Still so many helicopters over the city. Some orbit around Midtown, others hover above a single point in an eerie state of suspension. Monitoring. Recording. I thought I had another few decades before becoming one of those grizzled men who suspiciously scans the sky for choppers.
Despite the racket, I’m more hopeful tonight than I’ve been in months, probably years. The mayor ended the idiotic curfew. Stores are removing their plywood and preparing to reopen. The daily protests have cohered into something peaceful and compassionate that has eclipsed any initial chaos (although torching a police station may have been a necessary jolt). Dismantling our militarized police departments is now a mainstream idea. Although our president’s tantrums finally seem to be running out of gas. No coronavirus deaths were reported in New York City yesterday. The weather is perfect.
Maybe I’ll look back on this entry in a few months or weeks—hell, even a few hours—and shake my head at my naiveté, but this hopeful feeling should be included among my nightly inventory of 2020’s calamities. We’re still living through a season that requires the suspension of disbelief, but perhaps it’s possible to believe we’re heading somewhere better.
