A guy just stands in the middle of the road with a giant afro. A large statue of an eagle looks over the city near the MetLife building. I marvel at what that eagle has seen during its long, frozen life. I (day?)dream about how amazing it would be to jump up there, sit down next to the eagle and look over the city myself for a while, then listen to the eagle tell me stories about what he’s seen and heard for the numerous decades he’s been there. We zip by dozens upon dozens of apartment buildings over deli’s, wireless stores, jewelry displays and beer joints. My wind wanders – seventy years ago, it was probably blacksmiths, locksmiths, shoe shiners…..and beer joints. I wish so badly those walls could talk and tell me the stories of days past. Of immigrants struggling to make it. Of folk singers. Of families working verious jobs to keep bread on their table. Of rock critics with headphones wrapped around their head. Of stick ball in the alley. Of alchoholics, desperate to stop – or desperate to keep going. I want to hear their stories.

Three cabdrivers all get out of their car, leaving their yellow vehicles in the center of an intersection, and argue after a minor accident. We whizz by and they’re gone as fast as they came. A very old man walks alone with a very small dog. What is he thinking about? Does he miss his late wife? Or does he want to get away from his very alive wife? My Haitian cab driver listens to people speak French on the radio. It all happens in the five minutes after I’ve seen Bob Dylan both frustrate and fascinate through an hour and a half at The Beacon Theatre. New York.