Stacy Horn

I went to Washington Square Park Monday night to hear Elizabeth Warren speak. She gave the most moving speech I’ve heard since the Obama days. I wish I could remember the whole arc of her speech (you can look for it and listen) but she began and ended with the story of the Triangle Shirtwaist Fire. By showing just how big structural change has happened before and how it took place in the face of as much if not more opposition that we have today, she made me believe we can do it again. I don’t know if she’s ever going to tell this story again, and in this way, but I would love to email her team a couple of historical details that could be added and would tie the points she was making into her plan to make the criminal justice system more just.

I got there too late to actually see her, but I heard her and I teared up several times. Here’s a shot and a very brief video.

Seen in the Jane Street Garden on Hudson Street. This perfect tree (there were two of them). And …

This flower. What flowers bloom in September?

Three landmarks as seen from Roosevelt Island (what I called Damnation Island in my book about what happened there in the 19th Century): the UN, Empire State Building and the Chrysler Building.

It’s that time of year again. I was coming home from work and saw that they were testing the Tribute in Light. It’s beautiful, but I would like to retire this installation because it confuses migrating birds, trapping them in the light. It didn’t seem as bright as in the past. Maybe they’re trying a lower illumination to see if that lessens its effect on birds.

Whenever a book I’m reading mentions nostalgia it’s to point out that nostalgia is bad. I just finished Recursion by Blake Couch, which was absolutely wonderful, but he’s in the nostalgia-is-bad-camp. I guess if you completely surrender to it, that’s bad, but a little nostalgia indulgence is okay … right?

I recently posted a picture of a speaker in the sub-basement of the ASPCA that took me back, and below is a shot of more old-time speakers that I pass by on my way to work. It’s a display window in the store at the Times Square Subway Station.

About twenty feet from this window is a Hare Krishna guy who sings that damn song, “Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna, Hare Hare …” every damn morning. I keep worrying that it will become a brain worm, but then it occurred to me: this guy has sung this mantra so many times he must have carved it into his brain by now. He probably hears it in his head day and night, every single second, ceaselessly, unendingly. Poor guy. But maybe it brings him peace.