Tales From A Hard Day's Night: Where Were You When The Lights Went Out?

A brief series on one October week in Her New York's.  Doris Day didn't show up.  But the rest of us did.

Some went door to door, checking on those who were a bit older (but only by a couple of years) just to make sure flashlights had batteries and the ancient landlines were working.

Still, others gathered around the coffee cake that was supposed to have headed to the West Village that day, but now needed to be eaten before it went bad.  

Which could have been at any minute so we ate almost all of it.

A couple of us ventured out to charge at a friend's the many gadgets  essential to our lives and send out important emails and information, but lets face it, we were all on facebook within 10 minutes. 

It was the travel back that stunned us.  Not that we had just seen lights and had internet access for the first time in days , but that, as we headed home out of the land of the power,  before us rose a wall of visual silence.

Finally home in that stunned darkness, the candles got lit, and many dusty bottles that had been hanging around high shelves in many apartments got plunked down and opened, just to see how many had turned into rubbing alcohol.

Tales From A Hard Day's Night: Darkest Before The Dawn

A brief series on one October week in Her New York's. Another day without power calls for tough decisions and tougher actions. Cooking.

Even with our Olympic-like speeds of opening and closing the refrigerator,  the food was headed to bad.

So everything that still could be was cooked or baked.  Of course, burning guaranteed anything icky would die.  It also guaranteed a visit from a worried neighbor that on top of everything else there had been another fire.

Burnt brownies are, in fact, quite tasty.

With bowls and pots and extra bottles of wine, we gathered upstairs before evening fell in the staircase. What seemed like just minutes later the sky was pitch black, our faces were flushed with wine and all the food had been eaten.

**
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Tales From A Hard Day's Night: The Light At The End Of The...

A brief series on one October week in Her New York's. We open at the end.

Seven days and a couple of hours after the storm beat up families, homes and neighborhoods, furious walls of water filled streets, and the Con Edison power station exploded the city into darkness, the world not only lit up with electricity.  It lit up with hope and relief.


Related Posts From 2008

Shona Tova, Shona Tova, a voting day for all of us, Shona Tova

Gave Proof Through The Night That Our Flag Was Still There

Sunday Memories: Once Only Memory, It Returns

Happy New President! Shona Tova!

Coming Soon: Tales From A Hard Day's Night

But, first...

Bills must be paid.
Food must be bought.
Candle wax must be scrapped off.
And oh. That laundry.

Rain Delay: Her New York Still In The Dark

We are the lucky ones.  Power might not be restored for days.  There are those whose homes won't be restored for months.  And who knows about the subways...

Here in Her New York,  there are gas stoves and landlines.   A friend's home uptown offers electricity, showers and repowering of cell phones. 

Meanwhile, until power is restored and storytelling resumes, sending love and prayers to all of Her New York throughout the tri-state area.

Not Just Any Old Port In Any Old Calm Before Any Old Storm

I had just finished typing the period at the end of that first sentence when we heard an explosion and the power disappeared. Thank you to El for her hospitality today so that we could all plug in and turn on.


 ***
It was Monday.  Figuring streets would be quiet and stores closed, we took a walk.

The Open Pantry was open.  Why wouldn't it be? was Themis's shrug of an answer.  The Pantry had weathered the East Village for the last four decades.  It was always open, come rain, come shine, come anything.  "Come back and take a picture when Pete is here," Themis said.

Themis and Jose

The Stage was packed, not a seat in the house, everyone storing up on pre-storm pierogi, cutlets and burgers. 

So an emergency smoked mozzarella from Russo's was the next best thing, catching up on medical procedures and gossip about customers who were always surprised they could swing by later and pay if they didn't have enough cash on them.  Any gluten-free pasta in the future? A sigh, and then "No. Just dried pasta".   I stared at the refrigerator case filled with the best ravioli, tortelli, and spaghetti in the world. 

 

The mozzarella lasted a day. 

**

The Open Pantry

Stage

Russo's Mozzarella and Pasta

Encore: Peace Be With You

Originally posted on November, 17, 2011, the Programme of Assistance now faces an uncertain future for lack of funding. Today, on the 67th birthday of the United Nations, this Programme offers hope for the promises of the Charter - a world filled with peace and justice.

The United Nations

And Peace Be With You.

**
The longer road begins with a word, a word that opens the possibility of everyone being welcomed to the table. And one hopes the word and words that follow build that welcome. Sometimes it is called the law. And sometimes that law welcomes justice to the table.

There is this programme available all around the world that teaches the teachers the word and the many that follow.

