dream song 28

"It was wet & white & swift and where I am
we don't know."

From:  Dream Song 28: Snow Line by John Berryman

My street exploded today

So I was home this afternoon, doing my thing.  Writing a post for this blog, eating lunch.  I'd done the gym thing, swam for 30 minutes, 10 minutes in the sauna.  I remember checking the time, thinking, damn its almost one in the afternoon, and my day has no direction.  About a second later, I heard a loud explosion.  Like a bomb had gone off.  I went to the window, looked down the street, didn't see flame or smoke or fire, and thought, whatever it was, its under control.  But ten minutes later, I looked out again, and saw my neighbors standing on their stoop, wandering out into the street, and decided I ought to check this out. 

Nobody knew exactly what had happened aside from the explosion.  But words like gas leak and transformer fire were bandied about. I went back in, grabbed Molly, b/c I thought it might be a good time to go for a walk.  Soon the streets surrounding my neighborhood were swarming with police and firemen.  Con Ed men.  Emergency vehicles were driving on the sidewalks.  Traffic was being diverted.  Molly was getting a little freaked out, so I dropped her off at a friend's funeral home on Atlantic Avenue to find out exactly what the hell was going on.  I know that sounds weird but he's a nice guy and he loves Molly.  Besides, I wanted to go back home and grab my cell phone. 

I got there just as firemen were knocking on my door.  I let them in and they said, Miss get off this street.  You can't go in.  Everyone on Joralemon and Willow were evacuated.  Shit.  This was serious.  I went back to the funeral home to get Molly--- Ronny, wanted me to stay where it was safe, but it was way too entertaining out on the streets.  Plus the sun was shining, and it was like 50 degrees out.  Back at Willow, now taped off, two reporters from Newsday and the Post were fighting over me, and another man had a camera in my face.  I really didn't know what to say except that I'd been evacuated, that I'd heard what sounded like a bomb go off, and that earlier some guys had been jack-hammering further up the street.  That's it.

After awhile, it was like a carnival.  All my neighbors were out, everyone had their dogs, their cell phones, and cats in cat carriers.  We traded gossip and tried to figure out when we would be able to go home.  I started to get cold, and went over to my deli for a cup of coffee and a roast beef sandwich.  Then I settled in on the curb in the sunlight and watched the parade of official looking men roam up and down my street.  Finally I asked a fireman if I could go back in and get a sweater and my cell phone.  By now it was three in the afternoon, and it was definitely getting colder.  I had to consider that I might need a place to spend the night. 

The fireman went inside with me with a carbon dioxide meter, allowed me to get a sweater and my cell phone.  He said the air was clean.  Two seconds later, I was allowed back. But I couldn't stay there.  Too much DRAMA out on the street; news cameras, reporters, displaced neighbors from further up the street who were still homeless. I went back out for groceries, watched an elderly woman try to slip past the  barricade, only to be told, "No way."

It's about 8:30 now.  I can hear kids on skateboards, laughter.  The street is quiet and dark.  No doubt tomorrow the only thing I'll see on my way to the train is the massive hole in the street from three separate gas explosions.  Way to go independent contractors jack-hammering on Willow Place. That's what you get for breaking the law and working on a holiday.

A Christmas story

It’s almost out-of-body walking the deserted streets of Brooklyn on Christmas morning. There is no traffic. The city is silent. Melting snow drops from the trees, the intersections are slushy and icy, and salt crystals on the sidewalk gather in tiny pockets. I’ve got to carefully maneuver Molly so she doesn’t burn her paws. I turn left on State Street and head over to the corner deli. I’m here every day for a Red Bull and a newspaper. I carry Molly in my arms. Lately, we’ve been accosted by a life size dancing Santa who stands in front of the store: “Ho, ho, ho. This is going to be the merriest Christmas ever!” This guy scares me, he seriously does. But the store is gated and locked. No Frankie, no Mario, no Sergio, and no Santa.

