Sunday - August 30, 2020 - Sunday flash fiction: Before the party. by Jordan Myers
It was possible that Aubrey, at any moment, might stop playing the piano and walk over to Loren –––– who was standing in the kitchen, making tea, and pretending not to be waiting for her. She might ask him whether she could get him anything else to drink, other than tea, or perhaps offer to prepare something for the two of them to eat.
The party did not start for another two hours; and although it was the second week of November, and Loren had grown used to the feeling of the sun setting earlier and earlier each evening, he had not prepared himself to be alone with Aubrey in her apartment –––– not on a quiet and still wintry evening.
He was there to help prepare for the party that would not begin for a while, only because she had insisted that she could not find anyone else to help. And as much as anything at all has the potential to be true, this could have been true as well.
Listening to the sound of Aubrey practicing in the other room, an extended segment from Brahm’s Piano Concerto No. 1, Loren sipped from a large forest green mug of piping hot earl grey tea, which he had prepared on his own.
After a few moments of standing, pacing, and thinking of Rose, he sat down on the sofa, opposite the balcony, that faced the giant windows and looked out over west twenty-second-street.
The night’s sky descended upon the city, faster and faster; and outside it began to snow.
Saturday - August 29, 2020 - From our poetry archives: "Bobby Wiley” - Tom Davidson.
Continued from yesterday’s daily, which featured Tom Davidson’s poem, “Darius Azmeh-Volpato,” we present the companion persona poem from the author, “Bobby Wiley,” both appearing within Issue No. 3 - Winter - 2017-18.
We love the image of “robins / jerking around on the branches,” and join with the author, as well as with Bobby Wiley, in “say[ing] goodbye to bad shit happening.”
All of our best,
Curlew Quarterly
______________________________
BOBBY WILEY
The baseball junkie next door stinks like grease.
Looks like he’s about to croak. He ain’t clean.
I AM.
Been spick and span for six years.
Back then I said goodbye to hocking junk
& bombing liquor. Goodbye
to stealing azaleas and axles, to stockpiling turpentine,
to stewing in the gutter, to holy beaters,
and the street demon peddlers.
I said goodbye to bad shit happening.
That’s when I was transferred to this building,
took one of the only single units left.
From my window I can see robins
jerking around on the branches.
I’d probably kill myself if I was a robin.
Turning up leaves all day to find
nothing. Free as a bird they say, but that’s not
any kind of freedom I want to partake in.
Freedom is a CLEAN mind, a CLEAN body.
And it takes mental focus.
It takes all you’ve got.
Friday - August 28, 2020 - From our poetry archives: “Darius Azmeh-Volpato” - Tom Davidson. by Jordan Myers
Walking through Manhattan this afternoon and feeling the end of summer, I was glad to remember Tom Davidson’s poem, “Darius Azmeh-Volpato,” from Issue No. 3 - Winter 2017-18; which carries three lines that captures the feeling of the weather changing as the time within one calendar year, elapses: “To stand before the coming season and wait in luxury / for the puffed-up owls, slippery foxes, and the mama wolf / while city life motors on happy in its nature / walloping with clubs the treasured stories.”
“Darius Azmeh-Volpato,” like the other poem by Davidson that was published in Issue No. 3, “Bobby Wiley,” is a persona poem, a description that Davidson coined.
An excerpt from the interview with Davidson, wherein he describes the process through which he creates persona poems, along with “Darius Azmeh-Volpato,” appears below. The portrait of the author, also below, by Alexandra Bildsoe.
All of our best,
Curlew Quarterly
__________________________
Alex: How do you think the concept of wonder plays into your process of writing poems? And by wonder, I mean this idea of unselfconscious wonder with the world, or with anything.
Tom: Wonderment. I think this is where I’ll have to bring up meditation, because meditation for me is an integral piece of the puzzle. I find that if I don’t get myself into a meditative state and if I don’t let passing thoughts and emotions pass me by, or run through me, then I cannot write the poem that I’m meant to write.
The only way that I can describe it is that I have to . . . almost empty myself of any fixed point of focus or anything concrete, everything has to kind of flow. And once I’m in that flow state, I can usually write the poem that I’m meant to write.
It’s a practice that I try to bring to other situations as well. For instance, when I’m meeting someone for the first time, whether I’m going to write about them or not, I consciously try to let the perceptions or the impressions, or the feelings and thoughts that I have about the other person just wash over me.
