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Lost in New York 2

Lost in New York 2

  • By Matt Diff
  • Release 23/01/2007
  • Music Genre Folk
  • Media Format CD
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CD 
Price: $23.57

Product Notes

  LOST IN NEW YORK The city is a woman...    There is no doubt of it. She is far too wise...    Far too strong...    Far too beautiful and true to be a man. PART ONE: (On City Sky.) I see you New York! Your arms outstretched across a nation. Your eyes gazing over the endless oceans before you. Your lights shinning over the hills and the valleys of your    humble neighbors. All fail when compared with you New York! I see you now as I see you a hundred years from now...       As I see you a hundred years before. I see you rising from the forest and fields of the    Sixteenth Century. I see your camps turn to homes... Your homes to towns... And your towns to cities. I see your beaten paths turn from mud to cobblestone to    concrete...       ...From foot to hoof to tire. I see your fertile fields disappear and in their place the    rise of man. I see your architects building ever higher...       ...Ever reaching for the face of God. I see you New York! I see your rivers run into the Great Atlantic. I see the ships on those rivers...       How they glide upon those placid waters...       How those waters reflect the endless sun and sky.       How the sun and sky shine endless upon you. I see the men on those ships.       I feel the soul of the ancient sailor in those men.       (Ancient as all souls are.)       I see the centuries roll by like the tide of a          river.              The years wax and wane as one passing moment. I see them toil with their cargo.       Produce from all parts of the exotic earth...       Crates of foreign goods...       Faces of distant lands. I see them now as I have seen them before. As those who have passed have seen them. As those who will come shall see them. I see you New York! I see your crowds gather in the city squares. I hear their songs of summer. I see the university men and women basking in the glory of    their youth. I see them courting in the evening hours. I feel the cool fountain water splash against their naked    feet. I hear the commotion of the side-street traffic off in the    distance. It is here and now I see the generations pass. I see these same faces... I feel these same souls...       Rising from today as they will rise from our          tomorrows ...       As they have risen from our yesterdays. It is here and now I see these timeless moments. It is in this place with these sights and sounds,       With these crowds who sing their songs,       With these crowds who stroll these streets,       And who browse these shops,       And who drink from these counters,       And who converse on these summer eves,       And who breath this air.       And which I am a part of...       And it is a constant reminder of a moment...          ...which is repeated...          ...which is reproduced (similar yet not the same)...          ...in the lifetime of all those who seek and          who find her. I see you New York! Though the costumes of your actors change, Though the pages of your calendar turn, Though your seasons... (the seasons of the generations)... pass    from spring to summer to fall to winter, I see you still...       ...As you once were...       ...As you are now...       ...And as you will be many years from now. I see Rome in the distance...       I see the crumbling stones and the rusting steel.       I see the rising waters... Yet I see you standing firm. I see the seasons pass around you I see the centuries fall before you. I see you ever strong ... I see you ever true. I see you now as I have seen you before... as I will see you    always. PART TWO: (On City Sights.) No sight compares with her... No sound so sweet as when echoed by her voice... No taste,...no touch....no smell...no sense of any kind holds    weight against her. She is the jewel of the city.       The art upon the museum walls....       The rising towers of silver and bronze...       The open air cathedrals and parks...       The lilac trees in full bloom...       The coolness of the eighth months summers eve...       ...All fail when compared with her. She is New York Woman. She is the same as others...yet different... She is stronger and wiser than most. I see her here and now in this place as I have seen her    before...    ...As I shall see her again. She is forever young. Forever as beautiful as the maiden hour. She hustles though these hungry streets...       Catching the eyes...       (Accepting those she likes...dismissing those she       does not). She lingers in the subway depot...       Watching the commuters pass her by. She strolls through the village market...       Examining the fruits...       Smelling flowers...       Smiling at the farmers and the farmers children. She is everywhere at once... She is everything at once...       