part II to a continuing story...

As an artist in a sorority girls world, I have few friends who don’t "conform" to modern fashion. I myself don’t care if I look in as long as I look attractive or at least feel like I do. But, in my plain Jane jeans and black T-shirt I looked like any other bored "New Yorker." I looked so normal, so classically boring in plain, that I felt as though I didn’t belong.

(song)"One of these things is not like the other, one of these things is kind of the same. One of these things is not like the other…. Now its time to play our game. Its time to play our game….."

When we entered Brooklyn, I held my breath as if I knew that letting it out would make me fall dead from poison. I make habit to leave Manhattan as little as possible. Not that I don’t like to leave, but with so much going on, I can’t afford to spend time on adjusting to change. In the back seat of the Bronco, far from my comfort zone, I was slowly turning purple as fear and dread seems into my gut.

I dropped my bags at the door of the spacious Brooklyn apartment. Matt had a deal with his landlord that we could use the empty apartment for a few days as long as we didn’t destroy it. Two mattresses were plopped on the floor. The walls in one half of the apartment had been painted a vibrant purple and graffiti like art had been mounted on the wall. I am afraid. Not of the company, but of the space. I like to know that people can hear me scream and that I am not alone. I had no idea where I was, how to get to a subway, if there was a subway. Where in this overwhelming space was it ok to walk, talk, sleep without violating the temperaments of these strangers.