Take the 6 to Europe, and then walk two blocks to Asia

I know I sound like a broken record... but New York City continues to astound me at every step. Today I got off the 6 train at Spring Street and started walking, not really knowing where I was going. Without so much as a warning I was suddenly walking through an Italian winter wonderland. As I walked down the colorful Mulberry Street, all the cafes and restaurants were competing with their festive garlands and lights. Italian menstood outside their cafe and shouted out their menu and season's greetings in broken english. Dialogue is impossible to not grin at: "Come and eat!" "No thanks, i'm not hungry..." "Come have a drink?" "No thanks..." "...You look beautiful!" Walking down a street where the language is totally different feels so refreshing. What other city is like this? Uptown I could walk by a store front and maybe hear a creepy "looking good," but down in Little Italy it's "Ciao Bella, have a wonderful day." And of course I stumble and reply in boring monotone, "uh, thanks.." So after vowing to come back here at night for dinner sometime, I turned the corner,and suddenly the smell of sugar and pine was chased out of the biting cold air and replaced with fish and vegetables. I was in Chinatown!

The energy here was totally different then my little european oasis...I, the minority, pushed past hundreds of people with one objective: get the best food for the best price in the shortest amount of time. I've never travelled so far around the world in two blocks...I left this part of town and kept on walking...eventually I made it to alphabet city and now here I am...my favorite coffee shop, a chai tea latte, and a dying computer. Time to switch to paper and pen...the adventures just keep on rolling along.

"You're an artist..."

Waiting to get on the bus, I stepped back to let an old man get on first. He smiled a worn smile and ushered me in front of him declaring, "No, no...you are an artist...you go." I don't know if it was my folder of music, my clothes, or my attitude that gave it away...and I still don't know what he meant by the comment, but I know it stayed with me. It was the perfect set up for the ride I was about to take.

As I walked in I was greeted by loud, crazy mumbling from the back of the bus. "Oh god Charley...Oh god Charley, stop." My eyes fell on an old man sitting with a large plastic bag filled with many other plastic bags at his feet. He was in an off-white loose shirt covered in a ripped traditional Jewish Tzitzit and jean overalls. One of the breast pockets was filled to the seams with pens, pencils, forks, and knifes. The sister pocket was bulging with receipts and other extraneous papers while a small little baby pocket was stuffed with toothpicks. I sat near him and listened to his chanting. "Oh god Charley, stop. Don't excite the book keeper. Where am I? Oh god Charley.." He was wearing a hat that was covered completely in buttons, many of which display Hebrew words or Jewish symbols. One stood out amid the small circles on his head, and that was a large rhinestone pin that was the word "Jazz." On his chest some of the bigger pins lay closer to his heart. He had changed these, taped new words over old ones to make his own message. "I've survived damn near everything," "Talk about nothing," and one that had a picture of the Macintosh Apple symbol and said "Grain of Emptiness." When you don't have that much...why not keep everything and anything you can? "Oh god Charley...on the fourth day what did adam call that celebration? Oh the fourth day...what did adam call that celebration? A trinity of light. Oh god Charley...make my day like hell, said the book keeper." Every so often he looked inside his bag of bags...what was he looking for? Every time he remembered another song or ramble to share with the bus he started loudly with gusto. At this point, I was starting to admire this old man. "Where's the moon? Where's the moon? Where's the moon? Have you seen men in black? It's about the galaxy..." His beard was wispy and yellowish white...it matched his old shirt. As I texted all of my observations in a draft in my phone, I started to think of the significance of this strange man. People like this can't just be ignored like the rest of the bus is doing...do they hear him? People don't just become like this...what on earth has gone on in his life? He has organized all of his little objects, and gone through the effort to collect them. He may be crazy but he knows what he wants. He has altered buttons to make them say what he believes...most sane people dont even know what they believe, or what they want. He is someone to be admired...

I was so consumed with watching this man that I hardly noticed the other old character sitting next to him, apparently oblivious to his loud neighbor. He was completely "normal" looking on the outside, until I followed a familiar sound and looked down to the ground. His old, dusty, Nike shoes were quietly tap dancing while he sat on the bus bench. Now his history was consuming my imagination...he held a large bag that could have held dance shoes...but who knows...maybe those steps are those of the past...ones that I am just now struggling to learn. He could have been a broadway dancer, he could have been a failed musical theater performer...he could be an old man learning how to tap. He got up at his stop, smiled at me, and walked slowly off the bus on his knobby, shaking legs.

