It’s been a strange day. At 1am I was singing show tunes in Duplex with a load of misty-eyed gay men. I was singing What I Did for Love from Chorus Line. Even sung badly (I was pretty shit) it’s a tear-jerker.
At 9.30am I was eating sausages and chattering gayly about our plans for the rest of the week. Once the hurricane had passed. Brunches, shopping, trips to little fishing villages on Long Island. Lovely!
At 2pm I was eating pancakes in Manatus and dreaming of clothes I’d just perved at in the West Village. The shops were mostly closed; many were boarded up. I’d come back in a couple of days, I decided.
The Man and I had gone out to take photos. Most of the time we were just very wet (my vintage faux fur coat smells like my dog Grouse after a lengthy session in a stinky pond) but yes, I suppose, we were blown about by the wind once or twice. Particularly on the avenues, which are so much wider than the streets and susceptible to huge gusts from the sea. Really, though, it was just like being in New York on a shit day.
Now it’s 7.25pm and all hell has broken loose. The news is reporting that a building SEVEN BLOCKS AWAY has just had its front ripped off. I’m watching live footage of it: firemen on cranes which are shaking violently in the wind; the reporter can’t even stand. In Queens, across the river, the street is a river itself. And in Staten Island the reporter is almost horizontal he’s being so violently pounded.
I’m not afraid for myself. We’re on a quieter street, protected from the deadly uptown gusts and furthermore we’re in a new building. There’s no reason why anything would happen. But I’m appalled. You see, I believe the story that New York tells the world. I believe that it’s invincible. A behemoth. Brawny, herculean, inexterminable.
The biggest, the best!
And now it’s fucked.
More tomorrow, if I have internet.