First a prayer at the Buddhist Center... That's Mrs. Y.'s beads flying. She's 90 and if ever you wanted clarity she's the go-to lady. Everyone stops by her this evening and wishes her a happy new year with the love and adoration reserved only for one considered a Moses in our respective deserts.
Then a rare chicken is prepared to be eaten by the vegetarian. A back-up dish of fake bbq ribs is made just in case the vegetarian can't do it. In the meantime, while food cooks, much wine is prepared...
Long limbs and party shoes, bad carving and juicy bites, texting William, calling Stephen, talking, laughing all become contrapuntal bells ringing until the last bite of ice cream is gone and the tiny left over cake is eaten...
It is now 4:30am. The last drop of many bottles finished, talk of love and loss fills quietly the first new day of a better year. A song slips into thoughts.
Morning has broken, like the first morning Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird Praise for the singing, praise for the morning Praise for the springing fresh from the word
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.