Home On The Range

Yesterday, I woke up facing the window that looks out on the corner of Lexington Avenue and 34th street. There's a tall red-brick building there, reaching 'way up high in that canonical, skyscraper-y way. I'd already seen it of course, and hadn't thought much about it, except that it is, you know, BIG and very uniform, and a rather dull, muddy, dried-blood colour. Well, yesterday, at dawn, I saw that the whole upper east-side corner of the building was rose-red, aflame with light, dawn-light -- and in that instant, the notion occurred to me that these soaring structures aren't really buildings at all, but mountains. The light striking the peak of that building (I'll have to find out its name today) reminded me -- yes, I realize it's a bit absurd -- of that moment in HEIDI when the lonely little orphan who has been sent to live with her gruff old grandfather in the high mountains, sees the sunset blazing in the snow peaks around her.



These mountains around me are made of brick and sweat and human toil and also dreams and hopes and imagination, and we have burrowed into them and made our homes amongst their high reaches. There really is something magnificent about them. I've never felt so thrilled by the sight of tall buildings before ...

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