We Are...

From Adriene

O. graduated from middle school last night. It was a nice atmosphere. All of the 100 8th graders were supportive of each other. They marched down the aisle into the auditorium one at a time. As each child crossed the stage they called out the child's name and cheered them on.

When one boy got on stage the entire 8th grade class stood and clapped for him. O. later told me that no one from his family came to the graduation so they were his family. When another boy came on stage they started clapping, stomping their feet and chanting - the boy started dancing freestyle.

Three of the boys that graduated were blind. They came into the auditorium, across the stage and back to their seat without assistance - no cane. Most of us didn't even know they were blind. Last night was a "good night".

My neighbor took O. and their daughter out to dinner at a sea food restaurant - they consider him family.

Ghost In The Machine

The building is on a 1903 map so it's old.

Still, some of us believe that when leaks appear in one place but not another and sometimes not even near a pipe, it's Schneller back from the grave to remind us we were all terrible tenants who flushed things we shouldn't have and broke the elevator with our bicyles.

Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose - Encores of Early Posts And An Echo Of Freedom

In honor of a line in a prayer "I deserve the freedom to be all that I can be...."

July 2009
...And Dancing In The Rain

It wasn't that I had forgotten. It's just that I hadn't had to remember. But there she was, a little girl jumping and giggling and running and shouting in Wednesday's downpour.

When I was young and it poured humongous cats and dogs, Florence would send me out in maybe rain boots, maybe sneakers to play in the storm. I'd race around the empty courtchyard and jump and dance and skip and stick my face up into thunder and wind.

As of her decline deepened, the months and months and months turned into years and years, and to pass the time we would watch Singing In The Rain over and over and over again. The blessing of dementia allowed it to be an exciting revisit, one she didn't realize had just happened the week before.

Today, quickly snapping a picture as I futilely raced against getting soaked and miserably wet, I wondered if her quirky idea of playtime came from that passionate dance Gene Kelly did when he realized he was in love.

Rain Delay on the Fourth of July

Because Freedom is an elusive subject and some time is needed to capture her in a memory.

The Waiting Room

Bucko waiting to read at the Kettle



You wait for the words.
You wait for the structure.
You wait for the edits.
You wait for the characters to stop complaining about the words the structure the edits.
You wait for the colleagues to read and comment.
You wait to rewrite.
You wait to stop hating it.
You wait to stop loving it.
You wait to be finished with it all.
You wait to think you could read it.
You wait to be invited to read it.
You wait to go on.
You wait until it's all over.

And while you're waiting for all this, you are working like the devil on every word structure edit and complaining character.

Between A River And A Highway

It started to rain, but Lester's from Queens so he didn't care and Maya had been a New York dog so she would have been just fine with the West Side Highway up our butts and the so-called clean Hudson in our noses and full-geared weekend bicyclists zooming around us.

So, with an eye out for cops who might stop our little illegal spreading of her ashes, we took turns sharing about how Maya was the sweetest dog in the world, generous with her cuddles, wouldn't have wanted the pink candle, she was a girl, but a butch one, and how one day she let Lester know he had fucked up by looking him straight in the eye and then right in front of him pissing all over the floor.

Sunday Memories: The Journey Of A Thousand Sentences Begins With A Couple Of Words

And one night in 1994 the words "The Sad Air btw NY & Philadelphia stretches for years" tumbled out of a ball point pen.

Sixteen years later, after many rewrites, stretches of writer's block, and too many rejections, THE SAD AIR BETWEEN NEW YORK AND PHILADELPHIA, the second part of the WIRE MONKEY TRILOGY has come to completion.

And on June 30th at 7pm, I will read a chapter at the Writing House Reading Series at Kettle of Fish.

Please join me.

THE WRITER'S HOUSE READING SERIES
KETTLE OF FISH
59 Christopher Street
June 30th
7 pm

Her Cheers In Her New York

She's a regular at this Irish sports bar and restaurant where all the locals clinging to their neighborhood go to.