Some of them are prejudices that come from God knows where, judgments that come from God knows where, or it could even be a joyful thought. But whatever it is, whether it comes from inherited judgments of people, I let it wash over me and then I can connect with that person’s essence.
Usually I write down a couple of sentences about that person in a more documentary type fashion: what they were wearing and what they said to me. Then, if I can access that space of openness, when I didn’t see them in any particular way, then I can write these persona poems, but only when I’ve accessed that kind of place. Which for me is this kind of all-embracing place of compassion, where you’re completely compassionate toward the person, wherever they’ve been or whatever they’ve done and whatever they tell you, you can hold that space for that person.
This makes it seem like we’re talking about therapy in some way, I’m not. It’s about what’s going on in my mind and in my body. I’m not letting myself go to a place where I feel as though I’ve understood someone. I try to be that way with people that I write about, even when they’re imagined people.
Alex: I think that totally comes across in your poems. I was reading a few this morn- ing, and I felt like, whoa, I really just got sucked into another person’s world.
Tom: That’s what I try and do. It feels satisfying when you can . . . I don’t want to say sum up someone’s personality and encapsulate them, and I don’t even want to say that I’ve captured the essence of that person, necessarily. That’s probably too grand of a statement. But there’s just this moment I know that it’s entirely physiological or primal, where I feel like, yes, I’ve think I’ve gotten something about you, a little bit, in our small encounter. I think I’ve understood something, and I’m going to do the best that I can to put it on the page. But it doesn’t work out all the time.
__________________________
DARIUS AZMEH-VOLPATO
Mama, you are beautiful as a wraith.
Every morning the world shoots
Out of your corpse under
the wan light of winter
near where the children in the playground dismantle
daisies and hum sweet tunes
to the scarred ants and squelchy pond critters,
out of you gushes the plain windows,
knee-high fences, succulent lawns,
all your astonishing pages unbound,
whispered with intention on down
pillows late at night
when the ashes of our sleeping turn
back to body to fern to ocean jelly again,
and from the crevices in your bones seedlings hover
one hundred fold over children
and beleaguered school administrators
who long to retreat to your painted summer shacks
and attend to the drift of dandelions,
to stand before the coming season and wait in luxury
for the puffed-up owls, slippery foxes, and the mama wolf,
while city life motors on happy in its nature
walloping with clubs the treasured stories, coughing up
a lung defending the drone from the podium, too skittish
to pause for breath, not dwelling on the white sheet
an orderly once placed over your body, Mama –
the one woman who is unseen but heard whose
words alight even on steel girders, with so much love
to give I want to be as open as your body is
with its bulbous sockets out of which grow blazing lilies,
as open as we all want to be when we’re not snarling in time
with the beating heart of the beast scratching the ages on tombstones.
Thursday - August 27, 2020 - Jacob Blake - Cancelled Sporting Events, & Everything: Accelerated. by Jordan Myers
Ninety-four days ago, following the murder of George Floyd by members of the Minneapolis Police Department, the public outcry created a wave of protests across the country; many of which were carried out with a strength, force, and sense of urgency and demand for change which, in sum, moved beyond the level of what anyone has seen, or felt over the last twenty years.
Millions of Americans, tired of being on lockdown due to efforts to slow the spread of Covid-19, and exhausted by the prospect of spending a summer locked inside and repeatedly walloped by news of the virus, which would not stop spreading and killing hundreds of thousands of their family members and friends, decided to focus their attention elsewhere: on racial injustice, systematic racism, and the ever-growing list of young black men and women who have been murdered by police officers across the country.
Calls to defund police departments grew in fervor, and racial justice organizations like Black Lives Matter and The National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, commanded a greater amount of focus and attention from the nation’s collective consciousness.
Personal, as well as professional social media accounts were flooded with black squares, posted by account holders to reflect their solidarity in the stand against racial injustice, and in the fight for greater equality.
People were waking up, and millions were being forced to confront realities that had long been either swept under the rug and kept quiet, or completely ignored. Remaining silent grew less and less acceptable. And vows to do better were made.
By the middle of July it was unclear whether the NBA season would resume, after it had been suspended in March due to the outbreak of Covid-19. Players had met to confer and discuss whether it made sense for them to keep playing basketball. Ultimately, the season was resumed on July 30th, with an abbreviated close to the regular season, as well as a condensed playoff format; all of which would be held in a “bubble” in Bay Lake, Florida. And for a while, the games went on as scheduled.