I hear nothing but the distant roar of traffic on the Brooklyn Queens Expressway. I find a bodega open on Atlantic Avenue, but its cold comfort. I walk Molly home, and decide to go to Teresa’s and treat myself to a big Polish breakfast. But of course it is closed. Once my brother and I decided to have a real Polish feast on Easter Sunday in Greenpoint--- a neighborhood in Brooklyn that is mecca to recent émigrés. We got lost in Williamsburg, but finally found the neighborhood. Every single restaurant and shop was shuttered. We ended up having Mexican. Apparently Polish émigrés do not work on Christmas either.

Then I thought of a Ziggy’s on Henry Street, a whole foods café where the pancakes are likely to be made with buckwheat and millet, served with fresh Vermont maple syrup and organic coffee. I walk south, the looming arch of the Manhattan Bridge before me, the trees bare, the sky still gray, a cold wind coming off the East River. Still no people. A panic attack looms at the edge of my brain. The day doesn’t feel real. I think, “Get yourself a cup of coffee surely the shit diner on Montague is open.” I walk into a deli but the coffee is self-serve and looks a week old. I walk north again and see a minister get out of his black Mercedes in front of the Lutheran Church on Henry. He looks at me oddly--- “What is that woman doing out on the street on Christmas morning?” And I would answer, “Sir. I don’t really know.”

The shit diner is closed. My fall back is Starbucks. It’s open. It’s a corporation. I can at least get a cup of good coffee. But I find another shit diner, shittier than the one on Montague. I remembered a New Year’s morning, five a.m. Cheeseburger and coffee and heartburn after a night’s revel in Manhattan. I walk in the door and immediately feel normal again. The waiter is about eighty years old and half his teeth are missing. Excellent. My sister has just called, but he glares at me, “You ordering?” Yikes. I tell her, “I’ll call you later.” I order bacon, eggs, pancakes and coffee. It arrives 60 seconds later. The bacon is suspicious. As if it was cooked last week and then reconstituted. The pancakes are slightly burnt, and the eggs are runny. But I pour maple syrup over everything and it is delicious.

I don’t believe I have ever been in my neighborhood, in Brooklyn, on Christmas. I am always somewhere else; San Francisco, South Florida, the Midwest, upstate New York or elsewhere in the city--- East Village, Upper East Side, West Village, Chelsea. One Christmas my girlfriends and I wandered into a bar in Soho and flirted with an entire Italian soccer team. Last Christmas Eve, I walked through a redwood forest on the west coast with my pregnant sister. One year I went ice-skating down at Chelsea piers, then had dim sum in Chinatown. This year I opted out. This year I would spend it at home. After breakfast I walk into my foyer and find a Christmas card from my brother; it is a picture of his three sons. Yesterday two packages arrived from my two sisters; both sent me pajamas. Thank you. Gracias. Merci.

Christmas morning in Brooklyn is an island. Time, for the moment, is suspended. It’s almost like jet lag--- I am out of sync with the rest of the world. Even Butch, who sits on the corner stoop, knows everyone, and tells stories about life in Attica to anyone who will listen, is missing. The dog run is deserted. Snow still clings to the roofs of the townhouses, my neighbor has a miniature crèche on her tiny front porch, rows and rows of Christmas trees still line Court Street and Atlantic Avenue. But I am still the only person out on the streets. It’s warmer today. A new year is about to begin.

The story of the blue wallet

Out walking Molly this morning, the temperature hovering around 40.  Warm enough for a nice stroll through Cobble Hill.  Streets were quiet, sky was the color of milk, rain was coming.  I had a coffee, a green scarf looped around my neck.  I turned left on Baltic, found a pile of trash outside an apartment building, the East River and the BQE close by.  I stopped to look at the books since I'm such a fiend, saw a few I had read already, and a wallet. Powder blue leather with a red rose stamped on the front.  Really nice. 

I thought what a strange thing to toss out onto the street.  So I opened it and saw a young woman staring up at me.  Clarice (not her real name).  Blond hair, blue eyes, five foot seven inches--- according to her driver's license.  A Brooklyn girl. Opened up another compartment and found credit cards, Master Card, Visa.  Found business cards.  She goes to my vet.  No money, just some change.  Impossible that Clarice had just tossed this out.  More likely Clarice had been robbed.

