From Lone Prairie to Lone Mannahattas

There is some feeling nothing happens in Nebraska, while everything happens in NYC.

There is no opportunity in Nebraska, but plenty in NYC.

You are in a rural setting in Nebraska, but it is not necessarily the case “nature abounds”.

The wind is weeping against the stolid, concrete, hulking bus station, where Adair and her parents huddle.

You can tell the bus station was built some time ago– because it was built to last.

At the edge of town, when you look out on the “prairie”, what you see are fields of stubble– stubble of various kinds.

It doesn’t seem important to mention which kinds of stubble, from which kinds of crops, though corn predominates, it is not the only one.

There are three or four, therefore, not a “monoculture”. A monoculture would only mean one crop, because in Latin, or is it Greek, mono means, mono = one.

If nature abounded, though, on the “prairie”, there would be a polyphonic symphony of culture, having not a thing to do with “crop”.

“Oh bury me not, on the lone prairie,” sings a cowboy, or, at an impossible distance from the cowboy, a cowgirl.

The prairie may be a great place, but it sure is lonely.

“Oh bury me not, on the lone 9 East 71st Street,” sings a sex predator, who died a short distance from lone 9 East 71st Street…

….at the Metropolitan Correctional Center, in what is called Lower Manhattan.