Then on August 23rd, 2020, a young black man in Kenosha, Wisconsin, Jacob Blake (29), was shot seven times in the back by members of the Kenosha Police Department, and paralyzed from the waist down as a result. Three days later, on August 26th, the Milwaukee Bucks refused to play their playoff game against the Orlando Magic. Thereafter, the two other playoff games scheduled for the day, the Los Angeles Lakers v. the Portland Trailblazers, and the Houston Rockets v. the Oklahoma City Thunder, were postponed.
The Milwaukee Bucks players issued a statement:
“The past four months have shed a light on the ongoing racial injustices facing our African American communities. Citizens around the country have used their voices and platforms to speak out against these wrongdoings.
“Over the last few days in our home state of Wisconsin, we’ve seen the horrendous video of Jacob Blake being shot in the back seven times by a police officer in Kenosha, and the additional shooting of protestors. Despite the overwhelming plea for change, there has been no action, so our focus today cannot be on basketball.
“When we take the court and represent Milwaukee and Wisconsin, we are expected to play at a high level, give maximum effort and hold each other accountable. We hold ourselves to that standard, and in this moment, we are demanding the same from our lawmakers and law enforcement.
“We are calling for justice for Jacob Blake and demand the officers be held accountable. For this to occur, it is imperative for the Wisconsin State Legislature to reconvene after months of inaction and take up meaningful measures to address issues of police accountability, brutality and criminal justice reform. We encourage all citizens to educate themselves, take peaceful and responsible action, and remember to vote on Nov. 3."
And the team’s owners issued their own statement, in support of their players’ position:
“We fully support our players and the decision they made. Although we did not know beforehand, we would have wholeheartedly agreed with them. The only way to bring about change is to shine a light on the racial injustices that are happening in front of us. Our players have done that and we will continue to stand alongside them and demand accountability and change.”
Yet, prepared written statements released to the press are always topped by in-the-moment quotes from men who are speaking the truth, and speaking from their hearts. Milwaukee Bucks’ guard, George Hill, said it best:
“We’re tired of the killings and the injustice. We can’t do anything [from Orland]. First of all, we shouldn’t have even come to this damn place, to be honest. I think coming here just took all the focal points off of what the issues are.”
As of this morning, there were reports that the NBA season might not continue, as the Los Angeles Clippers and the Los Angeles Lakers, including one of the NBA’s most talented players, and certainly, its prominent voice, Lebron James, voted to end the NBA season.
More recently, these talks have been resolved, and the league is set to continue its bubble season.
Yet, even amongst the decision to keep playing, what can’t be lost is the fact that decisions are being made more quickly, and calls for change are being made more loudly. In early June, the league didn’t know what to do, whether to hold off on playing, or to go forward. And weeks passed before a decision was made.
However, in late August, the Milwaukee Bucks made a clear statement, and they made it quickly: we’re not going out there; and we’re not playing. It didn’t take them a month to decide. It only took three days.
Yesterday, the WNBA; MLS; the MLB; as well as No. 1 ranked women’s tennis player Naomi Osaka joined in with the Bucks in bringing awareness to racial injustice and demanding change, rather than playing ball.
And although the NBA season, for now, is moving forward, the call for change, as well as the dramatic actions that are being taken in order to bring about change are happing with less hesitation, and are happening more rapidly. Everything is being accelerated.
Wednesday - August 26, 2020 - Lighting up the grid: The NYPD Affirms that Black Lives Matter @ Manhattan Plaza - 43rd Street (Between Ninth and Tenth Avenue). by Jordan Myers
For three hours this afternoon a group of five to ten members of the NYPD, either from Manhattan’s Tenth Precinct, which covers most of Chelsea, or from the NYPD’s Community Affairs Division, played basketball with children, boys and girls, black, latino and white, from as young as about seven to as old as about fifteen, who live in Manhattan.
After a few minutes of stretching, practice shots, generally warming up, and choosing teams, the action began. First the teams played two half-court games, and then the entire court was opened up, for an up-and-down, full-court match. All the while, the children’s parents watched, cheering loudly, and often, when three-point shots were made from distance, and ooohing and aaaahing just after acrobatic drives to the basket were punctuated with graceful and ballerina-esque lay-ups off of the glass. The officers didn’t do so bad either, though they drew less cheers.
