Greenwich Morning

Sat writing in the Cedar Tavern where the ghosts of Jack Pollock & Billy DeKooning weren't because the original Cedar Tavern was torn down & turned into condominiums. Someone probably has a poltergeist in their kitchen who splashes mayonnaise all over the place. I've been trying to practice writing in noisy locations. It's a muscle to be developed. I want to destroy the crutch of "I can only write under these conditions."

Walked around the Village until dawn with friend Kindleblossom & watched the morning sweep in over houses I wish I lived in. Conversations on stoops. Had breakfast at a wayside diner along with plenty of other people who were still up as well. Pretty easy to distinguish between the still ups & the just getting ups. Has to do with a certain coherency in the facial expression & rigidity of posture.

I suspect taxi drivers of communicating in secret taxi horn codes. There is never just one lone blast. If you listen closely there is usually a rapid succession of honks, all of varying lengths & textures, followed by distant answering calls. An entire conversation is taking place, I swear.