this is an assignment for the class I'm doing now. Spontanious writing. I may read it tonight in Bushwick. Wee. feel free to tear it up. :) I need feedback before 4pm EST. That's like now.
To me New York is Bleecker Street. No glaring red, screaming signs and head pounding pain of Times Square at 7pm, crowds of tourists milling in the 42nd street stations, stopping right in your way to see some mediorcre mandolin player strum out a Beatles tune-- All you need is love, probably-- no Disney signs and cup of soup smoking, no hordes of new Jersey liscence plates looking for the best parking garage. Not on Bleecker street where I always hear good ol' Simon and Garfunkel singing of fogs and veils rolling in from the river-- back when this place was a disreputable mess of artists scrambling for thirty dollars to pay the rent. I wander through thin streets where the grid disolves into the mess of forgotten names. Macdougal. Cornelia. Joey Ramone. The only place I can still get lost in New York city. End up in a diner, perhaps the Kiev-- though that's at 2nd and 7th, I think, by that church, with the dark windows, green and blue and red glass melding together a soup of color, a gift from God. Or to God. Ukrankian Catholics drifting in and out randomly and down the quiet street with NYU students sporting messy green hair and converse sneakers, tight pants and White Stripes pins. I'd drink something strangely New York. Like an appletini, tartini, tendollarsfornotenoughvodkatini and watch them walk by. Drift by. Somehow nothing had changed Art, Paul, and yet nothing seems the same.
