History is a virus, she said to me, when her drink was still cold, when we were still cold, when it was night and there was nothing between one past and another. It doesn’t matter that we dance in time or dance out of time, as long as we keep dancing. I can’t remember all the things she said, and I’m sure I don’t even remember the best things she said, but what I do remember keeps me dizzy. I like being dizzy, though, because the weight of history keeps me still, and that never suited my temperament.
When we first got to know each other, introduced by mutual friends at a chance meeting, or a series of chance meetings, in the hotel restaurant, New York was a younger place, but not much. There’s a sense about the city, though, that it’s never been young. In Manhattan, accommodation always seems to be presented with a deep understanding of the human condition, and hospitality is solace for some weary travelers, and it’s simply a nice spice for others. In other cities, Seattle for instance, there is a sense of youthfulness, coupled with a healthy suspicion that things are not what they seem, and underneath the surface, are likely to be even worse.
But New York is less of a child’s tale than it is a lesson in Adorno’s ideas of forgetting. There is beauty and there is also loss, and sentimentality does not serve to raise up the dead, even in memory. Some of the most important ideas of history get formed here, and mine have always been born too soon. So when she suggested we dance, we did dance, and we didn’t stop dancing until I just woke up from a dream of history. Now, in the lobby of my favorite place, I am sure there is an adventure waiting for me, but I also know that she won’t set foot here for some time, if ever again, and even worse, I doubt she even remembers my name.
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