Programme of Assistance in the Teaching, Study, Dissemination and Wider Appreciation of International Law

Home Away From Home

The office kitchen, like one's bed, gets more time with us than the arms of our lovers.

GUEST ARTIST: Sunday Memories: Joni's Coney

A woman truly from Her New York, Joni is once again Guest Artist.

There's an old Argentinean joke. 

Q: Why do Argentinean men go up in airplanes?
A: To see what the world looks like without them.

But, here in Her New York, you go up in an airplane and all you want is to go back down and go  home.

***

These photos may not be used without permission from myprivateconey.com

Encore: When Does A House Becomes a Home?

Originally posted July 31, 2008

During long days away from home, what makes home "home" becomes, in between the pressing needs of chores written down on a list, a wonderment of longing.
 

***

From my bubby's home, via my childhood's home.


From a friend's house no longer wanted.


From the street - placed carefully so that everyone passing would know it was up for grabs.


From an abandoned yeshiva summer camp.


From a long-lost cousin and painter in Moscow, smuggled to me in the late 1970s before Gorbachev and glasnost.


From a roommate who moved west in 1979.


From a neighbor. (The pillows were $2.50 each at a Church basement sale on 37th Street.)


From Florence's ex-girlfriend.


1. From Florence's other ex-girlfriend - a recipe from Florence's mother-in-law given to said ex-girlfriend one evening in 1947 at my parents' apartment in Knickerbocker Village. 2. From a temp job in 1978 - Mapplethorpe portraits of Lisa Lyon's biceps. 3. From a former boss in 1997, an internet joke of a meditation on killing someone to reduce stress. 4. Magnets from my roommate who lived here at 17 and has, in her forties, since returned.

Morning Has Broken

Sunday Memories: God Is In The Dominoes

How to start
more than ten less than twenty years

the wry comments
the deadpan delivery
the funniest line ever written and said in a play
the occasional beers
that awful memorial funnier than any black comedy but with more wincing
knowing the long march the bloody boxing ring called writing
preserving memories about healthy resistance to awful people
the kindness of listening 
the determination to find love
the best short story ever written about aching
the fearless traveling
the leading by example
the words that unfolded those intimate moments of living until goodbyes were said
showing up to celebrate Florence's life after a redeye flight
the willingness to help with an email to his cousin
which led to an email for a position
which led to a six hour test and interview
which led to a freelance position that would never had been considered ever in a million years
which led to another one
and another one
and another one
which led to doors constantly flinging open into healing

which led to
a happiness
a gratitude
a peace
a love
a life
impossible to imagine more than ten less than twenty

**
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Part Five: Home Work

Sunday Memories: A Picture's Worth A Thousand Words (and one or two captions)

Sunday Memories and Encore with Addendum: Brief Peace in Late Night

Migratory Patterns

It's been almost more than a handful of autumns, that beautiful season unfurling like surprised love.  A long day of new challenges and old words ends, and the same walk happens, usually towards home along an avenue as familiar as the mottled history with an childhood friend.

There is one spot, though, that isn't meandered through.

A hidden corner where, that first fall, I sat by a fountain and billions of Christmas lights and remembered the brief moments when Florence would hold my hand, not as an old woman fighting mad her body was leaving her, but as a mother, ambivalent at caring, remembering her own broken heart, and hoping something, even a maternal gesture, might make it easier.

That first fall I would stop by that fountain and cried.  However few those moments were, I understood no one in the world would ever hold my hand like my mother.

**

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As A New Fall Begin, Old Hopes Return To The Halls Of Peace (An Encore)

Originally posted November 11, 2011



The Halls Of Peace are often unadorned.

One just hopes they are well lit, not just with strong bulbs, but with good intentions to seek common ground and the heart and soul of the other.

Sunday Memories: Another Park Another Sunday

It was like finding the ring I found that day in another park.  I was just minding my own business when I looked down or up or right or, in this case, left.

This park, a block-long garden that had been loved into being by volunteers from all over the neighborhood, was filled with chickens and extra other birds and lots of dirt and plants and flowers and people digging things, and little wonderful corners to sit down in and listen to other things besides annoying cell phone conversations.

And in one of those sweet corners, I found this stone table, this old stone table with dark grey squares and light grey squares, just like the one I leaned against one hot summer in 1964 or 5 and announced my undying love for Allen to the old men playing chess, not knowing his people and my people didn't marry during those olden days.

Times have changed.  The stone table waits for new players.

**
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Taking The Long Way Home

Marty and Goggla

Just because you weren't born here doesn't mean you don't belong here.

