A trip down memory lane -
- or, if you prefer, library way.
(Throwback Thursday on a Wednesday, because I can be a rebel for noble causes. & books are most certainly on that list, though I'd hope that would go without saying. ;))
Isn't it funny & ridiculous & wonderful that a home can be a place we've only caught fleeting glimpses of? I've found that to be true of New York in general & of libraries in general - but when one combines both, it is less like home & more like a soft place for my soul to rest for a little while.
Do you see the lovely blonde lady? She turned out to be an art major at a university in Boston. She's doing a concentration in tattoo artistry, & was here at the library to experience a different style of art. What a beautiful way to spend an afternoon, don't you think?
(These are the kinds of people you find in New York. There is such a tapestry of stories here - in the books, of course, but also in the overflow of humanity who find a haven amongst the quiet shelves & tables & disapproving 17th-century gazes.)
The dragons had a lovely time sliding down the banisters; I'm afraid they don't show up in photographs (an unfortunate inconvenience of being a mythological creature), but they are there all the same. ;)
Look at those arched ceilings! One feels as if there must be something a little bit magical hiding in the echoes they produce.
& here is one more.
Look at the way she teeters precariously on her log! Am I the only one who finds something so innocently delightful in that?
I do not know her story, I'm afraid.
But perhaps. Perhaps a tattoo artist will happen upon her one day, nestled in her corner of the library, & draw inspiration from her infinite uncertainty. Perhaps a pair of dragons will tuck themselves into the enclave behind her & simply look at her. (Dragons are horribly inquisitive, as I'm sure you know. They poke their noses into everything.) Or perhaps a wanderer of a girl who is rather sad much of time will look at this statue, this ever-precarious manifestation of joy, & will find a soft place for her soul to rest, if only for the moment.
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.
New York is an ever-flowing river of perhaps. Sometimes it frustrates me, I must admit.
But oh - what a lovely thing it is to have so many stories in one's grasp.
&, I am beginning to see - what an infinitely lovelier thing to not know the ending to any of them.