An apartment buildling on St Marks Place, Manhattan


So I asked Mr. Cab Driver to bring me to the East Village, but instead he brought me to Writer's Block. Let me tell you, it is not a place you ever want to visit.. with its sarcastic welcome mat, brazenly laid out, as if they just knew I was going to show my face here sooner or later. And there is no strength in numbers on this block; the fact that all creatively inclined creatures end up here at one point or another in their actual or elusive careers provides zero consolation. No.. you must believe me when I tell you that no good can come from a place like this. All I wanted to do was hop on the next blue CitySights tourbus and get the heck out of there. But they were no help.. I waved my ticketed hand furiously in hopes that I would be noticed, but driver after driver just sped past me.. I was merely just another piece of text on the page. As if I didn't have anywhere better to be!!!

I stewed for a while, and finally decided that the only sane thing to do was to find myself an accessible bench and take a load off. Literally. I removed my trusty red knapsack and leaned back on my hands and decided I would no longer consider my self-imposed schedule. Like literary insomnia, I figured if I stop thinking about it, it would solve itself.. my body and mind would know what to do, upon being freed from all the expectations and assumptions and timelines of my imagination. Really, there's no point in trying too hard because life is going to happen regardless of what you do... and there will always be a story to tell, a picture to capture, a memory to share, and an experience to.. well.. experience! It's all good. Really.