But my dreams seemed utterly impossible, hopeless, futile. Because no matter what I did, everything stayed so out of reach.
"I will die alone, it will never work, I'll never be... " I'd pronounce to someone trained to share a room with despair and anger.
"You can't write the end of the book until you get there," he'd answer.
Somehow, dreams slowly became my daily life. I could see impossible wasn't.
I mean some things were. I would never get a chance to be James Bond. I suspect many people got disappointed by that dashed hope.
But the dream of a home, of a love, of a family, of an art, of a word, of a poem, of a story, of an eye, of some peace, of powerful prayer, of good food, of better health... of hands no longer holding a cigarette...
I couldn't see them at the beginning. I just had to look and not see the end.
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.