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And this is a small part of life in this city: last night was Patti Smith, reading at Barnes & Noble; she was fierce and alive and funny, and everything you would want Patti Smith to be. Today was a job interview; I could look out the window, and see cars' taillights stretching up Eighth Avenue like holiday decorations. Then, when the interview was over, I took the C train uptown, to 72nd Street.
If you turn right onto Seventy-second Street, you could see where it happened; not today, though. It's enough to have the Dakota- the apartment building from Rosemary's Baby- looming over me; instead, I cross the avenue to Central Park. There are several camera crews there, with professionally intent people asking questions; I avoid those (although I don't manage to avoid the person, nice enough, who asks me the assassin's name. "Mark David Chapman," I mutter; the day seems a bit colder).
There's a crowd standing in a circle around the Imagine mosaic, quiet and respectful; I had half-hoped people would be singing. Instead, they're quietly staring down at the mosaic, now decorated with flowers, and albums (no CDs, which cheers me somehow); green apples, and books, and wire-framed glasses. Handwritten notes, and photographs. Messages of love and peace and loss, from all over the world. After a few minutes, I'm standing at the inner edge of the circle; for a moment, I find myself standing next to a middle-aged British woman, wiping at her eyes. "I don't know why I'm doing this," she says embarrassedly. "So damn silly..." I touch her shoulder for a moment, then kneel; kiss my fingertips, and touch them to cold stone. Then, I am away.
All we are saying,
is give peace a chance...
If you turn right onto Seventy-second Street, you could see where it happened; not today, though. It's enough to have the Dakota- the apartment building from Rosemary's Baby- looming over me; instead, I cross the avenue to Central Park. There are several camera crews there, with professionally intent people asking questions; I avoid those (although I don't manage to avoid the person, nice enough, who asks me the assassin's name. "Mark David Chapman," I mutter; the day seems a bit colder).
There's a crowd standing in a circle around the Imagine mosaic, quiet and respectful; I had half-hoped people would be singing. Instead, they're quietly staring down at the mosaic, now decorated with flowers, and albums (no CDs, which cheers me somehow); green apples, and books, and wire-framed glasses. Handwritten notes, and photographs. Messages of love and peace and loss, from all over the world. After a few minutes, I'm standing at the inner edge of the circle; for a moment, I find myself standing next to a middle-aged British woman, wiping at her eyes. "I don't know why I'm doing this," she says embarrassedly. "So damn silly..." I touch her shoulder for a moment, then kneel; kiss my fingertips, and touch them to cold stone. Then, I am away.
is give peace a chance...