I took it home and emptied out its contents.  I was hoping to find a phone number. I imagined how relieved she'd be when I said, I have your wallet!  I didn't find her number, but I began to construct her life with the clues provided; she had to live or work close to Park Slope because she had a business card from a coffee shop.  Ten visits and she gets a free cup.  Five holes had been punched out. 

I found recent bank receipts that showed a balance hovering around three or four hundred dollars, so she wasn't rich.  A card from a visiting nurse--- perhaps she had a sick mother.  A card from a gallery on Atlantic Avenue.  She had an Amazon.com credit card, so obviously she liked to read.  I began to imagine her as a younger version of myself.  Struggling, but educated.  Good looking. A coffee drinker.  Maybe out on the town, lost her purse.  In that moment, I couldn't help but remember all the times I've stumbled home, late at night, often drunk or stoned.  Often obvlious to how dangerous NYC can be. 

Then I found a phone number tucked away inside a pocket. A man's name; James (not his real name).  What the hell, I thought, maybe he knows who she is.  So I called.  It was ten in the morning, and James answered.  I said, "Hello, you don't know me, but I found your name inside of a wallet. I thought perhaps you know this woman."  I was careful to only give her name, no other information. He told me that yes he had a met her last night at a party. 

He accurately described the piece of paper I was holding. He didn't speak to her very long--- she was leaving to go to another party, Jewish.  And since he wasn't Jewish, he wasn't going.  This was at Church Street.  After he spoke to her and gave her his number, he spoke to a "Muslim gentleman."  Why was he so talkative?  To a stranger? Then he went on and on about how he had met another woman on Court Street, but she was only like four feet eleven inches.  This was definitely getting weird.  I told James good bye and called the police.  Which of course is what I should've done in the first place.

They were at my apartment in 15 minutes.  They were bored.  Two cops; one fat, one slim.  Molly was yapping and jumping all over them.  They took the wallet and left. Wherever you are Clarice, I hope you got home safe and sound.  I hope you have the same kind of dumb luck that protected me all the years when I was young and foolish.  I hope you are happy to get your wallet back.  Call me.  We'll have coffee.

Light in December -- The close up

The same attenuated light on the same corner.  Not a view of the sky, but the street.  Same shot. Next to the Lebanese restaurant, but now, in the foreground, you see a young girl in a pink coat  in a grove of miniature Christmas trees. Framed by taller trees in the background.  Her brother and father hovering nearby. But it's almost like they are underwater, as if the light is filtering down from the surface of a river or an ocean.  The trees become anemones with red velvet ribbons.  

Light in December -- The long shot

The corner of Clinton Street and Atlantic Avenue. To the left is Key Food, grocery store that sells pots of flowers and now Christmas trees outside on the street.  To the left of me are small shops; Middle Eastern imports, an acupuncturist, a salon, and an empty medical office that has become an impromptu gallery;  oil paintings and photographs hang on the walls in the otherwise empty space. 

Notice the sun going down in the southern sky at 1:00 in the afternoon.  Across the street; a Lebanese restaurant, apartments overhead, dry cleaners on the other side of the corner.  But look at the attenuated light down on the street.  The hot light in the sky.  In the next photo, I got a close up of the same shot: 

Love the duck and the dog

I found this on Court Street this morning while I was walking Molly.  I had to take a picture.  First of all, its completely adorable.  Love the duck dog and the fish.   I love that he loves animals.  I love that he's trying to find work:  "Great Rates!"  I'm sure he's trying to help his parents afford the rent here in Cobble Hill b/c it ain't cheap, baby. I love that he's "reliable."  I'm sure he is.  I should've taken the phone number just to hear this 11 year old entrepeneur talk shop.  I'm  also sure he will find part-time work before I will.  Ha.  Ha. 

Beware of the twilight. The shadows can trick you.

