Spent the day today up in the 80s in the Upper West Side. Spring is fully in swing here, all the trees are pushing out into the world with white flowers. The wider avenues up there were breezy and sunny. It was good to be where it is less crowded, where the crazies don’t cram themselves will-he-nill-he to not share the streets with working stiffs like you, but actually work to occupy the spaces where you stand precisely. We came back down to the village after our relaxing field trip, found ourselves strolling behind a man holding court alone, arguing with voices, who stopped on the corner to get behind the two of us. Unnerving. As we crossed to the other side of the street to be away from him (on E 5th) he stopped his argument with the unheard suggestion maker, stopped his insistence that he just wanted to go home, that he was going to 233 E 5th St. and taking a left, but not these guys, not these guys- and began thanking us as we walked away. Or thanking something. Or just giving thanks.
Even the relative calm and the enormous palaces of the UWS were a welcome change to a spring that, as every year, finds the streets thronged with folks no longer just surviving a chill, but redoubling their efforts to be in your field of attention, in your space, and as crazy as a phalanx of March Hares.
It occurs to me now to pose the question- does the perennial reemergence of bedlam from hibernation like Persephone from the clutches of Hades come by the nomenclature of the March Hare purely through a flight of Lewis Carroll’s fancy, or have Johannes Quotidian Publics throughout the slog of history been given pause to comment on the blossoming madness this season sprouts without fail, ushering the term earlier into the coded parlance reserved for the open secret of naming lunatics than the publication of Alice In Wonderland?
Whatever. Batshit crazies have hatched from their Easter eggs.