Desolation Row (#986)(an instance of Generic Post-Apocalypse Room made by Jo)You can hardly believe your eyes. Can these crumbling, burned-out shells be all that remains of the brownstones and tenements of St. Mark's Place? Eighth Street, once teeming with hippies and punks and artists and, on the weekends, suburban yuppies, is completely empty and slick with some kind of oily sheen. The air is acrid and thick, and you pull up your jacket to cover your mouth and nose as you peer into the deserted shops and restaurants. As you cross Avenue C, heading towards the river, you begin to hear voices coming from a building on the southeast corner. As you approach you see posters announcing something "now playing," and you realize that this is, or was, The Living Theater! You grow increasingly sadder as you move through the lobby, remembering all the interactive and post-modern productions you attended here. But just as you've given up all hope for the kind of intense political engagement that nurtured your youth, you see a self-possessed woman stride towards you, and you hear strains of the revoltionary folk songs you grew up on. Welcome to the struggle, sister! This place has a certain ambiance... A Tom Paxton lp is playing. He sings, "Whose garden was this? It must have been lovely. Did it have flowers? I've seen pictures of flowers, and I'd love to have smelled one." "Whose river was this? They say it ran freely. Blue was its color? I've seen blue in some pictures, and I'd love to have been there." "Tell me again I need to know: the forests had trees? the meadows were green? the oceans were blue? and birds really flew? Can you swear that was true?" "Whose grey sky was this? Or was it a blue one? Nights there were breezes? I've heard records of breezes, and I'd love to have felt one." |