One of the many things I love about being in Brooklyn is the sense of the creative spark everywhere. Every other person you meet is a writer, a painter, an artist. The coffee houses are filled with young writers staring at their Apple laptops, meeting with young editors. The pharmacies have as much art work in their windows as you see in most suburbs.  It is one of those places where people with the creative spark go to make their way, and in New York City, from O Henry to now, that has never been an easy task. But the creative energy is everywhere – that exciting sense of story-telling and striving – and I was mesmerized by this young musician playing in the last light at Union and Fifth Avenue.

Maria and I must have walked a hundred miles in our three day, and I was always sorry to see the sun set because so much of what the light hit – painted murals on walls and windows – seemed to be capturing the creative energy of this hybrid place. Everywhere you looked, so much of what you saw, beauty and grime, renovation and decay, money and poverty all mushed up in a riotous symphony. I would love to be in such a place. I would not like being in such a place.