One of those out-of-the-ordinary days that made sense of the slew of ordinary days. New York had a way of doing that. Every now and then the city shook its soul out. It assailed you with an image, or a day, or a crime, or a terror, or a beauty so difficult to wrap your mind around that you had to shake your head in disbelief.
He had a theory about it. It happened, and re-happened, because it was a city uninterested in history. Strange things occurred precisely because there was no necessary regard for the past. The city lived in a sort of everyday present. It had no need to believe in itself as a London, or an Athens, or even a signifier of the New World, like a Sydney, or a Los Angeles. No, the city couldn’t care less about where it stood. He had seen a T-shirt once that said: NEW YORK FUCKIN’ CITY. As if it were the only place that ever existed and the only one that ever would.
If you’re truly worried about being alone as you wind your way into your later years you should choose a career, or at very least a hobby, that involves meeting and interacting with large groups of new people on a regular basis.
This isn’t a poem so much as a simple piece of advice that they don’t teach in school but probably should.
File under “Things They Don’t Teach in School, but Probably Should.”
That last one I borrowed from Katharine Hepburn. That was her family’s motto, but it’s just so perfect. That’s probably the best one, in my opinion, even if it’s just a quote. I feel like most of the things I would say about my life would be through quotes, you know?
Or maybe I don’t like any of them all that much, I don’t know. Chachi’s was really great, I can’t compete with that shit.