NYC: no place on earth so governed by paradox. Every cliché holds true and falls bankrupt; it is the best of all possible worlds, and certainly also the worst. It sprints at the future but is hopelessly mired in the most antiquated thinking west of Rome. It is sleek and modern and clean; it is run-down, ruggedly beat up, beautiful only when the lights are out and no one's home. Beautiful: it can be beautiful. Unexpectedly so, because who counts on beauty in a place so large and loud and hulking. There is wealth here truly beyond an ordinary man's imagining. And there is poverty as grim and hopeless as any on earth. It is a thrilling place of coincidence and calamity and sex and surprise — and, yes, also a dullish place of relentless numbing routine, the soulkilling grind of day-in and day-out. It cherishes its routines. It also cherishes its eccentrics, which can seem, on some days, everyone, all the time: not a single normal step in all the millions, everyone a weirdo to his own idiosyncratic degree.
Why should its people be any different? They are not. They're crass, rude, insolent and unfeeling. They are soulless, money-grubbing, worshippers of the deal. Size matters here; your money is your life. They are cocky beyond all justification. They are more bark than bite, they are in fact the bark that disguises the bite's mediocrity — and yet. They work miracles. They get things done, enormous things, things others wouldn't dare to dream. They are restless. They are arrogant, but not complacent. They stay out late at night because they are afraid, afraid, afraid there is someone somewhere, even everyone everywhere, getting more of life than they are, making more of it, and if they could only keep their eyes open until the right moment it would all be theirs forever. They are bold and brash and they take what they want. They pride themselves on takvng what they want — it's a religion with them, a thing they practice at home in front of mirrors. But they want you to take what you want too. They don't mind getting in line, though they have appearances to keep up and so must pretend they do. It's all a game to them, this thing they are, this thing they are always becoming. They are always becoming. They're on the move. Work hard, play hard, fuck the rules. What are the rules? We make the rules.
And they can be kind. They can be gentle and humble and sweet. They are kids from Queens, sons and daughters and moms and pops who know and remember what that means. They can love you. You will not believe it but they can love you. They are just guys with jobs, they are girls who want to have fun, they are boys who want to make time with pretty girls, or pretty boys. They want to fall in love like anyone else. They are a woman pushing her baby. They are a man reading his paper. They drink their coffee in the mornings, watch their televisions at night. They go to sleep decent hours; they have to get up early, catch the subway, go to work.
You come here to be somebody. You also come here to be nobody. The nobodies and the somebodies stand next to one another, neither acknowledging the other, for reasons that are worlds apart but still relative. The myth is all around you and you can hate it but you can't ignore it: what this place is, what it stands for. The famous come and go; so do those no one cares about, or remembers. Possibility is an endless river. Not everyone, though, will get their chance to swim. The knowledge of this is maddening. It is a taunt, a threat, a jibe that punctures your field of vision in every walk down every street. And at the same time there is the joy of being in a place where apologies are almost never required. Whatever your neurosis, your obsession, your weird little habit, you can feel free here to indulge it — just so long as it doesn't require touching (though even this: there are people who wait to hug you — you; anyone; for free — in Washington Square Park, any given weekday). Can't stand walking slow? Walk as fast as you can. Can't stand walking fast? Go at a snail's pace. And no, you needn't bother getting over to one side; people will find a way around. Don't like sitting in the third seat from the left? Get up and move. The truth is that no one will notice, much less reproach you. There is a refreshing capitulation to reality here. The city's favorite saying may well be "It is what it is." You'll hear this ten, twenty times a day. It means exactly what it says, which is a lot. It means we cannot live in a land of wish. It means we live in the world, and the world is real, and reality must be dealt with, congenial or not. The truth may be ugly, but it is the truth. It cannot be escaped.
And there's beauty in that.
