After yesterday's pity party/memento mori, I find myself thinking a lot about the book I wrote, half-wrought, crippled thing though it may be. A lot of it takes place in Central Park and Prospect Park, which are, as far as I'm concerned, the secret heart of the city, its true center, out of which all the magic that makes New York what it is flows, and as I was writing it several years ago, many charming synchronicities encouraged me on my way.
So it shouldn't surprise me at all when, in my boss's office, as we prepare to move our company to another floor during a renovation, she points to a long photograph hanging on one wall and says, "I don't really want to cart it around, so, do you want it?"
It's a picture, almost five feet tall, of Central Park, and of course I take it.
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One year ago today: The New Technique
Two years ago today: Drunk and Cold
Three years ago today: Worst Cabbie Yet
Four years ago today: Is that a good enough answer for you?
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