The venue, a second floor landing wrapped within Hell’s Kitchen’s historic Manhattan Plaza, provides a front-row view of Midtown-West’s skyline, including a glimpse between buildings of the on-ramp that leads toward the Lincoln Tunnel.
Manhattan Plaza, owing to a plan devised by real estate developer Daniel Rose in 1976, served as a home and a hub for performing artists who were cementing their lives as well as their careers, and making their names known in New York in the 1980s and ‘90s. Names of notable former residences include Terrence Howard, Alicia Keys, Larry David, and Samuel Jackson ––– who worked there as a security guard, and who no one must have crossed.
Throughout the afternoon, the sun remained high and bright in the sky but did not beat down upon the basket-ballers and spectators, as it was paired with a cool breeze, which, on-and-off, swept across the court as well as the nearby playground.
Before the children and the officers broke into their four separate teams, they gathered on the courts’ most western end for a photograph. Everyone fit into the frame. And on more than one occasion, a parent or family member who was holding their camera phones toward the group would offer an instruction, “Now, say Black Lives Matter!” And everyone would. And everyone did.
Tuesday, August 25, 2020 - City Facades - Ludlow Street - Between Rivington & Stanton. by Jordan Myers
I jump on my bike
on Hudson Street,
head east on Greenwich
Avenue, cross Sixth,
find myself on St. Marks
–––– then keep east.
At the park I bail, ditch
the bike, walk down
Avenue A, & embrace
the life I lead all those
years ago. Mid-twenties,
when all my friends
lived in the East Village
or knew someone
who was having a party
who lived in the East Village,
so we went there: East Fourth
between A and B, or east Fifth
/ between B and C, or East
Sixth / just west of A.
I’d let myself get too drunk
on whiskey and stay up late
and stand on rooftops
and wonder if my life
like an engine would ever
turn over and begin. I knew
how to get on the J, knew
how to hail a cab
and surrender alone
across the Williamsburg
Bridge toward Bed-stuy
or Bushwick at dawn.
Knew my address, knew
where I lived, knew
my name and age, knew
my height and weight,
and knew to drink water
before collapsing into bed,
but still had no idea how
to come home.
Monday - August 24, 2020 - Movie reviews for films that first screened a minute ago: Meet Joe Black (1998). by Jordan Myers
It’s been a minute, but I first watched Meet Joe Black (1998) twenty-two years after its release, on an early July evening. I started the film at midnight. My thought process must have been this: if it holds up, I'll stay awake. If it doesn't hold up, I might finish it in the morning. Looking back, I know this much: although I did stay awake, I'm not sure that the film holds up.
I can grasp the film’s how, but I do not understand its why. I get that Brad Pitt plays death, who is visiting William Parrish (Anthony Hopkins), and is helping him see and enjoy the value of his life before he passes on to the other side. I grasp that Parrish, when pressed by family to introduce his friend, death, gives death a name, Joe, which prompts: "Joe who? Does he have a last name?" Parrish's son-in-law asks, "Joe Black," Parrish responds.
By a film holding up, I mean a film that honors its end of the bargain. If you're going to ask people to watch a three-hour film, you not only have to keep them tuning in, empathizing with the characters and enjoying their performances, but you also have to bring it all home in the end –––– and even if not in a big way, then at least, in a satisfying and worthwhile manner. Meet Joe Black misses on this point, yet the irony is this: the film literally ends with fireworks.
Yet, even setting the fireworks aside, this is where Meet Joe Black misses the mark the most: it's a three-hour film about death, which kills off its best character within the first thirty minutes, just because. What's worse, we don't even get to spend long enough of a time with the character to learn his name: we just know that he's played by Brad Pitt, and that he meets Parrish's daughter, Susan (Claire Forlani) in a diner in Manhattan on one shimmering sunny morning. We know that he buys Susan a cup of coffee and finds a way to charm her so much so that even talk of marriage and spending the rest of their lives together becomes fair game.
This is one of the best scenes I've ever watched. Not because of what "coffee shop guy" and Susan say to each other, but more so the way that they're both incredibly careful and calculating, yet even despite their caution, over just one coffee, they create something genuine and deep and meaningful between them.
This is not easy to do, in life, and it's definitely not easy to create and capture in film. So when it happens, when the awe of the spark of love-at-first-sight descends down from the heavens, it must be honored, cherished, and treated with reverence and deep respect. Which means you can't go killing off the guy in a car accident three minutes later!