That's what I told Tripping With Marty when he announced he was going back to Peoria.

(I don't know where it is and I know I could google it, but I think I need to keep the mystery alive.)

So we all gathered at Odessa to say hello and then to say goodbye.

Nineteen years ago, Marty landed in a roach infested hotel room on the upper west side.  Roaches or no roaches, he didn't wasted a moment, doing more in this city than a dozen writers could have done in the same amount of time, daring to go where no imagination had gone before.   "A lot about being a New Yorker is going beyond the fear," he said in a voice that had walked into 365 noisy dive bars.

But over fried beige foods and brutally funny off-the-record-stories of a New York no longer on the streets, diaspora emerged. 

Rent, even his rare kind, was high, work was scarce, and, like all of us who belonged here, it was getting tougher and tougher to watch our home be erased bit by bit, street by street, artist by artist.  The diner counter, the bar stool, the affordable apartment where we had found one another was joining the fate of ice caps and the rain forest.  And that roach infested hotel was now a luxury something or other.  How, then, could a writer or painter or musician or dancer or for that matter anybody who belong here, stay here?

"Here isn't Here anymore," the Mariner said, splitting the last piece of a latke.

No.  Here was now virtual.  Here was in blogspheres and email, texts, and tweets.  Perhaps where we belonged was not a state, but a state of mind.  And perhaps that place could be anywhere.

Like Peoria.

**
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Sunday Memories: The Sign Of Times That Were

In the middle of a miserable, rainy, packed rush-hour Lexington Line IRT, two people offered me a seat.  It took a couple of days to realize they were about 30 years younger than me.  It only took a few seconds to say thank you and sit down.

I hate standing.

But Florence,  easily 20 to 30 years older than I am today, would refuse the multiple offers a cute white haired old lady always got, stamping her feet indignantly "No!".  As if the offer challenged her ferocious lunge at another day to recapture the lost time and the old dreams.

The Poetry Of Peace In Motion

Many called for unified action, others called for compromise and one or two called for different forms of destruction, though only between the lines.

But this leader of a small island, beleaguered by crisis and challenges, sang words of peace and dreams and sent blessings to the City of New York for welcoming in, once again, the gathering of hope for a better world. 

**

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Back To Work

Encore: L'Shona Tova

Originally posted Tuesday, October 7, 2008


I go to Little Gdynia to meet Doc for a meal.

Faye is there with her grandson. Her husband, Leslie is now gone a year at least. That means she'll be able to say kaddish at the services next week for him. All I see is that day he boasted how she was the smartest math teacher in the world as she gently put his arm into his jacket. They both survived the war and the camps but met each other here in New York when they came to start a new life, a new year.

Faye is now drained, her eyes watery. She may be facing 90 but she can't quite see it. Her grandson talks animatedly to her, like he is trying to live six lives for her so she isn't so damn lonely dieing without the man she loves.

I go over to say Good Yontiv. The grandson tells me he now is in Los Angeles. No, not the TV business. His girlfriend got into rabbinical school. Thank G-d, I say. Faye beams.

Five men yell and laugh in the back. The Right this, the Left that, Stalinism and....

Doc skips in. Pierogis and kielbasi and little cups of soup. Sour cream, sauteed onions, I have a chocolate egg cream. Talk pours out faster than delicious rain from another season, mothers and lovers and hopes and grief and hunger and peace and dreams. Desire.

For a new year for a new year for a new year.

The men all laugh and voices rise into chords from a Schoenberg symphony. Suddenly a glass breaks on the tile floor.

"Mazel Tov!" we shout to them.

"What!? Now you're married!?" one shouts back.

"No! You're married." we retort.

Faye's grandson is waving to me from the door. I jump up, a kiss on Faye's cheek. She says, pointing to him, kvelling like crazy, "This is my grandson." I don't say I know you told me. I just grin a billion smiles for her so maybe the joy evaporates her permanent tears. I feel my own eyes soften with age each second.

Doc makes me laugh just when I'm swallowing mushroom barley. We talk about all the meals we ate on Yom Kippur. I win. Two years ago from the 35th Street Chinese bakery a pork bun for breakfast before I realized I was eating tref on the holiest of the holies. She's runner up because she made dinner reservations this year for right after the fasting begins.

Since it's between Rosh Hoshanna and Yom Kippur, we don't count the kielbasi.

The men, windbreakser, comfy shoes, relaxed pants, those faces we know in our fathers our uncles our neighbors our lives.

One says, "you sure we're not married?"

"You are," we say. "But to him..." pointing to his old friend.

"Oy! him!?"