The waiter knows her name, her favorite booth, and the fact that she has been having trouble sleeping.

Even though she comes in almost every night and even though it is a casual establishment, she still dresses for dinner. A sharp suit, carefully selected button earrings with a matching necklace and bracelet and a very nice purse she obviously has had for years.

This bar is loud with jovial voices and announcers shouting scores and the clatter of burger platters, potato skins, grilled chicken, onion rings and fries. The waiter leans down to hear her describe the new sleeping pill her doctor gave her. He then helps her to her feet, kisses her good night on the cheek and guides her through the crowd of all the other regulars from the neighborhood, one where everyone knows everyone's name.

SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT: Why I Still Write

I still write because I am inspired and fired up by Ela Thier's workshops (I've taken several and each time my work gets better and better and better).

Otherwise, the joy from knowing how to build a story would have withered away from lack of knowledge.

If you want to attend a FREE evening workshop, then see below:


FROM ELA THIER:

Back by popular demand!

It's been over a year since I've offered a free screenwriting workshop. The time has come for another one:

If you haven't sampled my workshops yet and are wondering why everyone is raving about them, this workshop is free and open to the public. If you've attended my free workshops in the past, I've made many changes to my presentation and you're in for a treat.

Writers at all levels of experience are welcome to attend.

TIME:
Thursday, July 1
6:30-9:30

PLACE:
University Settlement Community Center
184 Eldridge St, Manhattan, NY

Reservations are required.

Six Brief Moments Of PS 139's Fifth Grade Graduating

Sunday Memories: The First Home

When the younger one was dying, even with her life filled with tons of decades fully rooted in a loving, embracing community in a city she wasn't born in, she wanted her older sister. They weren't on the easiest of terms or necessarily best friends. But even if nothing was left to it except her older sister holding her hand the younger sister wanted to go back home.

Years later, when the older one, in a California nursing home that looked like a country club, began to forget things like how to eat or why it was even important to eat, she would greet her brother every daily visit with the same question. When would they be going back to Henry Street? When would they be going back home? A cold water, rat-infested tenement. That was home.

He now clings to a spiderweb of little lists that are his daily memory. What doctor when. Who is coming on what day. Where did he put what he can't remember he was looking for. Yet siting on the couch uncertain of the last five minutes or the next five minutes, home becomes sharp and specific and stories about Home like those of his sisters come tumbling out.

It's A Beautiful Day In The Neighborhood...

Ed, Mary and their dog, Butta hanging out on their stoop old school style the way the old ladies and sometimes the old men did on Grand Street in their beach chairs talking to everyone reminding them hey you are in our neighborhood you are in your neighborhood I'm your neighbor so I'm gonna talk to you whether you like or not and sure enough just like the old days in old neighborhoods all over the city, everyone talked back with Ed, Mary and their dog, Butta.

And Butta got a lotta love. As she should.

Time Flies When...

It was supposed to be a brief meal.

Four hours later, I was still laughing too hard to write down everything Dana said.

But she had been warned. When one encounters a better writer than oneself one can only rip off said writer in self defense.

On certain attempts of style:

"He combs his hair with a washcloth."

On the insults of aging and limited mobility:

"I could fool anything but a flight of stairs."

On the fact her doctor is moving her office right across the street from her apartment:

"I won't be late if there's no red light."

And last, but not least, on our favorite actor:

"He's a walking sex experience."

Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose - Encores of Early Posts

SUNDAY, MARCH 30, 2008

Sunday Memories: In three acts G dies in Manhattan in 1993

I

He’s at Cabrini on 19th Street.

The nurse who loves him the most is six feet tall and has just finished becoming a woman.

She could pick Frazier up when he was bigger and now, as he dwindles into the bed, she still swoops him up into her arms and we can all see how much he has left from how small he is in her arms.

His family comes in from Queens to visit. Four of his six brothers are wearing his suits. They are either too tall or too short, too thin or too fat for the suits. Looking at them in Frazier’s clothes is like looking at Frazier in funhouse mirrors.