What kept me hooked within Meet Joe Black was the possibility that "coffee shop guy" might come back from the dead. What prevents me from sitting through Meet Joe Black again is knowing that he does, indeed, come back, but only sort of, and for a while, i.e., a few hours. But sort of is only enough to keep you hanging on once, which I did.
Meet Joe Black wants to please. It wants to delight. It wants to be liked. And in one regard, its desire to be accepted can be met: visually, it is a beautiful film.
Bill Parrish owns a media company and lives in a mansion in Providence, Rhode Island. He's turning sixty-five and his other daughter, Allison (Marcia Gay Harden), is in the midst of planning an extravagant birthday party for him. The mansion, together with the force of Anthony Hopkins’ character adds a decadence and grace to the film, which does inspire.
In fact, to the film's credit, Joe Black says this better, after Parrish tells him, "I still don't understand. Why'd you pick me," Black responds, "I chose you for your verve, your excellence and your ability to instruct. You've lived a first-rate life, and I find it eminently usable."
Yet, as the viewer, who had immersed himself in a three-hour journey, I did not just want to find the characters within Meet Joe Black eminently usable. Or at least, that's not all that I wanted; I also wanted to enjoy them. Use only gets you so far. And although Meet Joe Black is an ambitious and yearning work of art, which deserves praise and honor for its effort, after taking this three-hour journey once, I neither feel nor see the point in traversing its belabored and prolonged expanse again.
Sunday, August 23, 2020 - Sunday: flash fiction. by Jordan Myers
The sky must have gone dark. We can’t remember when; night fell.
Saturday, August 22, 2020 - “The Actor’s Instrument” - Edward Dwight Easty - Part II. by Jordan Myers
Last Saturday I recounted my first introduction to Edward Dwight Easty’s On Method Acting (1966) and presented the block quotation that opens the book and serves as the central thesis of Easty’s book: “The Actor’s Instrument.”
For clarity, and as a point of departure for Part II of this series, the quote, once more, appears below:
“An actor’s instrument is his whole self. It is his body, his mind and being, complete with thoughts, emotions, sensitivity, imagination, honesty and awareness. Try to imagine the actor’s instrument in much the same way you picture the musician and his violin, the artist and his canvas, paints, and brushes. Think of them as one and inseparable. Just as the musician practices daily on his instrument, always perfecting its response to his will through training, and the artist mixes his paints, brushing them on with the precision and beauty accrued only by drill, so must the actor be concerned with the training and development of his instrument and its responses to his commands.”
In Part I, I raised this question: what, if anything at all, separates The Actor’s Instrument from The Writer’s Instrument? Said otherwise, if the Writer’s instrument is not his pen, paper, typewriter, or laptop, then it has to be the same as the Actor’s instrument: his whole self.
Yet, even this answer –––– that the Actor’s Instrument is the same as the Writer’s Instrument –––– fails to capture the thin line that separates acting from writing; where does one begin, and the other end?
Watching the Actor use his Instrument to bring a character and a story to life is intriguing ––– and captivating –––– in a way that watching the Writer use his Instrument to bring a character and a story to life is not.
The Actor, even when he is completely still and silent, is in motion. He is in motion, even in his stillness, because at any moment, we know that he can (or could –––– or just might) move again. Thus, our bodies (and our hearts) can and do respond to the cues and cadences of the Actor’s when he is using his Instrument with control and mastery.
The physicality of acting is easy to overlook and take for granted. Here’s why: when the Actor’s Instrument is in-tune and functioning at a high level, we forget that it’s even there –––– we’re immersed in the character, and with everything we have, we’ve fallen into the story –––– we’ve become, in effect, enraptured.
This effect, this enrapturing, can happen as well when a reader has been pulled, completely, into the world of a story that the Writer has created; however, the physicality of this connection –––– the connection between the Reader and the Writer –––– is absent.
The Writer can be off somewhere else –––– anywhere else, as the Reader is engrossed in the story that she has created. In this regard, the question of what constitutes the Writer’s Instrument is easy to overlook. If she, the Writer, is not there in the room and on stage; or there, upon the screen, as the Viewer is connecting with the work which her Instrument has created, then the question of how ––––– and through what Instrument –––– the Writer has created her work is less pressing.
