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12.7.4
white bread
On my way to the library I noticed a young man standing on the street at Nikolai Tesla corner, 40th and 6th and followed him (pure coincidence) into the same library branch and once inside, the same aisle of books, that is, the hold shelf for those whose numbers fall into roughly the third quartile, without ever remembering to look at his face. The face wasn't what I was interested in anyway. It was more a combination of wardrobe and bearing, or perhaps race and social class, or maybe a wishful old-fashionedness. That's the kind of people I notice: people who I imagine look something like what the Glass family would look like, if they lived nowadays. Not like Seymour. Like Buddy, maybe.On a completely different note - belatedly reading the cover of The Stranger's post-election issue made me want to cry. (The Village Voice ran a photograph of Manhattan digitally altered to look like an island in the middle of a wide expanse of water, eradicating Long Island, Jersey, etc. - it did not really impact me emotionally, since I life in Brooklyn...)
