When one's therapist suggests that one walk along the Hudson because the day is so beautiful, one walks along the Hudson.
Roller skaters roll, kids play, there's grass and people lying on it and lots and lots of trees and bushes and benches. It's lovely. A welcoming respite with all this space and breeze and green and water. I feel like I'm in another city, like maybe Seattle.
In the middle of this rustic setting are the remains from a former respite.
A derelict wharf closed for years by concrete barriers that didn't stop anyone from scampered over them and then carefully navigated out to the very edge of the water, stepping or leaping over huge gaps between wooden planks that if missed would have landed some unlucky soul in the river.
Tricks were tricked, preening abound and it was the closest thing to heaven I had when I didn't have the time to get on the F train and go to Coney.
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.