I have been bitten by Brooklyn. A love bruise has surfaced. Violet, mauve, lilac, crimson. Teeth marks, lip marks, life marks. I am swollen with stimulation. Ablaze with inspiration. Pulsing with drive. And all it took was Brooklyn.
I had briefly walked its streets in September before retreating to the glass towers of Manhattan, but then was so enraptured by New York that nothing across those murky waters could compete. This time, last week, I did Brooklyn. And every inch, each element, rippled and stirred me. I’m still vibrating. A caffeine high that won’t fade.
The art that is smeared, coloured, slapped on buildings, sidewalks, and mailboxes is alive. Each piece is its own character in the play called Williamsburg. A step can’t be taken without seeing something new. Car doors hang from brick exteriors, poetry is scrawled on doors, statement-making murals are painted on concrete. And it’s beautiful. Not English cathedral beautiful. Or Italian villa beautiful. But raw, real, vulnerable. Like people. Those are the most beautiful. The people with cracks in the façade. With imperfections.
The people. They are dynamic. And juicy. And bottomless. Cherry red pounces off a French waitress’ lips, branding all those in earshot. An artist hides away in a basement full of carefully curated garbage piled to the ceiling, luring passersby down the steep sidewalk stairs to purchase her so-called collectables. Skaters in ripped denim and plaid call to each other in Russian as they rapidly roll down bike lanes, hair trailing behind them. A Mexican construction worker in his 50s could masquerade as lead singer in a mariachi band. The mature, educated man next to me at the bar who held his flip phone with pride, no desire to be attached to a digital world. The stories of these residents are rich. I wanted to follow people around. See where they went, what they did, how they talked. No one was boring. Nothing was normal. Or perhaps everything was normal. Just not any kind of normal I knew.
Vibrant music beat every night of the week – it leaked out of paint-chipped fences, from a tambourine at the next table, and through the thin apartment walls. I ate Brazilian, Mexican, Italian, Australian. I drank out of flowery teacups and sat at rusty tables. Every detail was hungrily sucked up by my pores, potently intoxicating me.
Before I left for the East Coast, I felt flat-lined. Uninspired. Lethargic. Which is silly. Ridiculous, even. I had only just been away in September. I’d had new experiences and created new stories. But I think the over-stimulation, the almost sleepless nights, the over-indulgence took me away from myself, took myself away from me. Emptied my spirit, which I desperately needed to fill again.
The emptiness bubbled with life as soon as I landed at Newark, fizzed on the cab ride from Penn Station across the Williamsburg Bridge, and sparkled when I saw the bright lights of New York, from the banks of Brooklyn, wink at me with more brilliance than millions of stars. Brooklyn is a warm embrace, while New York is a twirling dance partner.
My creativity is awake again. Like a pair of tender hands exploring, nurturing, adoring every inch of my flesh, Brooklyn brought me back to life. And I’ve been reminded how important it is to travel, to see new sights, to experience different sensations. An unknown part of you may be revealed.
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