So here's the thing—
I left Kigali on a Saturday night, and by Sunday morning I was standing on New York concrete in -20°C weather. Coldest day here since 1990, apparently. Everyone coming off that plane had the same expression: Damn it's cold! But there's something about this kind of cold. It makes the city lights cut sharper. Makes the coffee mean something.
Right now? I'm still on my mellow mood. Keeping my energy in reserve, just riding the city's rhythm.
Yesterday we did the pre-premiere of Hate Radio. It was everything. The show's intense—the kind that stays with you—and the audience felt it. Sunday's the official premiere, and once it wraps, I'm diving deeper. I need to find Bushwick's pulse. Specifically Jazz in basements, the kind where the saxophonist doesn't need to prove anything. Point me to the Poetry that hits, words that land like the February wind.
Basically if you know a spot—a jam session, a poetry room, a place where the creative frequency is right—tell me. I'm here to listen. To connect and listen to what NYC wants to say to moi.
Love