Thanksgiving in Harlem

This year Thanksgiving began with the Q from Beverly and ended with the C at 145th. I had two freshly baked pies from John's Bakery on Cortelyou between my feet as the train passed over the Manhattan Bridge. It was early afternoon, the sky clear, and the sun brilliant. I looked over my left shoulder and saw the Brooklyn Bridge filtering the light. The Statue of Liberty was silhouetted in the distance. I was on my way to Harlem to spend Thanksgiving with friends and I realized that there wasn't anywhere in the world I would rather be at that moment. A smile came to my face and I squeezed my ankles tighter as to assure that the pies would not get away.

7th & Park

One Rainy Day

In a new place.

Today I find myself in a new place. This place is Brooklyn, NY. This place is hope. This place is awe. This place is sorrow. This place is longing. This place is pain, fantasy, humility, and wonder. It is singular. It is imposing. This place is remarkable, duplicitous, slick, cunning, and treacherous. This place is home, for now.
Everytime I walk out of my door onto Coney Island Ave I am convinced that I am dreaming. The industrial lifelessness of this expansive thoroughfare reminds me at every greeting that I am living this life now. It's as if the city's concrete, brick, glass, and plaster curls up into a dirty ball and waits for me to step out to the Avenue. Once I am there and my eyes are still focusing, the wretched mass spins violenty and casts it's contents onto the landscape. Once my eyes adjust it stares back at me. Some days I win the contest. Some days it's size and strength drops my nose to the fucking sidewalk and I find myself consumed by the stench of it's feet.
It welcomed me like a prize fighter wearing a rose in his hair. It showed me what it had from the get go. It's braun and grace were on display. My you are a fine mess, New York. You are a fine mess and I am here with niether a cloth or a broom. I came here to join in your sweet dissaray. I am here in this place now.