It becomes something that may be discussed and considered, some vague and unknown –––– other
time, but it does not rest at the forefront of our imagination and consideration. Said otherwise, the mystery of how the Writer's Instrument creates her story is less captivating than how the Actor's Instrument creates his character, and as a result, the question of the Writer and her Instrument, is simply asked –––– either less often, or if not less often, then certainly, with less fanfare and fascination.
Yes. Writers are interviewed; and questions are asked of them, questions like: "how did you come up with this character?" and "what motivates you to write?" but without the physicality of the in-person, or on-screen connection, the answers to these questions shimmer and shine less brightly.
Yet; this is what makes writing so important, and powerful, and beautiful: without the writer, there are no characters, and without characters, there are no actors.
However, this question can also be walked through in the other direction: without the Actor, the Writer's characters only exist on the page, and with characters who only exist on a page, the Writer's access to a broader audience is severely depleted.
Thus, one could ask: who needs the other the most: the Writer, or the Actor?
Friday, August 21, 2020 - Postcards from New York: Roosevelt Barbershop - Ninth Avenue (Between 57th & 58th). by Jordan Myers
Hello Hello! It's been a long time but I did it: I got my haircut, in New York, on Ninth Avenue (between 57th and 58th), at Roosevelt Barbershop. I only noticed the shop two weeks ago, when I was standing at the walk-up coffee shop known as Birch, which stands next door.
The place is lo-fi, and I love it. And by lo-fi, I mean, vintage, and by vintage, I mean it feels like a home –––– as though you’re getting your haircut in someone’s kitchen on a Friday evening, and while you’re resting in the chair, your mind starts thinking about which of the two movies you rented from Blockbuster you’ll watch first. Said otherwise, the atmosphere isn’t piped in; it’s already there, and it arises all on its own.
There's only two chairs; which are now divided by a plastic panel of a structure similar to a ziplock bag, which descends from the ceiling and doesn’t quite reach all the way to the ground.
Hesitant and masked, earlier today, I pulled open the door and walked in. My hesitation was less about an uncertainty as to whether I wanted to get my haircut there, but more a response to the size and intimacy of the shop. One cannot walk in without being noticed, and given the domestic and quaint feel of the place, I felt compelled to enter the shop in a quiet and reserved manner.
There were two barbers working, one male and the other female, both in their late forties or early fifties, and one male customer, mid-to-late twenties, who was getting a new doo.
I took the chair farthest away from the door and asked for my standard cut; which is quite low: a “one” all the way around (I had shaved off my beard; which was becoming far too bohemian (it had been growing since April), the weekend before).
The radio, which was of a small and compact variety, the type of which one would take to the beach, stood on a shelf in the corner, and played Tina Turner's "What's Love Got to do With it?"
The woman who was cutting my hair ––– mea culpa, I did not introduce myself and ask for her name, from time-to-time, asked me to hunch down in the chair so that she could reach up to the top of my head. For about five minutes, she sang and also hummed along with Ms. Turner, not quite knowing the words.
Her colleague, slightly younger, with glasses, and who was moving with the efficiency and swiftness of a master barber as he was finishing with the other customer in the shop, was laughing, and spoke out across the shop in Spanish: "¡No sabes las palabras!"
Thursday, August 20, 2020 - Hoopin’! Via Matthews-Palmer Park: West 46th Street (between 9th and 10th Avenue). by Jordan Myers
There is a park on West 46th Street, between Ninth and Tenth Avenue. It’s also a playground.
You can go there and be whoever you want. You can go there and do whatever you want.
In the morning, I like sitting and facing north on the steps that ascend toward the south.
I like the feeling of the sun on my face.
I like the casual way four men in work-boots and heavy khakis and denim play basketball:
standing and shooting and talking, then –––-
every now and again /
an almost quick drive to the hoop.
There’s no keeping score. They’re all on the same team. Work is in a little, but not now.
The oldest and sturdiest amongst them: early forties, stocky and a few inches over six feet, wears a black t-shirt, black denims, black low-cut Keds, and a black backwards-facing baseball cap.
With love and a booming voice, he calls out tips, instructions, and advice toward his compadres:
“Use your body! Use your body! Lean into the contact!” he says.
One, bounces the ball, gradually ––––
and slowly, between his legs and glances up at the rim,
as the other, with intention and focus, squats in front of him, as a declaration: his arms stretched-out wide –––––– in defense.
