#18-UNADULTERATED MAGIC IN THE MORNING

A man and a woman stand on the Brooklyn bridge at 6am having not yet slept. They watch and wait for the threatening sunrise as they marvel at the miraculous knowing of each other. Waiting for the ball to drop, when they will no longer be allowed to conspire. To plot their destruction of all that threatens to hold us back and instead infuse inspiration to the point of shock waves though man kind. A noble pursuit for two humans.

The man is overwhelmed at his sudden desire to see Ground Zero. Not for the death. Not for the tragedy. Simply to feel the vibration of what stops a city from building...or at least reaching a place where they feel "ok" to build. Even a place where they can come up with something to build that someone might want to look at and admire...instead of shiny glass crap...ola.

The woman takes the mans hand and leads him away from water through a park. A shortcut to their final destination. But rather than a green side thought, the woman is accosted by a sign of restrictions. Rules. A list of no's in a place her tax dollars contributed to. Rules she never agreed to:

No radios.
No dogs.
No picnic-ing.
No open fires.
No gatherings.
No breathing.
No listening.
No living...and the kicker..no performing.

The woman's sense of herself felt jangled and she thought she would cry. All that moved her and her people was banned in her city. A place where she danced and prayed in her incredible collection of argyle knee socks and biker boots. Freedom. This was not allowed.

She shook next to the man and the man stopped and turned, jangled by his own mission towards Ground Zero and uncertain of the woman's sudden silence.

With a gentle letting go, the woman released the man's hand and walked to a nearby fountain. The water still flowed but the moss was dead from the subtle arrival of autumn that had slid into New York. She slid off her boots and socks and without hesitation stepped into the fountain. She dipped her pretty toes into the water. The same toes which had been photographed only a week prior by a renegade photographer with a fetish...for her. The bottom was slimy and cold and tin and the woman suddenly felt alive. Even with a sign of laws staring her down, they suddenly slipped into the same importance as graffiti on a bathroom stall. No performing? Give us a break.

The man stood and looked at the woman in awe. A renegade himself, he was suddenly faced with a "love it or leave it" moment as a stuffy woman walked by and pointed in horrified silence towards his brave, dear friend. For whose benefit is she pointing, he wondered. Her dog, perhaps. He decided to love it and suddenly Ground Zero wasn't so important.

These are the people who live in this city. The people who keep the heartbeat alive. They keep me up late, but never late enough. They make me want to stop everything normal and just create and write and live.

Seek the people who are doing something outside of their own boxes. The people who don't sleep much but manage to function. Ask what they do at night. Ask what matters to them. They are here and they are gathering. They are the ones who will lead us when it's time to rumble.