Going Home to New York is my Christmas, it is my nostalgic Utopia, where I come from, in this lifetime.
Walking down the tree lined Soho cobble stone streets, the distinct sounds & chirping of Disney-esque tiny but hardened NYC birds eating reminisce of a stale bagel in the gutter. The Italian Grandma sitting outside a shop on the border of little Italy & China Town arguing about what time Vinny came home last night & who took Gina’s new blow-dryer. They glare at me with narrowed eyes not realizing I share their meatball blood. I miss the Little Italy I knew as a child. China town has swallowed it whole leaving two cosmopolitan streets. It feels like a movie set now as apposed to an actual breathing burrow. But the Pizza is still fucking amazing. Don’t tell anyone I prefer the pizza across the street from the world famous Lombardi’s. Sorry guys.
I walk with charge, passing each tree and shop, solo, because no matter who I travel with I need personal quiet time to take everything in on my own & have my own private experience and memory. I am savoring every moment as I stroll from street to vein of street. It is comfortably humid, slight breeze moving the leaves on the verdant trees, sunny and I am overwhelmed with a sense of happy freedom & the satisfaction of my intent and how it manifests before my eyes as I need, when I want, inviting the right entities in and the power in all of this.