One.
Union Square Park. Nighttime. Secluded, grassy section, removed from large crowd observing contortionist in fluorescent tights. 6 Ephoria girls. Tight circle. And So It Goes. Minus the alto two's. Performing to and for ourselves.
Two.
One of our commission artists at Dixon Place. Tall, chiseled. A warm, firm handshake. Holding on longer than most people do. Direct eye contact. Comforting. An ease and honesty in conversation that defies his stutter. Spoke of writing and golf and laughing paper.
Three.
Vegan noodle restaurant. Mediocre food. Delicious cookie. To The Lighthouse. Sudden, intense downpour. Small Chinese man handing me a white plastic garbage bag, the kind with the drawstring, to wear as a poncho. Fashion statement of the year.
Four.
Burlesque show at DP. World Famous *BOB*. Nipple tassels and vagina sequins. Her story. Her hug. Her joy. Her love. Inspiration.
Five.
The view from the Manhattan Bridge at night. All dusty sky and lights. From the inside of the cab, I feel a bit like I'm flying.
The genesis of this blog was an account of a month-long stay in Morocco. I have since changed the name (removing the bit about said stay in Rabat), hoping to extend this little piece of cyber-sharing to include other bits and fragments of my life. Is there anything so real as words?
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