No Kings

On the way up 7th from the west village, a man whose jaw stuck way out said, “I like being abused.” His lower teeth prominent like tombstones on a shelf, the opposite of buck. His friend nodded. On the way back, at the same spot, a woman behind me said, “Where do you even keep a horse in New York?” And in between these golden nuggets, hundreds of thousands of people, banners held high, marched in protest of a pretender, while across the pond a Duke was beheaded of title. This is today. I have landed in New York. I love a protest march, and if you’re wondering if they work, it’s cumulative, and a crucial exercise of right. That’s why we do it. The Suffragettes, The Civil Rights, Anti Apartheid, and Greenham to name only a handful - they all succeeded in the end, even though there is no end and this dream will keep spinning scenarios through waking hours of nightmare and beauty until the collective dream changes. Jet lag had me waking at half past two this morning when I put on Pod Save America and fell asleep with the overwhelm real. When I woke a few hours later it felt as it often does when I stand on the tracks; this train is barreling and there’s no stopping it, which doesn’t mean, do nothing, but does mean keep perspective; easy to say in a warm and comfortable bed in a hotel in the west village, but I’m saying it anyway. There’s a million ways to frame what’s happening here, none of them include pretending the detail of what’s happening is okay, but keeping honey on my tongue keeps me afloat. And there was honey today in the comedy writ large in humanities voice. The banners, the costumes, the bands. Greenham was won on creative ways to say no, and it was just as alive and kicking in NYC today. I got squeezed in Times Square, the crowd wasn’t moving, I slipped into a restaurant that would normally have been full and spent a while upstairs in a glass fronted room, a perfect view, and ate soup with a native New Yorker called Debbie who’d spent her career selling Pepsi. Back in my hotel later, met Tenszing for coffee and then walked again through the village going west to the meatpacking district on a research mission for a novel. Got snagged and swayed by a street party, beer in plastic cups, hot dogs on the street, a band playing, college kids swaying and screaming and flirting; there will be sex tonight. Weaved through the throng and left them to it, found what I was looking for but realised I’ll have to shift a line. Stopped, on the way back, in a tiny, perfect, delicious Japanese restaurant and ate tiny, perfect silken tofu and peppers and Bok Choy. A woman came in who was greeted by name, her usual seat, a bottle of beer brought without her asking. She opened her novel, began reading. When I left, I had to squeeze out between our tables and said something small and she looked at me and smiled and we exchanged knowing. Eleanor This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit eleanoranstruther.substack.com/subscribe