Saturday, March 12, 2011

East Village

Living in New York city is to be in a state of searching anxiety.

Upper West Side - around the 100s, where I lived, was a mix at the vestige of wealth. At the 110s the roads were no longer lined with the picturesque brownstones. They were soaring facades of beautiful grey and brown stones, curved and lined with sculptures of laughing/melancholy jesters. Or, gargoyles - the guardians of ancient Europe and the church - with sharp angular cuts in stone - the contemporary grasp of the rich to be embedded in aristocratic history. Faded away, and now a place for good bagels.

Or take the adjacent street off Broadway and walk through the bustling Dominican enclave. Their pop music doesn't change much. Look more closely again and find the groups of the Columbia grad students and their ideals - counseling in community clinics, teaching english, music and diving into the intricacies of health care policy. Dealing with the ills of society they are so removed from. Far better people than me.

Now East Village, the new stake out.

An enclave of aspiring bohemians, yuppy hipsters and professionals all searching for vying for an authenticity in life.

Or of style - love the slim cut pea cut, distressed leather boots, caressed denim and wonderfully dark, large and round shades. From the distance but not to the fined tuned eye - its glamor. It's pure fucking fresh. Then take the L train - see the now kitschy flannel and cardigan - the tussled locks - the fedoras - the Dracula cape. Lists, lists, lists.

And the stirrings of search come once again.

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