New York has been a two month mix of underground traffic, sporadic investments in halal carts and $1 pizza joints, and far too many unexpected ATM fees. I came here set on — yes — working for Creative Time, but also creating a series of little magnum opuses: a poem here, an essay there; a piece here, a painting there. I wanted to get into a steady groove of creating, to build a certain rapport between myself and the energies that move through me, to leave evidences of my wild ethos. I expected the city to send me into an artistic dizzy — strong enough to keep me going even after I’d clock out and take the 6 train all the way Uptown. With only one month left in this city, I can solemnly say this has not been the case — and with two months in this city under my belt, I can confidently posit that wasn’t supposed to be the case, either.

The lag I reside in is composed of equal parts comfort, equal parts discomfort. I am comfortable because I am young, and the standard for my accomplishments at this time is low, while the acclaim — and longevity of that acclaim — is high. I’ve been basing my identity off relics of years past: a few spoken word stints; a writers workshop when I was fifteen or sixteen; and a brainchild birthed two years ago that only exists in an isolated desktop folder and a few notebook pages.

The lapse between my ideas and my actualization of them has delved me into one of the most important lessons I’ll ever learn, because its fruit is integral to success. I must get comfortable with the doing, with the execution. I may talk a mean game, but reward cares nothing of an ideas eloquence. I’ve disrespected far too man spirits that move through me by not living in this lapse, but lagging in it. Analyzing it. Accruing fear in it.

Recognizing the disrespect — and apologizing for it through action — has been the keynote of my experience here in New York.