"Commence," Florence would command. My unwilling fingers would touch ivory keys, and I'd begin the scales or triads or charming little piano piece for young people she was always dragging me through.
The journey through Her New York began in this room, once my first bedroom, once her last bedroom.
Now, emptied of second-hand clothes, bent pictures, beaten up blankets, rickety old wooden furniture, radios from the 1970s, chairs found on the street, tables left behind by departing girlfriends, it comes to an end.
Staring at the door, I heard her ghost command, "Commence."
fingers touched camera buttons and began dragging myself through unspoken memories and inherited ghosts buried deep beneath my
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.