"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix; angel-headed hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dyn..."

-Allen Ginsberg

This story brought to you by The Foggy Dew as sung by Sinead O'Connor

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Grit and grime and dirty windows and even dirtier looks. Uneven cobblestones trip certain feet that pace the streets with purpose and speed. No one lingers, simply because they are being rushed along by the ebb and flow of their lives, the lives of the people around them, by the city itself and its intentions. It is dazzling; this faded and sun-washed parade of crime, riches and opportunity. There are those who work in the ash spewing factories and the claustrophobic sweat shops. There are those who steal in the crowded canyon avenues and the back streets of Red Hook and Five Points. There are those who barter and trade and exploit and call it work. That is the word they yell out to their wives as they leave the house in the morning, or return in the evening, but it is not what they do in the in-between.

What can one do in a city of such corruption and beauty? It can be too much to turn the corner with equal probability of finding murder or salvation, the flash of sunlight on a tall building’s window, a glimpse of the temple that hangs suspended over the river between Manhattan and Brooklyn. It is a matter of finding loyalties, whether they be to people or to boroughs. It is a matter of survival and making sure one has the will to get up each morning. The solution is finding solace in the fact that ultimately the city is a good thing, a beautiful place, although it make take many twists and turns to get there. If one can come to that understanding, than it is not so difficult to believe the same thing of the human race, which can be a most heartening thought.

It is in the individual that one must rely on; individual people, individual places, moments, voices. The city in unity is too much, too loud, too large, too strong, an overwhelming wash of smells and movements. There have been a few brief moments when New York has swelled up in one cresting wave to crash over the country like tsunami, and it has resulted in fire and death, but also beginnings. For change, unity is necessary. For survival, individuality is key. For survival, change is inevitable.

Relationships between streets and store fronts, the pigeons in Times Square and the hawks that nest in the sky scrapers. There is connection in everything, yet everything is disparate. It is possible to live one’s whole life in a city of millions and be more alone than the loneliest rock atop the loneliest mountain. That is the moment when one must find the place, or the person, who can be held close and whispered to. Worries and fears must be spoken aloud at some point, permitted to become reality, so they can disappear, and speaking them to a willing ear, whether it be flesh or stone, is always better. Connection, between one being and another, the individual grasping of hands, smiles from strangers, good Samaritans, without those it is easy to lose hope, to create a jaded mask that is so simple and so tempting to hide behind. Individual connection is human, is understandable, is desired, is essential.

In New York, it happens so often, with such desperate fervor, that one can feel it walking down the street. It hits low in the gut, sending tremors up the spine, around the heart, behind the eyes so that it is necessary to pause and catch one’s breath before moving on. A blissful trembling in the sound of traffic and ships, but most importantly, of people. Without people, a city is nothing, without connection, people are nothing. It thuds, it clutches, it keeps blood pumping and minds whirling. It saves.