The Aughts were the first decade of my life I spent entirely in one place. By “place,” I mean “city,” but also “place” in a metaphysical sense. I knew Brooklyn was my home, because sometime late in my undergraduate studies in Kentucky I read an anthology of writing about Brooklyn and decided, after reading Truman Capote’s and Carson McCullers’ transplanted narratives, the liquid verse of Hart Crane and Walt Whitman in awe of the magical Brooklyn Bridge, and two paragraphs by Woody Allen, that Brooklyn was my home. This was a good three years before I’d been there.
Just added to The List and the Story: My Aughts