelf.