Transatlanticism

What's On David's iPod?
Transatlanticism
Death Cab for Cutie
Transatlanticism

Ran roughly four miles. Man, Sunday it is a free-for-all, everyone running in every direction. Keep your head up.

I ran the route twice, alone, and then past the East 72nd Street entrance so I could walk around the Bethesda Terrace. And then that song came on my iPod, as if on cue. An anthem of isolation in the crush of humanity. A 21st century version of Peter Gabriel's Here Comes the Flood or something.

Walking around that stunning fountain, keeping my eye on the angel, squinting in the sunlight. I want to say something profound about New York, but I can't. Brian and I were having a conversation earlier this week about how self-referential this place is, how bored he gets with plays or movies that feature NYC as a character. I used to feel like that.

Listening to Simeon, Harris and Israel last night, arguing about the sainthood vs. damnation of Robert Moses, and the innaccuracies of Queens in the Spider-Man movies ... I mean, I thought I was self-involved.

But how many wonderful, awful places can be concentrated in such a small area? How can you not be overwhelmed? When I look outside my home, I see a street, a tree, a sidewalk. Children who can play in the street. I do not see speeding cars, or garbage, or skyscrapers, or angels, or madmen or geniuses or fantasy or danger or dreams.

How can you live here? How can you not?