(click on the pic to enlarge)
Used to dwell in the West Village. Years. Loved it, never wanted to be anywhere else. Pocket-size studio with view (oblique) of Twin Towers… coming tragically, tragically down, then Freedom Tower phallusing up and up, no distance from Gansevoort, underseeing the High Line transit from rusty track to Arcadian trail. Very trendy.
No longer. I’m Manhattaned out—ever since my outgoing curved inexorably north of income—out of the trend and into Sheepshead Bay, but not at all near the waterside with the fishing boats and restauraunts—rather, deep in the two-family-house Street-and-Avenue hinterland.
Next door is Chinaman. We wave (he never learned English). Across the street are the Russians (nice ones, we wave too) and the Poles and that. I speak actual words to third-generation-Judy on our other side. The area has its cool cats as well. They stare with hungry eyes through the window from the rear stoop. They’re all black and all related by different degrees—mostly incestuous—to Big Daddy black with cauliflowered ears who never begs. The couple I rent from keep an eye out for them, often providing their meals, surgeries and placements. And now these good people have taken me on as well. It’s nice here and I’m not missing the trend of the city one little bit. This augers well because it’s doubtful I’ll be the only Manhattan ex-owner turned outworld tenant.
Here’s the thing: studio gone opens up great opportunity for new life as Flying WestVillageman (like Flying Dutchman, but much more enjoying it) an excuse to go flooping all over the world—Ker-pow—it’s just hit me! I wrote a story, 1980ish, where a global fellowship of non-taxpayers, blown by the winds of chance, floated around the planet in loony airships: Airnomads.
[Dratt!! I've been surfing and there's already an airnomad@gmail and an airnomad@yahoo and an airnomadicdotsplot website or two... Too late, the trend's taken orf without me.]