Shelf Life: The Gioia Creation

These are the universal qualities of dis-ease. What New York brings to the table is the proximity of fellow New Yorkers. When you live 13 stories above an avenue that is a truck route, and above, between, and below other New Yorkers, you are aware of the presence of others. Mostly, this is a blessing. The quiet of the countryside would be too much like a hospital. The long roar of traffic is neither melancholy nor withdrawing; it is the sea of faith of daily life; it is good to be near it. The same is true of the occasional barking dog, or child. Only, please, no music: When Chet Baker’s satin-casket-liner voice, singing “My Funny Valentine,” welled up through the wall by my head, that attempt to doze was over.

The economics of proximity restricts our own living spaces. Living so close to one another, no one can live large, and cabin fever becomes more feverish in the shrunken cabins of Manhattan. Here the restless sick person cannot wander to the TV room, the sun porch, or the basement. There is, in fact, a basement in my apartment building, but all I would find there is coin-operated washing machines and the janitor. I look out one window, then the next. From the first I see snowflakes, wet and rapid, about to become rain drops, or fat and hesitant, too light to make their way through a mild updraft, as if saying to each other, “Call the cloud—what do we do next?” From the second window, I see the same flakes. I could take the plunge into television or the Internet, but that would be like zoo animals playing with a wretched toy, or prisoners papering their cells with Penthouse Pets.

About the Author

Michael Potemra

Michael Potemra was a literary editor for National Review.

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These are the universal qualities of dis-ease. What New York brings to the table is the proximity of fellow New Yorkers. When you live 13 stories above an avenue that is a truck route, and above, between, and below other New Yorkers, you are aware of the presence of others. Mostly, this is a blessing. The quiet of the countryside would be too much like a hospital. The long roar of traffic is neither melancholy nor withdrawing; it is the sea of faith of daily life; it is good to be near it. The same is true of the occasional barking dog, or child. Only, please, no music: When Chet Baker’s satin-casket-liner voice, singing “My Funny Valentine,” welled up through the wall by my head, that attempt to doze was over.

The economics of proximity restricts our own living spaces. Living so close to one another, no one can live large, and cabin fever becomes more feverish in the shrunken cabins of Manhattan. Here the restless sick person cannot wander to the TV room, the sun porch, or the basement. There is, in fact, a basement in my apartment building, but all I would find there is coin-operated washing machines and the janitor. I look out one window, then the next. From the first I see snowflakes, wet and rapid, about to become rain drops, or fat and hesitant, too light to make their way through a mild updraft, as if saying to each other, “Call the cloud—what do we do next?” From the second window, I see the same flakes. I could take the plunge into television or the Internet, but that would be like zoo animals playing with a wretched toy, or prisoners papering their cells with Penthouse Pets.