This is Jutta.
This is her son, my friend since I was thirteen.
A violinist. A builder of computers. A renter in a building of owners who wonders why his neighbors don't hold each others' mail when it piles up. A irreverent smart-ass who still has no fear saying whatever he wants. He knows he can get away with it because it's always really, really funny.
This is the Mariner.
A writer. A storyteller. A really hard worker. A seeking soul. An questioning mind. A commuter who knows where the R train goes and where it doesn't go, no matter what the signs say. An honest man. A rascal. A lover. A friend. And, after effortlessly sitting down at the old table the rest of us had sat at for 42 years, a member of the family.
But whether it was four decades ago or this evening...
...what brought us all together before - art, music, life - brings us all together again.
The never-ending curiosity of stories told in the strokes of a pen or a paintbrush.
This is Her New York.
**
Related Posts:
Jutta's Kitchen's: Part Two
Jutta's Kitchen Stops For Nothing
Big Leaps And Little Steps In The Long March To Commitment
