American Divine

This is the heightened way of being herein Union Square: as ice descends half-thawedpast whirling numbers on a glass façade,so many coats attached to totes, briefcases,blueprint tubes and roller bags are reachinga stairwell to the subway. They don't fearthe local Moses, Mort, who flails and pacesback and forth before the top step, preachingto infidels about a Weather God:"Azuzu whispers, and the world goes round!"Amused teenagers hoot and mock-applaud.The trains keep making thunder underground.

You there, behind your breath, a rhythmic wraithof breath, are voyeuristic in the slush,absorbing everything—the twilight rushand blur of digits, a Sephora sign,those antics laughing at a madman's faith—till vertigo crescendoes in a senseof outside-in and inside-out, intenseclashes of light and shadow, warmth like wine,and an ungovernable urge to dubthe grove holy, the old bandshell a shrine,the whole plaza a civic sanctuarywhere the ineffable has residence.This is the numinous, this is the hubfrom which the stacked, starless, and luminarycity spokes—the streets, the trains, the towers.

It starts this evening, in the winter flaw—seeking new prophets, modern sites to cherish,finding divinities in earthly powers.You are a church of one, a private parish;be passionate in the pursuit of awe.