A My Private Coney project Flash non-fiction, brief moments and old memories of a city and mother's emotional and physical real estate disappearing at the speed of heartbreak.
Thursday, May 22, 2014
New Ancient Remains Of The Day
Those little marble square tiles probably made the bathroom in 1903 or 1908 or whenever the building became a home, the height of modern interior design. It was unearthed after an angry leak from 100 year old pipes, hidden under snappy turquoise tile that were the height of modern interior design in the 1950's.
The piece of a wall, one not made of plaster or whatever walls are made of, but of 100 years of paint, each coat the 'now' color of any modern wall, piling up like the rings of a redwood tree until it was thicker than cardboard.
And the Buddha. Maybe the hippest thing to have in the 1970's, hand painted by the girlfriend of his brother who died and then she went out with a woman and got sick and died and the woman died in a car crash, and it had lived twenty years in his home, moved from room to room until it landed in the kitchen, gathering layers of 7300 days of meals cooked and coffee brewed and tea steeped, and finally, he, making his own fresh start in life, asked if it could live with us.
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.