I’m just in from voting. Outside, the air is appropriately swamp like. I say “appropriately” because the concerns–how to repair a state divided by economics, the continued diminishment of the middle class, and so on–are swamp like. One could drown in the mud of the city’s “improvement” having taken precedence over the ethics and public lives of its people. Entering the voting hall with headphones on, linen shorts, sneakers, I gave one of two female registrars my driver’s license. I said my name. At the same time the woman who was signing me in said, This is Tribeca! Then, surprised, looking at the register: Oh, here you are! Pause. Her companion said: You have a name like a jazz musician. I said: I’m not, and turned my attention to the woman who was handing me my green registration card. The woman who said I had the name of a jazz musician said: But that’s what your name sounds like! The same old story. Since your name sounds like what I imagine why aren’t you the thing I imagined?
By the time I’d finished voting, the woman who wanted me to be something other than myself had disappeared, perhaps to imagine herself as something else. But I doubt it.
Its like you read my mind! You seem to know a lot
about this, like you wrote the book in it or something.
I think that you could do with some pics to drive the message home
a little bit, but instead of that, this is fantastic blog.
An excellent read. I will definitely be back.