"What? You thought you were going to be happy?"

"Wasn't the first two times...."

"Good night, girls," they call to us, leaving with little bags of dessert or dinner.

"Good night, Good Yontiv, shona tova, a happy new year..."

A new year a new year a new year...

Sunday Memories: Our Facebook

If we weren't at the Door, we were at Nedicks.  And if we weren't at Nedicks, we were in the park.

And if it was raining, we were all under the Arch. 

***

Sunday Memories: The Door

Sunday Memories: Fast Food In Fast Times

Sunday Memories: Autumn In New York

Sunday Memories: ... A Little Rain Must Fall

The Door

The Best Of All Possible Worlds....

Voltaire published his book secretively.  A satire, it was sure to piss off the mediocre assholes who thought their new clothes made them look smart.  Or rich.  Or thin.  Sure enough, Candide was a hit and the assholes banned it.  But does anyone remember their names or even care?

As diners close and an old man running a neighborhood newspaper-stand  fights $800-an-hour lawyers working to evict him, a real city still stands.  Or in this case, sits.  Being reminded that no matter what century or country it might be, mediocrity can and will continue to be challenged.

The Last Meal

Once there were tons of diners. 

In those early days of learning to raise myself, these diners were breakfast, lunch and dinner.

• They were the kitchen I didn't know how to cook in.  

• They were dining room I knew how to sit in.

• They were the counters where I drank coffee all night and made friends over cigarettes.

• They were the quiet corners I wrote awful poetry and promising books.

• They were the theater of neighbors' doings and the place of street-life commerce.

• They were conference rooms when art needed to be discussed and plans needed to be made.

And more important than not, they were often where I began journeys toward love, wooing and being wooed over soup and easy eggs, sometimes in deep night, sometimes in mornings after.

The University Diner was one such place.  

They close Wednesday.

So I thank you, University Diner for the many meetings taken in the window booths, the breakfast specials when the blues descended and home fries were necessary, the 2:00 am tea at the counter where I learned how I mistook lies for love, and a Thanksgiving dinner, resplendent with canned cranberry sauce and pearl necklaces, a dinner so warm and welcoming, it felt more like home than any holiday/family dinner I had ever had before.

Sunday Memories Of L'Shona Tova

In Lieu of Flowers... was originally posted on October 1, 2008 as an obituary for Florence who had died the previous morning. Since Rosh Hoshanah appears in the English calendar differently each year, she in death has become as unpredictable as she was in life. Wouldn't have it any other way.

In Lieu of Flowers...



Tell the truth.

Tell yourself the truth.

Don't let your bullshit compromise either of the above.

Don't lie. Unless you're drunk. Then really don't lie.

Don't steal.

Accept hand-me-downs.

Look fabulous in your own clothes. They may have started out as hand-me-downs but they're yours now. Proudly recount their lineage. Never feel ashamed about that.

Never take a taxi.

Walk everywhere.

Don't wear a coat in winter.

Carry your own weight to the point of pathology. Better to err on independence than not.

Refuse to lose at the hands of cowardliness, mediocrity, stupidity, and the need to blend in.

Suffer aloneness at the risk of fitting in with any of the above.

Refuse to feel fear. If you do, ignore it and keep going. Just like Florence did that night during a World War II blackout under the Manhattan Bridge by the movie theater (now a Chinese market).

Always put your work first.
Always do your work.
Always put your work first.
Always do your work.

Rage against the Machine. Even when it looks like it's related to you.

Risk being laughed at by morons when you do something no one else is doing. Just like when Florence put on those roller skates in 1972 and skated up and down Grand Street and all those people laughed at her and then a couple of years every one had disco skates.

Start your entire life over at 60 like you were a 14 year old. Because on some level, you still are.

Fight back just like Florence did all the times someone mugged her or tried to mug her during the 1970's.

Don't EVER quit.

Know that that beer, that sandwich, those shoes, that jacket, those pants, that avenue, that movie house, that proper grammar, that street, that bar, that woman, that dance, that etude, that sonata, that scale, that subway, that bus, that hotdog, that boardwalk, that beach, that ocean is Your New York.

It Was Hers.

In Honor Of Love That Blooms In Autumn

Perhaps spring is the correct time to grow, but who said you had to follow the rules.

It's sometimes Autumn streets, filling with long shadows shimmering like perfume into evening walks, that invites kisses and care and delight.
**

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Sunday Memories:  Autumn In New York...

The Sign Of Things To Come

That brief moment on the way home tonight, the air changed.  Crisp, not like an air conditioner, but like a different desire. 