When they leave, Frazier turns to Michael.  “Couldn’t they have just waited until I died?,” he asks.

II

I turn the corner onto 14th Street to go to the wake at the funeral home and see the big straight brother who hates gay people beating the shit out of the thin delicate gay brother who in his own words is “a screaming queen”.

Somebody calls the cops.

The gay brother’s suit, formerly Frazier’s, is ripped in many places.

III

It’s the day of the funeral. I turn onto 14th Street to go to the church across the street from the funeral home.

Cop cars line the street. My heart sinks. It’s only 10 in the morning.  More trouble already?

When I get to the steps of the church I find out it’s just Law and Order setting up for a shoot later on in the day.

Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose - Encores of Early Posts

Encore posting from the early days show the more things change, the more things...


Tuesday, April 29, 2008

Why I Miss The 70's


Like Brittany Spear's vulva, her wallet stuck out and begged to be taken.

I leaned over and said, "Miss, your wallet is going to be stolen."

She gave me that arrogant thank-fuck you of all those who moved here more than six years ago, but not before it was safe enough to walk down the street without getting your ass kicked in. 1996? 97?

I sat there and rued the day Florence caught me stealing, had me return the penny gum to the newspaper-candy store on Delancey, apologize to the owner and then made me promise never to steal again.

Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose - Encores of Early Posts

Encore posting from the early days show the more things change, the more things...

Thursday, April 24, 2008

He Could Say It In Four Languages If He Wanted To


Rush hour, everybody rushing home.

Except for the nicely dressed lady lying on the ground by Greeley Square.  Between the serious men's clothing store and the Dunkin Donut.

There are a lot of people over her making sure her shopping bags and her purse are O.K. There is a cup of something by her and the security guy or police chief or whatever he is is talking into a walkie-talkie.

Me and two guys hang out on the curb by the flower pots and watch a skinny homeless guy shout at the crowd. He looks like the guy who kicked me in the ass when I bumped into him on a rainy day. Wouldn't be surprised if it were. This is his neighborhood.

The two guys said that she began to fall and the homeless guy caught her and was shouting GET HELP GET HELP and once non-homeless guys showed up and shooed him away he got upset. After all, he was there first and just because he was homeless didn't mean he was less of a hero.

The daily convoy of twenty-five blaring police cars roar up Sixth Avenue. None stop.

"She fell. Her heart, her blood pressure or diabetic. They give her an orange juice with some sugar. Look, she is fine."

A third man joins us. His patter sounds like poems made of rain on a roof. When I ask if it is Arabic, his friend nods. "I speak Danish too. And Spanish and English and Arabic."

We look across the street at the woman again. Two ambulances come as she sits up and talks on her cell phone.

One of the guys says to me, "We are nothing. A heart or something and we fall... we are nothing."

Sunday Memories: When We Were Young

The family was still in Bushwick...



...before the money really ran out, before the beatings got worse and more frequent, before they had to move to Henry Street on the Lower East Side...



...where the rats were bigger than Mitzi the dog.



In those Brooklyn days being left handed was not allowed. He was sent home for not knowing how to write with his right hand.

And of course on the first day of school, his name, a Hebrew one, was changed to an English one.

The Fountain of Youth

There was no such thing as bottled water. Just bottled cola. And maybe juice.

And these were the perfect height if you were little but now you have to do yoga to get closer to getting a drink. Which is still just as warm as it was then.

School's Out For Summer

Stairwells were the subways to our classes, filled with pushing and shoving, the dreaded chance collision with the boy everyone had a crush on, the bully everyone feared, or news of the big people's world like the older brother who came back from Woodstock covered with mud (we were all really interested in the mud part).

It was on that last day, everything draining out from the school these old walls and stair emerged into view.

Sunday Memories: Part Three: Home Where My Love Lies Sleeping

The last in a series to visit when on the road which is where I have been for a week or so.



Happy Memorial Day, a day where we honor fallen soldiers of many wars, some that happened between apartment walls, others inside a hidden broken heart.