These are the continuing voyages of the starship StringMan. His mission? To seek out new life by communing with forces unseen, using cryptic geometrically shaped string patterns and subtle manipulations thereof to communicate with gods, aliens or ghosts — one will never know. To boldly go where nobody else would even believe exists.

Though StringMan appeared in my NYC Angst journals, and later found a home in the NYC Grid Notebook, I also found related items scattered all over the place, and decided that, oh boy does he ever deserve a page all his own!

At the peculiar moment in human history when I found StringMan there in his Washington Square Park element, there was another strange phenomenon effecting the otherwise cosmopolitan population of Manhattan — a little something I liked to call "NY Antennae Syndrome." This phenomenon took the form of unconscionably large numbers of people who unfathomably felt it necessary to purchase, and more appallingly, to actually WEAR... "antennae." The damnable things were everywhere — one could hardly avoid them. Walking down any New York City street, one would see, floating above the thousands of heads bobbing along the boulevards, countless pairs of small white spheres mimicking the bobbing rhythms of the heads they were attached to. These spheres were attached by springs to clunky-looking headbands, and for reasons that utterly boggle(d) my mind, people found these antennae accoutrements to be "cool."

One fine Manhattan evening, among the "antennae set" and all the various freaks assembled in Washington Square Park, my attention was drawn to a character who at once seemed certifiably insane and brilliantly inspired. StringMan, and his future girlfriend, DollarWoman, stood out from, indeed stood high above the crowd.

So, here, in more or less chronological order, I lovingly present the collected tales of StringMan, and the his mate, the <koff> lovely DollarWoman. -g

First Encounter:

There's this guy who's pounded nails down between the cobblestones in strategic locations all over Washington Square Park. He uses the nails as fulcrum points to tie off or wrap string around, stretching the string across vast areas of the square, nailpoint-to-nailpoint, thereby creating giant geometric patterns over the cobblestones. The strings hug the ground, and go mostly unnoticed by the casual observer, but this guy sees them. He performs strange little motions and magics, an alchemical dance performance for himself or for unseen forces, with his string. He lifts a corner so a long, thin angle off the ground occurs, and he's face-to-the-ground observing the distance of the lift. He's wrapping himself and string around a trashcan in the center, then tires, and sits on the side of the fountain. Music is pumping out of sax and guitar on this clear, warm evening.

Suddenly, he bursts up, dancing aboriginally inside a corner vortex of his stringworks, releasing a low squeal, then promptly disappears. Musicians, joints, rastas, radios. Skating, muscular black guys, dancing to their own silent walkmen, women watching their muscle-twitchings with wet pussies. Here's an old man with 60 years' worth of unconscious facial ticks now manifesting in Popeye-like animated, constant motion, his eyes blinking separately and needlessly, chewing jaw chomping one-sidedly on toothless gums... and suddenly, our "StringMan" (I hereby dub him thus) is back, sitting next to me now, concealing this as I write, waiting for the next sequence in string-events.

There it is, in all its majestic, geometric glory, a faint glimmer of white running across vast spaces on the circle inside the square — actually a semicircle, as a good third of it is closed off behind police barricades, ½ dismantled, bleacher-like remains, and purple triangle flags waving in the cool breeze. StringMan surveys all that he has made, and it is obviously good. With his string, he controls subtle forces that effect every body on the square by almost imperceptibly altering their space. Or, perhaps it's his method of communicating with God(s), aliens or ghosts looking down on the square from high above. However  you slice it, StringMan clearly knows something nobody else present could possibly hope to.

Girls and boys are on the cruise, the rampant smell of marijuana, and our man is in the vortex again, singing and dancing for his string. Many members of the antennae set are present, and the next phase of string-activity is rapidly approaching — I can smell it coming!