The new-found beauty of a foreign land...       The humble mid-western girl-next-door...       The unwed mother of three who's age deceives her...       The middle-aged executive...designer suit and leather          bag...       The petit teen of Asian decent...eyes painted blue          and yellow...       The twenty-something Spanish girl her brown skin          out-shines all...       The Black woman... her hair wrapped... proud...             Her face stern yet loving...             Her eyes strong and determined...             Her skin dark and flawless...             Her mind pure and holy.       The White girl on her way to Brooklyn...             She wears her dark glasses always..             She hears her music always...             She dresses in layers...             She dresses in colors...             She speaks in poetry and talks of                revolution ...             She eyes the other women...             ...and dreams of unrepentant love and freedom.       The seventy-two year old widow/ mother/       grandmother/ temple.             She sees the years pass by her...             She sees the rise and fall of the empire...             She sees the young become old...             ...and the old become young again.             She is more beautiful than any other...             Her age and her elegance are the gateways...             ...to wisdom...to understanding ... to acceptance. New York Woman... She is the same as others...yet different.       She is unequaled in beauty...       She is unrivaled in style...       She is unmatched in grace. She is here now ...as she was here before...as she will be here    always. PART THREE: (On City Summer.) I see the dark skinned goddess of summer. I see blind women    with walking canes clutching laundry bags. I see Mexican    recyclers searching every garbage pail. A silent stalker    with a telephoto lens eying The Girls of August. I see    families on holiday with maps upside down and pockets    inside out. I see pasty white students in one hundred    degree sweaters looking for truth everywhere but in    their own minds. I see the Twenty-First Century City of The Mind. Modern day    pirates off Bleeker sleeping on cardboard and dreaming    of endless oceans. China Town gang bangs and cheap bread    for anyone who dares to eat it. Endless sex-in-the-    street women tanned and ready for the big show. The    wandering Canadians with strawberry boxes and local    magazines still discussing the power of The Raging    Niagara. Trust fund babies with turned up collars and an    obscene sense of fashion etiquette. I see subway suspicion. A hundred eyes looking for would-be    bombers and ever present paranoia. Posters advertising    doctors, lawyers and cheap lays. All possible sizes    shapes and colors on every car of the L-Train.    Underwater adventures with Captain Bill and the LES    Six. Drunken ex-soldiers discussing Vietnam and the    Next World War while accepting loose change from anyone    who hates violence. I hear the roar of the underground serpent echoing through    carnival streets. Unknown languages spoken in whispers    and eyes alone. Poetry in every silent moment. Sirens    from Eighth to First Avenues dodging yellow taxis.    University Hipsters discussing the importance of Blake    and Thomas in relation to modern day politics. Anti-    Everything rallies in Union and Washington Square.    Tambourines and Hare Krishna chants performed by young    boys and old men in white-washed bathrobes along St.    Marks and Avenue A. I hear Wall Street in the distance. I hear money/ money/    money. I hear oil/ gas/ gold and wheat being bought,    sold and stolen at record prices. The sound of five    thousand dollar mini-skirts on display in every Fifth    Avenue window. Helicopters and private planes carting    billionaires from Midtown to Downtown to Chelsea. The    voice of ancient ghosts screaming out their names their    lives and their anthems. I hear the silence of Sunday morning. St Patrick's choirs    and the song of the black widow sparrow. The clop-clop    of the police on horseback. The bang-bang of the garbage    truck attendant. The cooing of the under-fed pigeon and    the crying of the over-fed child. I hear the breath of    the early morning maniacs grinding their bodies into a    Da Vinci. I hear the world in an instant. The    overwhelming presence of the here-and-now in the rhythm    of a waking city. I feel the city in every breath and step. I feel the pride    of America. The pulse of the known-free-world running    from Broadway to the Hudson and out to sea. I feel the    dying heart of the Twentieth Century, both forgotten and    forgiven when the clock struck twelve. I feel concrete    on the feet, steel on the hand and water on the head.    I feel like getting lost in The West Village Maze and    winding up asleep on the doorstep of The Brooklyn Dawn. I feel the triumph of Harlem. The fire-hydrant pools    cooling the naked bodies of our last great civilization.    