Washington Sq. 2009.

Sitting under a bright park light (I mean very bright) on a bench in a refurbished Washinton Square Park. It's not obviously a new look, especially at night, but the park was closed for several months as the renovations were taking place. There are more and varied patches of flowers and greenery and a monument or two moved and there are more fountains in the fountain which is the center, or better, the heart of the park.

So I'm on the bench, after taking in a movie at the nearby Film Forum, and a cappucino at Cafe Dante,  and looking over at the fountain where there are more people. There is no one else on my bench. A cluster of cops are hanging nearby with their radios talking electronic chatter. A lesbian couple walks by arm in arm. People are walking their bikes and their asses across a more or less hospital like sterile landscape.  Well maybe not sterile but clean, you know just somehow a bit too clean.

From my current perspective at 10:55PM I see long empty benches and no guitars. No short skirts and no long hair on men, except for what I'm wearing. So it's almost eleven and according to the signs the park will close at midnight which is probably why the cluster of cops is hanging waiting to clear the park of us who dare brave the midnight hour in old Washington Square.

OK. Now I've moved to the center, the heart, of the park, and as I made my way to sit on the lip of the fountain I passed one guitar player and can hear the sounds of another over by the Washinton Square Arch which marks the beginning of fifth avenue. I get myself seated on the lip and now a guy with his ball cap inverted in his hand comes along asking for donations but does not approach me. There is much more life here by the fountain. The fountain is silent but there is standing water filling the 'pool' around the smaller circle of lights that mark the center of the now quiet geyser. The water is reflecting, among other things, the glowing globes in groups of five that surround the fountain lifted on tall, painted black, wrought iron posts.

A smattering of applause just wafted over from the guitar sounds over by the arch where I can see now the back of a girl who is singing along with the guitar player.  She sounds a kind of ancient melody.  At the same time the sound of another guitar has sprung up directly behind me on the other side of the fountain. It's a catchy rhythm part he is playing and so I listen to him for a little while.  I think I am going to remember how it went but the rhythm does not last. As I have turned around so that I can see him play I also see a young girl wading into the fountain with bare legs and feet so that she is able to get a shot with her camera of her small group of friends all sitting on the fountain's lip. She is laughing and splashing the water around her legs. A male friend of her's also takes some steps to test the waters.  They laugh some more and once back seated on the lip all light cigarettes.  The smoke sits above their heads.

Guitars are of import here because of the traditions set forth in the fifties as the folk music boom was about to engulf the Village and eventually the rest of America. I have enjoyed writing this during my visit to the park. Writing is also a tradtion in the Village and there are certain tradtions that simply must be kept alive. Traditions may be the only thing left that are not possible to chase out of the park after midnight.