A spiritual guide to Manhattan

Whole Earth Review, Wntr, 1989 by Sparrow

Then it gave me a headache.

And the voices from the floor sounded pained. There were shouts, as in a delirious fever--

More New Age music came on, and "What you are watching is the marketplace in action ..." a Friendly Pharmacist voice stated -- then an explanation I heard 15 times and still don't understand. ("If you look closely at the front of one of the trading posts you will see a discussion between a Specialist and a person employed by the broker ...")

This tape is a ploy to get people moving, I realized. At the end it suggests: "If you've heard this tape, please remove yourself so others may have a chance to see," plus a woman with a microphone repeats it, live. But the Stock Exchange is a paper tiger, reader. You can meditate as long as you like -- or can stand.

Opening my eyes, I met a sociology student in a tie, taking notes. "There's more camaraderie than you would expect," he said. "I saw a guy giving a woman a massage. I wished I was down there."

"Who cleans the floor?" asked a Queens woman as I left.

PYRAMID CLUB

101 Ave A

Being here makes you love rocknroll. I have sworn off rocknroll a hundred times in my life -- most recently an interview with Paul Morrissey, my favorite living director (Trash, Heat, Spike Of Bensonburst) suggesting this music is leaving us prey to soviet attack -- made me think "I should try to listen to Tchaikovsky," which bores me to death absolutely.

But I compromise by playing songs of the Sami (Laplanders of Norway),

Now, though, hearing Rank (The Smiths' live album), I'm in a state of absolute grim delight:

And if a 10 ton truck Crashes into us To die by your side Would be a heavenly way to die

"Oh, yes, it's supposed to be good to meditate in a pyramid," I thought -- and remembered I'd meditated inside the Great Pyramid in Egypt. This was much better; Cheops appeared to have had a spirital lobotomy.

Here, I sensed the familial warmth of beer and cigarettes -- and I never drink beer or cigarettes -- and a flight of stairs ... no, a tunnel, leading down into Mysteries.

But I don't know the Pyramid's core -- perhaps no one can. 5 years ago (1983) it looked like the club was going yuppie. It had the most heterogenous Good Dancers in NYC -- Office Managers, junkies, hairdressing students -- but yuppies, after flirting with the thought of taking it over, decided they'd rather eat dinner -- so it's stayed ready-for-a-fight. If you can read lips, you'll hear good lyrics you'll remember at least one line of, as I do with the Athens (Ga.) band, Oh, OK, concerning hairstyle:

It's a permanent It won't last forever

GRANT's TOMB

122nd St. and Riverside Drive

"How large it is," I thought. "Grant didn't do too bad."

Should I take off my hat? Thinking of Grant, the first Pres. famous for corruption yet so honest he became penniless and was forced to write his memoirs, which were the best of any Chief Executive, I went downstairs.

2 lurking caskets of stone held Grant and wife. "By a bust of Sherman I'll sit." (Up on a ledge -- there are no seats.)