Hell's Kitchen

September soliloquies, part II

Photo: Fashion trends in Hell’s Kitchen, New York

Unlike 99.9% of the planet, I am fortunate enough to work in what is called Hell’s Kitchen in New York City. If you don't work in Hell's Kitchen, you haven't been to Hell yet.

My many years of experience in Hell’s Kitchen have convinced me that everyone should go to Hell. (If you wish to you can make an appointment with me and meet me there. I’ll be glad to show you around.)

As I was walking up 39th St. towards my office in this part of town (also called “The Garment District,” because people in Hell like to dress well)  earlier this week—

—past the drug addicts and alcoholics

—past the people who are merely insane and screaming in the middle of the street

—past the homeless who are looking for handouts even early in the morning

—past the people who are missing limbs of one kind of another

—past the people who are, sometimes delightfully, exterior decorators—

—past all these objective reminders that most of us "in the Gurdjieff work" enjoy preferential shelter in a tiny middle class bubble of safety, and some of whom are even partially sane—

a new impression of my physical self struck me.