I had been told, in the past, that I was not a walk in the park.
Perhaps, that was an accurate assessment, if I were, in fact, like any 1970's self-respecting park of New York City that didn't tolerate just anybody trolloping about. You had to earn passage through. That, or be looking to buy some illegal drugs, which of course I did not sell.
The city aged. Parks became, well, places that were like a walk in the park. Quiet, complacent, polite and receptive, welcoming everyone at almost any hour of the day or night.
I grew to enjoy strolling through quiet, polite and welcoming cement surrounded by green stuff. And, like the city, I had aged and had less to say out loud, so perhaps I confused myself with such pleasant qualities.
But, tonight strolling past benches that once offered respite after heartbreaking hospital visits with Florence, and marveling that the dangerous people lurking were outnumbered by joggers and lovers and teenagers and dogwalkers bouncing around, I heard myself saying something funny and sharp and not at all complacent. Like the biting mosquitoes, a walk in the park shouldn't tolerate just anybody trolloping about.
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.