My Father Wishes He Were a Writer, Like Me
Writing was just something I thought happened to people naturally, that whatever wasn’t written was eventually forgotten. And I wanted to remember everything.
Writing was just something I thought happened to people naturally, that whatever wasn’t written was eventually forgotten. And I wanted to remember everything.
This “heritage site” has been home to my family since the 1940s.
Statues and monuments tell us about ourselves mostly, what we hope to remember and be remembered by.
“Utopian communities are inherently tragic because they are always, every single time, doomed to failure.”
In the sky you could watch history happen as though on the world’s most massive TV, and history’s wreckage could rain down on you at the park with your friends.
When a city’s populace is wiped out of its longtime residents, so goes the collective memory of San Francisco.
“As Turkey becomes an increasingly difficult place to live, many friends and peers have become perplexed by my determination to stay here.”
“My girl calls it a balance of New York ambition and Southern hospitality, but I would claim Philadelphia for the Rust Belt.”
“The morning after the attack, I almost broke down when a colleague asked if I was okay.”
“Fashion’s bright lights beckoned me toward New York.”
“The year is the measure of a gentrifying neighborhood.”
“Times Square transformed from an adult sexual wonderland to an urban family playground.”
“Why are people building elaborate residential towers for no one to live in?”
Cities are beautiful in the rain, but only New Orleans bleeds it.
“I was amused, but I also registered that my privacy had been invaded.”
This real life of cityscapes and sidewalks can destroy you.