Following him was my old, Jewish friend. I looked up at him as he put his hand up and blessed me from left to right saying, "Peace and Love..." and walked off yelling "Oh god Charley!" on the top of his lungs. I sat thinking for the rest of my ride...the three people on this bus were definitely connected...as I stepped on the bus I was crowned an artist, and as I left I was blessed by a crazy man. But was he crazy? Or was he just an artist, and therefore be let on the bus first? And will the other one be me? Will I be tap dancing quietly in the dust with legs that can't walk anymore? I don't know...but then again, I'm only an 18 year old artist. Those three old men have seen more than I can process...and here they go influencing and teaching me without even knowing it.

Choreography of the Heart

Why are we so afraid of saying "I love you"? We watch movies, read books, go see plays, and are introduced to characters who are not afraid to fall in love. Not afraid to jump...or to put your emotions on the line. To get your heart broken if only to hear the stitches splitting and the dull thud of each separate side falling into your lungs...halting your breath. Then, when a pair of gentle hands lift those fragments together and stitch you whole once more, you truly feel it. So when your days are numbered, your skin is weathered, and your story is being passed on through your past beads of sweat, your heart becomes a handmade quilt. A patch from him, a patch from her, stitches from one decade to the next, some are frayed, and some are just empty needle holes. What's wrong with that? This image is transfixed in my mind...what's the point of having a beating heart if you are not willing to beat it and let it beat you? To scold it and coddle it, to lend it out and then let the distance make itself grow fonder. Don't think it doesn't need the exercise...with every subtle brush or lingering gaze the heart takes a shot of espresso or a dive into ice cold water, and it sprints away with gratitude. Tripping over its feet it bubbles gratefully and drones out all thoughts in your brain. You stand transfixed as it tap dances inside your rusty rib cage. Flap, stomp, shuffle, step, step...steps towards him, tap, tap, slide, and ball change, turn...turn your back, change your ways, drag, drag, stamp, stomp, FALL. No sound. Only reverberating echoes of the metal against scuffed floors, the shadows smudged on dirty, mirrored walls, the smell of sweat, the strained muscles... the memories. Then the music starts off once more. Slowly crooning, crescendoing and its weary body is invigorated once more as it rises to face the audience. Only problem is, it has forgotten the steps. Poor thing...back to lessons. But this time it's from another teacher, new steps, new techniques, but always mixed with the old. It's shell (you) suddenly feels the tapping again, the beating, and the inexplicable stammering. You smile...it's spring again, your heart takes a final leap, and then bows amid the applause. A good show, time well spent...bravo.

Pier 1 Introversion

When I stand at the edge of Manhattan, listening to the toxic water beating against a nonexistent sandy shore, the reality of my life splatters on my face like seagull poop. Manhattan seagulls...As they share the baby blue dance floor with helicopters and the hairline of Jersey, I pray that I never find out what that splattering actually feels like. It’s 4:32... An hour away from my boring economics class...and i’m taking this time to feel like myself again. I come to the Hudson or the East River because being by the coast suddenly makes me remember that I’m on an island. Suddenly I remember that there is a sky bigger than the gaps between skyscrapers. Suddenly I remember why I am here and the people who I have left behind somewhere on the other side of this expanse of water. Feeling alive and reconnecting to yourself is the best date that one could ask for on a sunny and chilly thursday afternoon. The sun looks yellow in the sky until it splatters in a triangle and floats on top of the grimy water. It turns the Hudson, the coal of Northeastern waters if you will, into the purest gold. Light, sparkling, gold paint...splattering and moving in liquid frivolity, and gracing the tops of little waves with its presence.

Hudson View...

East River View...

My fingers are getting too cold to type. This past week New York has been skipping fall and throwing occasional, invisible snowballs at me saying, “haha you like that? Well you aint seen NOTHIN’ yet, sunshine.” Needless to say I’m quaking in my thin boots from tenth grade. Poor boots...you will soon be discarded and replaced with the pretty ones in the window that give you glares laced with judgmental humor. I hope you enjoyed my intentional pun.

A beautiful, speckled bird with feathers like a nice brown, mink coat, landed next to me on the pier. I watched him look sharply around, looking to see if someone was watching no doubt, and quickly regurgitated a small, bright orange object only to swallow it again even more quickly. He had my unwavering attention. The bird’s head started doing its isolations again; up down, left right...so sharp, i’m sure Fosse would be proud. Then a small, brown version of the birds meal of leftovers fell neatly from the bird and onto the deck. I was mesmerized. It was hilarious! But also compelling...Life at its core. The simplest of the many cycles that keep us alive.

