Someone is leaving notes around the East Village. Sad, lonely, plaintive little notes. Handwritten on torn squares of paper. Poetic, sentimental, angry notes.
This one from 2nd and 10th says, "This neighborhood of Bird and Ginsberg, junkies and fags, troubadours of the land, vanished like smoke from the towers. It's so lonely here now...gimme back my city and its ghosts..."
The last line echoes Kerouac, reading with Steve Allen from On the Road: "Walking off alone, the last I saw of him, he rounded a corner of Seventh Avenue. Eyes on the street ahead, intent [or bent] to it again. Gone!”
Is this a kindred soul, this voice crying in the wilderness, "Oh Manahatta, why have you forsaken me?"
You might not see these notes in the jumble of ads and other paper junk taped to the lightpoles and mailboxes and plywood walls. But keep an eye out for them. If you find one, please take a photo and post it on the Vanishing NY flickr page. I feel compelled to collect them.