Painting on a construction site
Once in a while I think about the possibility of living somewhere else and I am reminded of how much I love this city, despite everything. As Le Corbusier wrote in 1936, "A hundred times I have thought New York a catastrophe, and fifty times, it is a beautiful catastrophe." Or, in the words of E.B. White in his gem of a book from 1949, This is New York, "A poem compresses much in a small space and add music, thus heightening its meaning. The city is like poetry: it compresses all life, all races and breeds, into a small island and adds music and the accompaniment of internal engines. The island of Manhattan is without doubt the greatest human concentrate on earth, the poem whose magic is comprehensible to millions of permanent residents but whose full meaning will always remain elusive."
I love this city for the freedom it gives me to be who I am.