You curve yourself onto that soft edge between your back and your belly, and like paint from a Matisse brush pouring into a reclining woman you glide on the sweet spot toward home, home being the other side of the pool. Or maybe a place that only looks like the middle of the bed but is just the beginning to some place buried in her heart where love buoys her to the other side of some deep waters.
MY PRIVATE CONEY presents IT WAS HER NEW YORK, the short stories that accompany the work-in-progress video and photo collection of the same name (myprivateconey.com - media link - IT WAS HER NEW YORK). The stories and the media explore the tender rubble that holds both my mother, Florence's and New York's soul as one disappears into old age and the other into gentrification. All are real observations and/or experiences with very little tall-tale telling.
Except when it makes the story better.
Please visit myprivateconey.com for additional information and sample works.