Cycles... one is before my eyes and reflected in the water... the sun is starting to go down and sink into the Hudson, while my fingers are begging for it to stay and knit me some golden mittens. Trips like this are cycles for me. I get involved with school, sing, dance, go to sleep, socialize, push through crowds and breath in toxic fumes...until I leave and go to edge of my world for a few hours. I listen...don’t talk to anyone...don’t sing if I can help it...and just be. Be Myself, be lost in thought, and be away from the city...And then sometimes I look. I look at the water, I look at the skyline, and I backwards, and then forwards in time to that other world I also call home.

ABC, 123, Baby, You And Me...

Today I decided to go to Alphabet City to study at a cute coffee shop I heard about. I decided to walk there because that is really the only way to explore a new neighborhood in New York city. As the blocks pass slowly by you, the buildings start to morph, the demographics slowly change, and something in the air seems to change colors. Before you know it you are immersed in a new world. On Avenue A I felt like suddenly I was a local... everything touristy about New York faded away with $1 pizza, strollers, and community gardens. Then I stumbled upon Tompkins Square Park and tripped and tumbled over to it, intoxicated by the smell of grass. In the center there was a square where people could get

messages or names etched into the fabric of the ground and have it last forever. I wonder if they lasted forever...

As I left my oasis an old man played on his saxophone with a goofy, speckled smile and tightly shut eyes. The bills weighed heavily in my wallet, daring me to give in and share what I could spare. After I passed him he began playing “Over the Rainbow” and without warning my feet stopped moving and my throat bubbled with emotion. I turned around and stood transfixed as the familiar song wafted over me with nostalgic aromas. When he finished he asked, “do you know that song?” to a young woman taking pictures of him. Her words melted over my mind as I relaxed into the spanish accent that always reminds me of my ten days in Valencia. She said that she did know it and that she plays it on her Ukulele. At first I wanted to chime in and recognize all the similarities I shared with this scene in front of me...but instead I just observed bits of my worlds flirting and dancing with each other. I gave him and dollar, said thank you, and walked away.

Subway Tales

An old homeless man stands outside the gates to the subway with a stack, three inches thick, of discarded and dirty metro cards. He swipes every single one...waiting for a green light. Every swipe digs deeper into the grooves etched in his forehead. This is how he lives. Pinning his hope on the carelessness of those more fortunate than himself...all he wants is to get onto the trains and ride them through the night. No particular destination...possibly he will wander the cards with a cup, reciting his monologue and hoping to finally win an oscar...or at least a quarter.

Deep rumbling, high-pitched squealing, and a mid note that sounds like Marley’s chains rattling...1, 3, 5. A perfect chord rumbling through all the discord of Manhattan. Suddenly, another beast rises from the steel and grime marshes and runs along side of us. I see smeared faces racing my own reflection in the black window. Suddenly, eye contact with a stranger. For one second in both of our hectic, separate, and uniquely complex lives, you let each other in. For one second each of you is thinking of the other person without prior knowledge or basis to judge...Your train slows down as it nears the next stop and his zooms him forward to continue his life that is completely void of even one thought of you. The buzz is overwhelming. It’s amazing we trust these wild, jostling, underground snakes. A black man with blue eyes to match his shirt smiles at some inside joke. Do people wonder what my life story is? Inside the belly, we are all dual citizens of our own personal worlds, and this new 10-minute world. For one ride...we are all the same.

Takin' The Bite...

New York City....

Well, here I am. Waking up with the invisible sun every morning, going crosstown to a dance studio where I catch up with my childhood dream and pretend to be a real ballerina...every day starts with a sore and sweaty smile. {:`) My classes are composed of beautiful girls with red lipstick and boys... all gay... all beautiful... all delicious smelling. My room is a colorful hippy oasis. Records hang from the wall, my guitar and ukulele lay next to my bed wishing their owner actually knew how to play them...and then there is me. Little 'ol Tarah from Charlottesville Virginia. Wondering what she is doing in this big, scary city... and then I skip away from an amazing voice lesson and see a bride and groom sitting at a cafe, casually sipping coffee...I see a homeless man finding numerous packages of uneaten fruit and sandwiches with a heart breaking smile...I see necklaces with mini bowls hanging proudly as pendants, I see my reflection in the window overlooking an incredible skyline view...and then I know why I'm here. I'm here for the adventure, for the training, and for the characters.