It wasn't just the bees dying, the glaciers melting, the trees that allow us to breathe being cut down.
It wasn't just the feeling of futility noting words that demanded change, only to be outshouted by the actions of greed.
It was all of it and more. That more that didn't come in details, but in finality.
It was the slow loss of hope that everyone could, as they came to that moment, die in a world that was just and kind, loving and respectful. Moving through the seasons with respect.
I don't know what made me pick up my camera that day and take a picture of Florence and me holding hands as we sang Buddhist sutras together.
I wasn't willing to admit it then, but that day marked the beginning of losing hope that what I saw wasn't really happening.
That picture, oh that picture.
Years later I would look at it and be reminded that she and I went through the loss of hope, holding each others' hands and singing words that soothed our souls and opened our hearts so we could fully face what was not just or fair or kind or loving.
Looking for Her New York as it literally turns to dust and then rises into expensive glass has become that picture. A drink at a bar, a conversation with a neighbor, a longing for a roll, the painting in the museum's hallway, a transistor radio. Art scrawled on a box and left in the middle of a sidewalk. They all become that picture, defying assumptions and speaking loud and clear. Facing loss of hope, continuing on.
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.