Dear Diary:
As I lie in bed with
windows open that face the street below, listening to the sounds of a
rainy night, I’m certain the mix is like no place else — all amplified
up into my dark room.
The rhythmic dripping
of drainage from the many stories above, which is finding its way to
pools on concrete all around. The crescendo and diminuendo of spray from
hissing tires, and the marcato of car horns and squeaking brakes that
come whether rain or shine. Street-level chatter from groups of
pedestrians hasty to get indoors. A neighbor’s faint smoke alarm,
keeping tempo, from a dinner decidedly in.
Even in my room alone,
New York’s medley always feels right there. It’s a sort of improvised
city symphony, and a kind of cleansing, too.
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