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Long ago, in the days of banana seats and handlebar fringe, I rode all over town.
I’m standing outside the dorm rooms. It’s nearly the night, the sky a heavy blue, the trees turning black, the street lamps have come on.
It was that night, technically the next day but only moments into it when the bluebottle disturbed my sleep, knocking its clumsy wings and sets of eyes against my window.
I can relate, I can understand but I’m not being allowed to see anything, read anything, experience anything that I want to experience in real life.
Novelists are caught in a double bind. The novel is a sprawling expanse that offers us the scope for detailed excavation and explanation.
After dinner, we headed home, oblivious that Miami in general, but 79th Street and Biscayne Boulevard in particular, had gone up in flames.
In May, my friend Kari told me about the Festival of the Future series of indoor and outdoor exhibits at the New Museum on Bowery.