He's looking down at his dancing feet, shuffling along the nail-tied strings, when a bottle cap lands within his floor-vision. Seemingly appalled, he jumps over a line, and continues his dance facing the opposite direction. Out of sight, out of mind. Six or seven different musics and a cop's radio compete for dominance of the airwaves. A dirty person who coughs violently, smoking a cigar-brown, extra-long cigarette is running noticeably small and claw-like hands thru the trash can behind me, hacking away, and now running his filthy garbage hands thru his hair. StringMan has gone off to inspect the state of his string in another area: a new geometric pattern is now emerging as knots are tied, string is stretched. He begins to drag a long section in an arc, carefully watching it curve, now sitting with the string at a taught new angle — tugging and lifting and watching carefully the space between the ground and the angle of the string. He is particularly pleased when raising the intersection of several strings going off in different directions, and observes with wonder the three-dimensional, hollow object thereby created. A fancy frisbeeite almost trips on it, and the StringMan nonchalantly allows his instrument to drop back flush with the floor, so as to hopefully blend back into its environment, unnoticed.

DirtyGuy is drinking the remaining backwash drops in discarded beers excavated from the can behind me, and a guy who was playing an electric guitar moments ago is now playing a softer instrument in full view of those gathered in the square. She half-assedly, gigglingly pretends to push his probing hands away, and I have been reading Bukowski again.

StringMan's eyebrows gather, fingers twitching with anticipated motion, looking concerned and contemplative re: his next move.

Meanwhile, 3,000 miles away, Carrie is undoubtedly typing or filing at her new job, or proofreading, but in a flash of the pen, we're back again in Washington Square, where, when you're there, you'd better take care, because the hard-core crazy scene is here now, and I'm sitting in the middle of it, taking it in, and putting it down.

Now, the closest onslaught of electric "music" has ceased, and the StringMan seems to have vanished again, into his string-world, and DirtyGuy, the hacking, claw-fingered beer scroat sipper, is leaving as I write this, and I think I will, too.

Back on the Square: StringMan is there, this time sans string, reclining comfortably on the fountain's ring of concrete. Something happens I don't see, and a girl turns to StringMan and says: "Isn't that DISGUSTING!?" Then she spots a cop, saying "Hello, Officer." She yells "GIMME A DOLLAR AND I'LL GIVE YOU A KISS!" The young cop blushes shyly and walks on by.

DollarWoman has one black eye and a long, thin scar running almost all across her neck. She spots another unwary victim, then another, always asking for a dollar. A guy in an army fatigue coat walks by, and DollarWoman predictably asks for her dollar. He gives her a bow-tie and walks on. Another guy walking by makes the mistake of making eye-contact with her. She says: "gimme a dollar." Guy smiles, doesn't give. DollarWoman leaps up, screaming raspily, "FUCK YOU! GIMME A DOLLAR YOU SCUM!" Guy's path arcs away from her, flustered to say the least, and StringMan, who has been watching all of this carefully (as he's wont to do) is clearly enjoying the entertainment, and one can almost hear the gears grinding in his mind as he conjures imagines of string laid along the poor guy's long, curved trail.

StringMan and DollarWoman seem to completely enjoy each other's company, no doubt discussing intimately the infinite wonders of the universe. DollarWoman suddenly rises, kisses StringMan square on the mouth, and is gone. StringMan's smile lingers on.

Now, she's back, and she's following two large businessmen, screaming "I NEED TWO DOLLARS FROM YOU BIG FAT FUCKWADS... FAT! FAT! FAT!" She gives up, and a cop passing by invites her to just go away, shaking his head. StringMan and I are vastly entertained by this, each of us in our private worlds, and she is gone again.

Will there be another episode in this titillating tale, the Robust Adventures of DollarWoman the Delightful? Surely StringMan shares this ponderance, though he is also now enjoying the recently erupted sounds of a jazz band on the square. Sax  and sirens twist together in the aural space on this sunny Monday afternoon. StringMan seems out of his element today, wandering around without his string, without the method of cosmic communication with God it provides. It is conceivable that he and God have some arrangement whereby StringMan is in control on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and for the rest of the week, he must take his place among the mere mortals and freaks assembled on the square.

