By The Ubermensch
Whitman addressed this city by it’s old name—its Indian name—Manahhatta.
It is a mistake to call this place by anything old.
Sure, there is history under Broadway, centuries of stories a
long the FDR drive, memories shackled in museums and in the minds of thousands who saw buildings rise and fall, history in the tenements and in the shape of the hills in the heights.
There is history, too, in the spirit and the pride of a hundred differenthomelands sharing this microcosm of everything that p
eople are and were and ever can be.
But every day the city asks for something new. Every day a million footsteps pound history deeper into the Earth. Every day calls for its new heroes.
Hills become skyscrapers.
Skyscrapers become dust and tears and memory.
Dust and tears and memory become renovated office space with great views of downtown.
Everyday Manahatta/Manhattan asks for a new name, a new life, a new destiny, a new skin to graft over the skeleton of the past, a new era built from our bones, where the blood of our time becomes nourishment for a new generation who will never understand who we were, and never understand how fervently we held up our point in the spectrum of time as if it were a cherished stone in a chronicle of sand.
About the Author
The Ubermensch is a staff writer for Hungry Shakespeare, although there he goes by a different name. As his will to power takes over, he seeks new avatars for self-expression, and new realms of thought to become vessels of his influence. Soon, as he completes his evolution from man to superman, a new eon will come upon the earth, free from ideology and superstition, and the herd of humanity will become a single-minded organism in service to his being. In the meantime, he must bide his time and wait for right moment to unleash the genius and strength of his will.
He also likes puppies and long walks on the beach.