The darkness is back.  Twilight at 4:00 p.m.  Night falls at 5:00.  My mother said: It's the most dangerous time of day.  The shadows can trick you.  She was afraid of us on bicycles.  Out on the streets.  Oncoming cars. Careless children.  All six of us.  Our cheeks ruddy from the cold.  The kitchen windows steamed.  A pile of sweaters and socks by the back door.  Dinner time and its totally dark out.

Today, in Brooklyn, it means the streets are littered with yellow leaves. It means the light from the setting sun falls at an oblique angle.  The brownstones across the street are gilded, momentarily, against a backdrop of pure blue sky.  Coming up from the 4 train after work, its dark.  It means I drink more coffee.  Suddenly think: get out while its still light. 

I like the way the days diminish leading up to the solstice.  I like that the light becomes more and more burnished.  More oblique. I hear the sound of dry leaves underfoot, the distant echo of children.  The trees in the park are orange, yellow, red.  Somewhere, not here, a young mother admonishes her sons and daughters: Beware of the twilight.  The shadows can trick you.

Ghoulish glitter

Halloween night.  In Brooklyn.  It began with a walk to Bergen between Court and Smith to visit a new art gallery/performance space called Invisible Dog.  It used to be a factory that manufactured--- among other things--- the gag dog leash.  I interviewed the Producer/Art Director.  A French man by way of Marseilles and Paris, now in Cobble Hill.  Lucien Zayan.  The current exhibit on the main floor has several large abstract paintings, a soft sculpture that could be a mushroom except its about 100X bigger and multi-colored, a video installation playing against the far wall, and a light box sculpture.

 On the second floor Lucien showed me the artist studios.  Four thousand square feet that he configured for each artist after he found out what they needed.  On the third floor an absolutely exquisite performance space--- gorgeous b/c he kept the rawness of the room and added polish.  The walls are now pristine white with modern lighting.  But he kept the original windows, sanded down the columns and rebuilt the ceiling using recycled wood from the space.  Again, 4,000 square feet.  This is how he makes his money.  He rents this space out: weddings, exhibits, photographers, film companies.  Pretty smart.  Then does what he wants on the ground floor. 

Apres l'interview, I walked over to Smith and Pacific to Bar Tabac.  A great little French bistro that every once in  awhile features Brazilian jazz.  I've had some GOOD times there.  They have outside tables, so I could watch the spectacle of little children, their parents, and even their pets parade up and down the streets in search of treats.  I saw not one but two dogs in lobster costumes.  I saw a infant dressed up like a hot dog; the bun part of the sling holding the baby.  A family walked by dressed up in Nathan's Hot Dog Attire, the signature hats, and aprons.  A six or seven year old boy, sporting a sinister mask, was clearly enjoying his new persona.  Little girls in long silver gowns wearing tiaras.  An entire family of bumble bees.  The waitstaff all dressed up; Adam's family.  Ghoulish.  Glitter.  A great chicken cutlet and Sancerre. 

Walked up to Court, over to Atlantic to get to the heart of the Halloween celebration--- the mecca for all children, my neighborhood, State Street, Joralemon Street, and all the little streets in between.  Its like Woodstock, Disney World, street fair, and art installation; all rolled into one.  The elegant brownstones and townhouses are decorated with skeletons, ghosts, giant spiders, pumpkins, witches and monsters.  Add lights and music. The owners are in costume.  The kids are in costume.   I walked through the ghouls and goblins, coffee in hand, said hello to a few neighbors, even scammed some candy for myself.  Trick or treat!

Then home to watch the Yankees clobber the Phillies.  Perfect.

Image:  Woman who works at the dry cleaners on Hicks, sweeping the sidewalk, dressed up like a fairy.