I've been watching with some interest, the bald black man with the constantly moving head, dancing oddly around the circle within the square, stopping periodically to exchange messages with StringMan, who has moved his seat to the most central ring. He is an observer today, as am I every day, despite my efforts to mingle. Walking around the circle, hoping to somehow penetrate the invisible membrane which separates observation from participation — wanting to speak with StringMan, find a way to get into that unfathomable skull and find out what's the deal, but not mustering the guts to. Fear of parasitic mind-suck rises inside me like an overstuffed toilet.

So it is that I am condemned to inject my own fantasies into the actions of such amazing humans as StringMan and DollarWoman.

Your humble scribe, after witnessing the birth of the match of the century in Washington Square Park a year ago, happened across the happy couple this eve at that very same location. A year of unknown and untold blissful togetherness has led to this glorious moment, one year later, when DollarWoman is discovered, decked out in two-piece rag, bulging midriff splendor, flinging garbage out of trash cans cheerfully, while StringMan watches on, constantly adjusting his makeshift, ragged kilt (or is it merely a skirt) whose threads ceaselessly attempt to unravel, seemingly to thereby reveal StringMan's manhood.

An incensed black man walks up to DollarWoman, asking her to refrain from littering the park with garbage. In response, DollarWoman begins to fling the garbage directly at the poor man, screaming corrosive obscenities at him. This only seems to further enrage him, and, unwisely, he makes a threatening gesture with a bottle he is carrying. A screaming stream of vulgarities ensue as StringMan enters the fray, drawing DollarWoman from the thick of it to a safe distance. The black man, still radiating perplexity, turns to us, saying "those are YOUR people, not mine!" "No sir," sez I, "they're not MY people either!"

Before we have an opportunity to decide precisely whose people they are, a bottle flies past our heads. Shocked, everyone on the bench looks down the path about 20 yards into the direction of trajectory, and, lo and behold, StringMan (BottleMan?) is armed to the teeth with garbage-can-collected bottles of all shapes and sizes. Suddenly, at the moment that realization dawns in the minds of those assembled, there is melee as the benches are cleared of people who are leaping out of the line of fire. Even as I leap over the bench onto the grass, a flying bottle smacks against the bag I am carrying, narrowly missing my head. And there is StringMan, making menacing gestures like he's going to break a bottle, then throw the heavy, sharp and deadly thing.

But it is not to be. StringMan's keen eye has detected an approaching herd of policemen and makes himself scarce. The benches are soon re-occupied, and one or two others and I approach the law with scathing reviews of StringMan's performance. He is soon discovered amongst a crowd of break-dance spectators, and the group of policepersons (alas, there are policewomen among them) surround the happy couple, questioning, questioning. Somehow, StringMan, showing he still holds the power cosmic, manages to talk his way out of trouble, and he and DollarWoman literally disappear.

Some of us involved utter disconcerted grumblings about how shits like our hero/ine get away with murder, and should be banished from the city, but I am of a different mind, recognizing as I do the majesty of this power-couple.

A while later, while walking uptown towards a train station, we spot them once again, happily engaged in scrawling dubious, illegible information all over the walls and sidewalks of lower 5th Avenue.

This is an excerpt on the subject, extracted from a letter to a friend:

... So, after 8 hours at the grind, Glen goes off into the core of the Big Apple to see what he can see, which is MUCH. My favorite experience-hunting ground these days is Washington Square Park in the Village, about 10 minutes' walk from work. Here, the observant will find a veritable nest of bizarre craziness. More of every conceivable type of weird human being I have ever encountered. Case in point: two individuals who stand out as particularly engrossing monuments to human diversity. I affectionately refer to them as "STRINGMAN" and "DOLLARWOMAN."

