Weird city of us where I can’t give a buck to a beggar with cats after spending $110 in bedding and $6 in a cab.
Schizo city where they offer me a Rothko in Madison Avenue at $5.5 million that I deem overpriced. But I can’t buy the $55 catalogue of his work.
New York, where a $2.2 million townhouse in Harlem strikes me as very affordable, but we can’t move to a $2000-a-month walk-up.
Strange island where one block divides a white ghetto of mansions and luxury and a black ghetto of poverty and hopelessness.
Million-dollar condos with homeless at the front door. Picassos and illegal aliens washing cars sharing coffee in the deli.
Fiery zoo of freaks and misfits.
Town embedded in my heart and soul that takes me from Egypt to Cattelan- and everything in between.
And beyond.
Place I love and I love. Inspiration and fascination.
Never repulsive despite rats, plastic surgery, tourists, noise, heat, cold, traffic, noise, chaos, misery and overpricing.
New York. You are too rich, too filthy, too damn attractive and hot.
Brutal and easy. Absurd and addictive. Epic, mythic, classic.
Restless and quite.
A river ride from America, yet so far.
Equal parts outrageous falseness and roaring authenticity, never exploding, always rising, resurrecting.
World of generous charities and rampant injustice, staggering on high heels while crawling on bloody naked feet.
These hectic streets where I run fast, fast- just for buying a gallon of milk.
New York. New York City.
Out of my window, pass the hookers and the homeless, I see the whole world.