On the first night like this, I miss the passion Florence walked with, a sweater and scarf readied for new times.

**

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Another Walk To Hope: Part II

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Sunday Memories: Another Small Small Small World After All

Frites

I got into the cab all heartbroken, because that was my constant state of being in those halcyon low-tech days before loneliness gotten hidden by the smokescreen of the internet. 

On my way to a small shoot, a vintage dress and heels and tons of make-up piled on my lap, I was in no mood to pretend to be romantically torn by forbidden love for the artistic screen. 

But I had been asked by the filmmaker I liked (versus the one who didn't even bother to learn my name) and I'd be dancing with a favorite friend of mine to a slow 1950's love song. 

So, after scribbling a secret message on the door of the cab for who I thought was the love of my life, I stared out the window.  And that's when I noticed it. 

The sky.

Oh there were a billion versions of New York cloudy gray skies, but this wasn't one of them.  I had only seen a gray sky so filled with such light in Nijmegen, a city in the Netherlands no one outside of it ever heard of.

I loved that city.  It was the Philadelphia of Holland.  A good friend lived there and it was where I'd go to escape what seemed like unending unhappiness. And although I may not have known how to pronounce any of the street names in Nijmegen, I knew how to find my favorite little corners.

I was so happy, staring out that window, to be some place else, if only for a brief second, that wasn't filled with self incrimination.

...when out of nowhere, the cab driver said, "The sky looks like Europe." 

"I was just thinking that.  I was thinking it reminded me of a city in Holland where a friend lives."

"My brother lives in Holland!"

"Where!?"

"Oh, you wouldn't know it."

"No, tell me."

"Nijmegen."

The frites shop his brother owned and ran was one of my favorite little corners, one I visited every day for lunch.

***

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Upstairs heard the fire alarm go off and called their next door who called all the phone numbers they had and when we didn't answer any of them, they called downstairs who had the keys...

Afterwards, everyone said oh don't worry, they had done that too and one even carried around a little kitchen timer because these days remembering anything was a thing of the past.

I was just grateful that someone pulled the cat from underneath the chair and carried him out to the hallway where all the neighbors kept him company until the smoke cleared and it was safe to go back in.

It takes a village to raise a child, and sometimes it takes a village to accompany someone to their end.  But in between birth and death, the village takes care that everyone, including the cat, is OK.

***

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Sunday Memories: The Days Of Frostbite


Sunday Memories: Nina

The Long March

Rodriguez at the Highline Ballroom in New York City

It may have taken many years for his road to lead him back to what he was born to do, but the failures along the way never defined him.  A spirit unassailable, he was who he was, whether he was singing to thousands or doing back-breaking manual labor.  

It is a lesson fiercely clutched while living through unseen years and warring with words that ebbed and flowed like killing tornadoes and brutal drought.


***

Searching for Sugar Man

The Official Rodriguez Site

The Long March

Summer Reruns of Sunday Memories: The Men's Park

Originally posted Sunday, August 31, 2008


This is The Men's Park. Men used to play here.



They played chess and sometimes checkers but mostly chess on these stone boards.



We were always told NEVER to go into The Men's Park.

So, of course we did. Not a lot, but enough to feel like we were breaking rules and tempting fate.

Once there, The Men utterly ignored us as we hung around the chess table, bored out of our minds with a stupid game that didn't include punching and running really fast.

The Men weren't too thrilled either with sweaty, snotty, fidgeting dirty kids interrupting their concentration.

I could see the canopy of trees in that park from my bedroom window.

Bigger than the rest of the trees in the playground, they were the clock of the seasons. Glimpses of green would let me know when summer was coming. And then all too soon, hints of wind and leaves getting darker with other colors would let me know when summer was preparing to leave.

Summer Reruns During Brutal Writing Blocks: A Labor Of Love

Originally posted September 8, 2009


Florence said you had to train to stay home and work at your art all day.

El said she felt passionate about mixing her CD.

Dana said the writing comes when it comes. Like a rash.

O'Keefe said he knew his paintings were good but it was too painful to discuss.

I said living with what was inside me - the images, the thoughts, the stories - while trying to stay human was like a vampire trying to keep his best friend from becoming a meal.

And De La Vega left reminders on a cardboard box toss to the trash man that art comes where it comes and comes when it comes and like birthing it can't be returned to hidden recesses.

On The Ferry Monday Morning

The sunshine was still there but the coils of wearing responsible socks and shoes had already begun their tightening.  That didn't stop tourists or languid commuters from staring into horizons hoping extra days of freedom appear.