I feel the panic of the young and hungry, running/    walking/ crawling in the race for fame/ fortune and    faceless freedom. I feel the life of every New York soul    in the first hour of the morning. The shifting waves of    light and dark on the sinking grid of the urban jungle.    The buzz of The Electric Times Square with her five    billion watts of power outshining any sun. I feel like Stalin on his deathbed. Overwhelmed with    unanswered questions and untouched ideas. I feel the    soot and the ash of the railroad yard. The wheels on    the miles of steel and the miles of steel itself. The    rush of the traffic at noon and the silence of engines    in the early morning. I feel the holes in the hearts of    the homeless and the holes in the heads of the poor. The    ghetto queens and back alley dreamers of the east and    the bastard children and the stardust druggies of the    west. I feel the bones of the skeleton statues in the    banks and investment corporate headquarters. I smell the stockyards and the shipping ports. The bananas    and the fish, the rice and the citrus fruits of the far    south. I smell the bakery in the waking hour. The coffee    house and the early morning eggs for breakfast. I smell    the heat of the summer reflecting off the concrete and    glass. I smell the concrete and glass reflecting off the    millions of souls upon them. The fumes from ancient    automobiles and the stench of the still summer subway. I smell the coolness of the West Village evening. The    blossoms on the trees, on the ground, on the shoulder. I    smell the painters and the poets of the summer spread    out over three acres of trees, grass, water and    pavement. I smell the art and song of life in the    blowing wind and in the falling rain. The scent of the    street after a summer rain. The wet bodies at a corner    -crossing or in a crowded store. The wet hair and the    draining perfume of the women seeking shelter at the    station. I smell the continuous flow of the Hudson. The breeze and    the birds floating over her waters and the nearby    vendors selling pretzels and soda water. I smell the    factories of New Jersey, the smokestacks and oil fires    burning on the horizon. The tugboats and the ferries    skimming on the water top and the toxic fish swimming in    the deep. I smell the sporting fields and courts along    the waters edge. I smell the runners the jumpers and the    summersault queens dancing in the evening. I taste the boxcar lunches and the red wine diners. I taste    the sweat of the city sweeper on the last break of his    nine hour shift. I taste the sweat of the Madison Avenue    Heiress, the single drop that falls from the brow to the    feet of the unknowing and undeserving. I taste the    blood of the ghetto killer and the rage of the ghetto    victim. I taste the tears of the ghetto mothers and the    fears of the ghetto children. The hopeless desperation    of the runaway and the overwhelming confidence of the    old yet naive. I taste the mountains of engines piled upon every stop    light. I taste the traffic cop in his rookie uniform and    oversized cap. I taste the marble halls of the art    museums and the colored canvas on the walls. The coffee    bars and the sandwich shops on every block after block    after block. I taste the dreams of the living and the    dreams of the dead. I taste the air conditioned superstores and the open-aired    markets. I taste the local grown produce of the Union    Square Farmers Market. I taste the street art and the    songs of the street singer. I taste the books of the    constant readers, the students, the lawyers and the soon    -to-be-informed. I taste carriage rides through the park    and the bikers and skaters buzzing around the carriage.    The basketball and handball courts and the overcrowded    train cars. I taste the skin of every country on earth    collected in the unconscious soul of a single city. PART FOUR: (On City Scene.) This city is for poets. It always was...and always will be for poets.       (The endless inspiration she provides will draw them for centuries to          come.) I see them take their place among the others...       Pen and paper in hand...       In the streets, in the parks, in the stores and          on the subways. I hear their song...       (The collective song of millions passing through          them to all others.) Their canvas ... The rhythm of the city... Their brushes...the sounds of the city... Their colors...the faces and the souls of the city. They are here now... As they were here before... As they will be here always.     Also available from this artist: Americana Nirvana The Acoustic Albums: Volume I) Life & Death, Love & War (The Acoustic Albums: Volume III) For more information please visit mattdiff.com.

Details

Artist: Matt Diff
Title: Lost in New York 2
Genre: Folk
Release Date: 23/01/2007
Label: CD Baby
Media Format: CD
UPC: 634479466502
This product is a special order

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