I can’t…But then…truth sometimes  is stranger than fiction.

Scroll down to see Cole’s little piece in the New York Style Magazine about where he goes clubbing whenever he sets aside his thinking hat.

It’s Friday today. Chances are that the author of Open City will be winding to some Awilo Longomba tonight. Hope you all have something fun planned.

Me, I’ll be writing the long overdue review of Yvonne Owuor’s Dust.

Have a lovely weekend guys!

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I love dancing, and I especially love being in a club at 2 a.m., when one or three drinks, good company and a gifted D.J. collectively liberate me into my body. The place could be Barbès in Park Slope, where old-school Guinean grooves silver the air, or perhaps I’m at Windfall in Midtown, enjoying the latest Nigerian Afrobeats and Congolese ndombolo. Wherever it is, I stop my habitual overthinking and become, quite simply, a body in the half-dark.

But this is not the highlight of such evenings, for afterward is the journey home to Brooklyn. From the back seat of a taxi, the city unfurls before me as a series of illuminated sights. If we go down the West Side Highway, we’ll pass by the apparition of One World Trade and enter the Tarkovsky-like glow of the Battery Tunnel. If we take the F.D.R., there’s the jeweler’s display of the bridges: Williamsburg, Manhattan, Brooklyn, all those dreamy rows of diamonds. At such moments, the city is mine alone: its immensity, its beauty, its clear streets, its silent waterways. It is open in a way daylight would never permit. I lose myself in it and belong to it, a happiness no less real for being so fleeting.

— The New York Style Magazine

Post image by Jamilla Okubo. Pretty amazing stuff. See more of her images {HERE}

 

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