Willow between State & Joralemon

Summer 09: No shame

You would not expect food stamps in Brooklyn Heights. You would expect million dollar co-ops, doormen, nannies, private schools --- and you would be right. All these things exist including fey little boutiques that sell Marc Jacob's T-shirts for $200 (on sale for $140!) as well as two high end real estate offices. But co-existing in this land of splendor are people like myself; artist/writers, actor/realtor's, teacher/dancers, literary agents. And, in the midst of the recession, in the belly of the economic bell curve, trapped in the the cyclone of adjustable rate mortgages and the positively Rabelaisian greed of CEO's, I found myself living on food stamps this July and August. And what's more I enjoyed it.

But first a bit of back story:

It's not 2009, it's 1962. It's not Brooklyn, its the Midwest. And, trust me, there had been no revolution, sexual or otherwise. There were no dope smoking hippies preaching love and happiness, no Mr. Natural, Age of Aquarius. No. It's a factory town, an old Indian village, a small sea of immigrants. My father was in Viet Nam, it wasn't a war yet. My mother was at home with three small children. The checks stopped coming. Mice ruled the basement. A ham bone turned to pea soup and fed us for five days. I had bacon for breakfast, lunch and dinner. But my mother resolutely turned down food stamps.

It didn't matter that the milk had exploded in the metal container on the porch. It didn't matter that her mother told her take the bus and come for dinner, to which my mother replied, I don't have the money to take the bus. And then hang up the phone in frustration. She would not apply for food stamps. That was charity. That was the tough immigrant pride of my mother. That was the pride of her daughter, too. In the past, whenever I'd see someone pay with food stamps, which in those days looked like Monopoly money, I'd think: LOSER-- as in--- you got a incontinent beer swilling husband at home and four snotty nosed kids.

Cut to the summer of 09 and I am struggling. Serious issues of morale. But happiness as well--- my niece stays with me three or four nights a week. We drink iced coffee. She talks about her day. I talk about mine. Soon we have turned Wednesday night or Thursday night into a ritual; Trader's Joes with food stamps. They look nothing like their predecessor, now--- its a sleek little credit card. Now it doesn't scream loser, now its just another form of credit. My niece and I are delirious as we wander from aisle to aisle; tomatoes, avocados, toasted almonds, arugula, pre-cooked turkey meatballs, couscous and chicken, then a stop at the free sample station for a cup of really good hot coffee, and a bite of a macaroon with ginger ice cream, or a chicken burrito, with salsa verde. Muy bien!

I'd get the cherry soy ice cream with dark chocolate, my niece would get goat cheese. I'd always pick up beef carpaccio and she'd get raisin bran cereal and milk. We always scooped up the teriyaki frozen chicken and jasmine rice, the vegetarian pizza. Our shopping cart is now full and half the time girlfriend is on her cell to her boyfriend, but I don't care. Trader Joes in August 09 is a wonderland, better than Disney world, better than Las Vegas. The employees are always friendly--- I even asked a cashier once, Is this a good job? Are you treated well? He replied, sincerely, Yes. I am.

Paying for all this with food stamps didn't feel shameful. Nobody seemed to care. My niece and I would walk out into the twilight, onto Atlantic Avenue, the streets still thick with strollers and traffic, carrying five bags of food, happy and content. Happy about filling up the fridge and cupboards when we got home. Perhaps it was a different time for my mother--- a new immigrant, still vivid memories of the war, a young wife. But I'm 1.5. I was born here. I have a Master's Degree. There are no children at home. If food stamps are a benefit I can receive while the economy is in the toilet, I'll take it. After all this is the government that allowed rapacious banks to triple my APR.

So. No shame. None at all. Instead--- a happy memory of hot summer nights, 2009. My mom would've had fun, too, with me, with her granddaughter, getting a cup of coffee then hitting the frozen food section at Trader Joes.

Season of the witch

Let's get lost in a pumpkin patch together. You be the ghost and I'll be the witch. We'll make pumpkin pies and eat them together under a full moon. It's the season of the witch, the day of the dead, all Hallow's eve. It's the time of candied white skulls in a cemetary, worms crawling in and out of coffins, ancestors rising up out of their graves to walk the earth for one night. Time for the masque, the costume ball--- Cleopatra, Lady MacBeth, Queen Elizabeth, the stripper, the harlot, the fairy, the girl.