StringMan plays odd little power games with his formidable psychoses and large quantities of string. By stretching string across vast spaces of the central ring in the square, and by manipulating it in odd little ways (a lift here, a tug there, drag this end that way, tie it there, tug again, lift again, etc.), StringMan is creating subtle little messages to god, up above. You see, StringMan knows that what he is doing is of paramount importance, and, while the bulk of his influence over the unsuspecting populace of the park is too subtle for the majority to perceive (unless they trip over a string, which does occasionally happen), the more overt aspects of his "performance" are as potent to the few "lucky ones" (I count myself among them), as a full shot of skunk piss in a 3 by 5 closet. And, I get the distinct (and disturbing) impression that this is precisely what StringMan wants: it's part of his power game, part of his intricate plan to assemble the proper collection of energies to transmit his cryptic communiqué to God himself.

Now, DollarWoman is of a totally different, shall we say, diametrically opposed, persuasion. Her game is somewhat less subtle and spiritual than StringMan's. What DollarWoman does is she "asks" unsuspecting men who are passing by to give her a dollar. She needs a dollar, she says. And then, when she inevitably doesn't get one, she turns on her prey with a hideous vengeance, screaming at the top of her lungs things like unto: "GIVE ME A FUCKING DOLLAR, YOU RANK, FAT, FUCKWAD!!" Then, she follows her prey a few more steps, finding a few more unconventional colloquialisms to spew at a zillion decibels, just for effect. Finally, she calmly takes a seat and waits for her next victim.

Perhaps in answer to StringMan's prayer-like machinations, he and DollarWoman hit it off together. I watched this budding love take shape, witnessing, as I did, their first meeting (so far as I know). I observed them that day, exploring their newfound love, sharing cosmic little secrets and giggling. Finally, DollarWoman leapt up, planted a big fat, wet kiss on StringMan's lips, and was off into DollarLand again.

This is the kind of odd justice that runs amok in this city, my friend, that two such diversely bizarre individuals can come together. Ah, it fills the soul with warmth, ya know? But of course, these are only two isolated examples extracted from the virtual nest of "heroes" which populate Washington Square Park. There is a richness of spirit here that is unrivaled by any other place these eyes have seen. Sometimes I sit here, feeling like I'm in the eye of a hurricane, writing feverishly for hours about what I can't believe I'm seeing.

The following is not a StringMan/DollarWoman Tale, but it does nicely capture my relationship with and attitude towards their honorary home, Washington Square Park, and anyway was found in the same notebook as other power-couple scribblings. You'll find another Washington Square Park tale here. -g

The tough. The flirtatious. The egotistic. The happy. The masochistic. The sad. The spiritual. The sadistic. The militaristic. The oversexed. The homosexed. The musical. The monotonal. The talented. The euphoric. The boring. The extremes of humanity found in one square city block.

The blacks, those that wish they were, those who aren't and wouldn't want to be, even those who could take it either way. The students. The saviors. The angels, flying and fallen.

Yes: The resolved. The apathetic. The heroic. The indifferent. A representative slice of humanity.

Creeps and cruisers, antennae sales-women, artists and losers. Two hundred nationalities, a cross section of the world's diseases, all colors of shit, an absolutely complete archeology of the human turf.

I want to draw a geologic cross-sectional map of this human terrain, capturing the endless layers of wine and beer bottles, dog shit, semen, fashions gone by, broken instruments, tatoos, severed limbs, hairs, hotdogs, popsicle sticks, transistor radios, frisbees, guns, drugs and t-shirts adorned with various slogans. And of course, an entire layer (the "crust," as it were) of antennae in all their megafold varieties.

The first layer of the top half of the chart would be smoke and dust. Above it, cross sections of the surrounding apartment buildings, depicting people eating, sleeping, watching TV, shitting, making love, procrastinating, making art, doing dishes and dying. The giant archway would have teeth, and would be screaming and Washington's statuesque penis would be revealed at last: we finally see the country's fathering organ.

The sky would be brownish-blue and filled with police helicopters, 747s and falling nuclear missiles.