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| A Drinking Town. 12 x 24. |
New London thinks about change the way a cat looks at a guinea pig.
New London starts in a fog, then it ends in the dark.
New London bulges in the middle with a belly full of gas.
When whales show their flukes, they salute the moon, the stars, and the sun.
Entrepreneurs sniff around New London the way tigers lick a carrot.
Lazy tides push New London out of Ocean Beach.
From Bank St. to State St, to Apple St. to Snake St., New London’s streets are a tangled weave away from Paradise.
A witch with a buggy whip could be hiding in the hedge next to the Pausipeg.
Where is John Winthrop, Jr.?
Food for the worms, and the subject of a statue overlooking urban renewal in perpetual motion.
Where is Samuel Saltonstall?
His family plot and limestone-carved coat-of-arms are the site of Wiccan rituals in Ye Towne’s Antientst Buriall Ground about a hundred yards to John Winthrop, Jr.'s left, and behind his back.
Where is Nathan Hale?
On a pedestal from which his history sheds one more bronzed letter after another until his reputation finally disappears for lack of support.
Despite his noble bearing, he will stand on his plinth as an anonymous poor sap who was unfortunate enough to have his hands tied behind his back.
A hero.
Is this the New London way?
To fight with both hands tied behind one’s back?
New London, small in area, dense in population, is a microcosm of macroeconomics.
When you get one, you forget the other.
To fight with both hands tied behind one’s back?
New London, small in area, dense in population, is a microcosm of macroeconomics.
When you get one, you forget the other.
New London is contentious.
It has its share of partisans who love it for different reasons.
It is a seductive, little city.
If wishes were fishes, Connecticut’s Thames River would be awash with whales ripe and plump with sperm.
Those who love New London vote with their feet and with their pledge to honor its motto:
Mare Liberum.
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