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.