Boroughing Brooklyn likes my work

Many thanks to Boroughing Brooklyn for reposting my piece on P.S. Bookshop, All things literary, on their site:

About Brooklyn The Borough--- You may have noticed lately that Brooklyn has become a vital conduit to innovative American culture. Brooklyn The Borough aims to capture the stories behind that culture, and bring you informative, contextual reporting from the cutting edge. Conceived from a weekly New York Observer column by Nicole Brydson, Brooklyn The Borough is independently owned and dedicated to covering Brooklyn’s cultural zeitgeist. Our contributors are local residents who want to share their ideas.

Brooklyn The Borough is an innovative news website, melding the sensibilities of literary print journalism with the digital platform in a magazine feature format. This approach to local reporting is unique to Brooklyn’s internet landscape and intends to shed light on the borough’s subterranean cultural movements in fashion, music and art. Contextualizing the borough’s political and sociological landscapes is key to this website’s mission. Please follow us on Twitter!

Behold the crowd at the Main Stage in Borough Hall Plaza

Here we all are--- awaiting our taste of Brooklyn literature at noon on Sunday. My suggestions for next year; more kiosks selling iced coffee, beer, hot dogs, pretzels, please don't let Starbucks be the only game in town, and also how about a street dance held in the plaza at the end of the day. No more symposiums on contemporary Russian literature at one in the afternoon when its 90 degrees. Even if its Francine Prose reading from an anthology that she edited, its impressive, don't get me wrong, but how can you pay attention with the noise of the streets, the sirens, the dogs barking and the multitudes threading to and fro throughout the plaza?

On the plus side, Brooklyn has been compared to Paris in the 1920's, the Left Bank--- for the proliferation of writers, bloggers, and indie houses that have bloomed like geraniums in flower boxes on the brownstones. It's good to be here, folks, it's good to be in Brooklyn. Love it. Love it.

On my way to the Brooklyn Book Festival Gala

It was a fine night in Brooklyn, Saturday. On my way to schmooze with the literati, to drink cocktails and chat up old friends. Edwidge Danticat took the stage at St. Francis College to accept her award in a tasteful purple dress while her adorable children frolicked in the auditorium. After the awards ceremony, we went to the party in the the school cafeteria--- a bit too bright for my taste, I said to my friend Deirdre, this is not a high school dance. She replied and it's not a senior citizen event, but the drinks were free and food was divine. It was hot as shit in there, but still had a great time. Got home at ten, went to bed at midnight and then up again, to attend the festival. A bit hung over, but I've been a good girl for a long time now; working my ass off in a new job, so I needed a night out.

All things literary

Check out Dumbonyc.com for my latest post on P.S.Bookshop

located at 145A Front Street

in the neighborhood

down by the river.

Fractals

What the Gods haven't already told us--- can be explained by geometry. Fractal theory to be exact. One tree can explain an entire forest. As above, so below. Or just a bunch of pretty flowers sold by my neighbor, landscape architect, who grows them on her farm in CT.

Scenes from a hot city: Part three

No hustle. No bustle on Atlantic Avenue. One lone person braves the hot pavement. Normally thronged with babies, strollers, business men, nurses, doctors, plumbers, shopkeepers and drinkers from Floyd's Bar, today it is devoid, empty, everyone taking refuge from the heat.

Scenes from a hot city: Part two

Little boy frolics in the sprinklers, the hot light of midday refracted through the water. Mommy keeps cool by chasing after little boy. I was tempted to jump in myself. Pocket park around the corner from my home.

Scenes from a hot city: Part one

Mickels' Garden on Columbia Place. Named for a charming young man who was an EMT for Long Island College Hospital and died in their care. Here members of the community plant sunflowers, tomatoes, lettuce, carrots, towering sunflowers, and sometimes, although not today, enjoy twilight dinners at the picnic table. It, of course, thrives in the heat wave. Today it is still and hot, green and quiet save for the roar of the Brooklyn Queens Expressway.