Once upon a time, a girl lived on the edge of Williamsburg and Greenpoint, just Under the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, in the mythical kingdom of North Brooklyn. She walked around and talked to people, took pictures and thought about things. She wrote things down and was happy.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Fancying This Life...and Tuning In
A couple of weeks ago, I realized, for the first time since seven years ago, when I lived in Marble Hill (dear little bit of the Bronx that, despite the Harlem River, sometimes fancies itself Manhattan), that I could, when the satellites are properly aligned, or the can held to the fence just so (as described in an April New Yorker article about field recording in Appalachia (which sometimes fancies itself Ireland)), tap, here in North Brooklyn, WFUV, the station that fell into my poor bright apartment on Adrian Avenue (from the fire escape of which the George Washington Bridge was strung like a necklace over the Hudson at night), and listen to things like Ceol na nGael while canning plums and daydreaming about the mountains along I-81.
Between Roanoake and Bristol, pointed toward Montgomery:
And there's something very hopeful about radio. M. Ward, who channels things like chandeliers and graves and ranch hands and tides (and perhaps fancies himself from southeastern Virginia, though he calls Oregon home) devotes an album, Transistor Radio, to lost voices in perpetual broadcast.
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