jenna

I was in a room filled with a group of writers...and I didn't think about what it meant to finally see them, up, close and personal, flesh and blood. You would think I would consider, that this would come into play, because my only experience, my only knowledge had been a narrative that didn't belong to me but one found in books, movies, a reproduction if will, of a past I have no true connection with, just admiration and respect. But all I can think of...all that came to mind....into play..is...twenty odd years ago they were all kids running through trains, subways, streets, abandoned and forgotten war torn new york, with paper bags filled with cans of paint and wanted nothing more than to write, to create, to be kings, if only for a couple hours before their pieces were covered by bland gray paint or simply washed and scrubbed away trains. They inspired by the dying and dilapidated city, compelled by a art form that was greater than the time could understand, challenging a notion of what the american dream is suppose to be...a dream created before most of us and doesn't suit most of us. The were called vandals and yet they made the broken city beautiful again. If only for a moment.