I like how their fourth, the only one wearing a mask (light blue and white), and the least athletically gifted of the crew, shoots his J’s without jumping -–––
and with only one hand: the ball, held like a trophy in his right palm before his eyes ––––––
everyone watches, and waits . . . then at the decisive moment, he does not shoot
/ but propels the ball toward the rim.
The ball only hangs in the air for a moment,
rotating and careening through the wind
just long enough for everyone to glance up
toward the trees’ branches and leaves:
dancing and swaying above the backboard /
then between every exhale, and every inhale,
ruffling and resting
quietly beneath /
the all blue
/ and the all clear
/ morning sky.
Wednesday, August 19, 2020 - One rainy morning walk toward the Jolly Goat. by Jordan Myers
Here’s one thing that happened in New York on August 19th, 2020 - a Wednesday.
It was a rainy morning in the middle of August and the first hints of autumn could be felt in the air. Here’s what the first hints of autumn felt like. It was cold enough to walk two blocks without breaking into a sweat. Also the pulsating rhythm and noise and suffocating feeling of the sun had subsided.
Here’s another thing that happened: I walked south along Tenth Avenue and allowed my mind to decide between two or three places for coffee: Sullivan Street Bakery (47th), The Jolly Goat (47th), or Rex (north on 10th, near 57th).
Even if only for a moment, the pandemic felt like a distant memory. I felt this distance the most when I gently set the straps of my mask over my ears and set it into place over my mouth and my nose as an afterthought, rather than as an act of war and panic against a novel coronavirus.
Here’s another thing that happened: I looked east and south at the giant buildings that rise above Midtown Manhattan as I walked south along the span of 10th Avenue (between 49th and 48th street) where there’s just an open space –––– a vacant lot. Who knows what was there before? It’s empty now. There’s a rhythm to the emptiness, a beauty that has attached itself to its vacancy.
This was true this morning and it’s still true as of this writing: The Jolly Goat had a rectangular sign that hung out front that was white and glowed in yellow that read “COFFEE” in black font. It draws you in.
Here’s a description of the drink that I ordered: An earl grey tea, with steamed oat milk. It’s called a London Fog. The owner who was baristing and also working the register, Murat, and I laughed about the first time that he heard the name, “London Fog.”
Here’s what he said, something like this: “These three women, who definitely weren’t from New York, and who were definitely visiting the city –––– I could tell because they were so lively and up-up-up ––– walked in and one of them ordered a London Fog,” he said. “I had no idea what it was, but she told me it was just Earl Grey tea and steamed milk.” Easy enough on any day –––– two points plus on a rainy morning.
Tuesday - August 18, 2020 - City Facades! - Hudson and Charlton (with a special guest appearance by Paolo Nutini). by Jordan Myers
In a city where millions of people, literally, wear masks; the facades of buildings speak more loudly than ever before. One could describe certain streets and avenues as vacant, empty, or deserted, yet this is only true when no-vacancy, full, or crowded refers to the presence of the physical human beings who stand on, and walk over and across these streets and avenues.
Even without the physical presence of a teeming population that adds their collective breath and voices to the spaces at the foot of these facades, there is still life here: the life of all that has already happened in these spaces, and the life of all that ever will happen over and across these spaces –––– the life of the imagination.
How can anyone measure the population density of an emotion, a memory, or an idea?
Monday, August 17, 2020 - Hoyt Street / Carroll - Mira Fisher
Hoyt Street / Carroll
It’s 4AM, mid-August. I dream-wake to the sound of rapid conversation. From my open window I see two figures standing with e-bikes on the street below. I don't speak Spanish but can just gather that corasons are involved (or was it calzones? They are delivery guys). Whatever it is, it is dire, this is a red eye rendezvous and there are restless hand gestures that I can just detect in the street light. One man raises his hands in front of him. "The calzone is...this big." Or perhaps, "I love you about...this much." They are urgently comparing units of space.
HEY!!! I yell. It's sharp like a bark, and shoots right at their helmets before bouncing down Hoyt street. They stop as if struck, and then some moments pass of the clearest silence before they mount their bikes and whizz in opposite directions. My voice is a force, supposedly from the sky even to me, and their obedience is pious. I vaguely missed them already as I giggled myself back to sleep.
- Mira Fisher
Sunday - August 16th, 2020 - Fiction Sundays: “Upon the Street Below.” by Jordan Myers
I was walking across 47th Street on a Saturday in July, wearing chinos with a button-up shirt. I was picking up coffee for Elise and myself. I had spent the morning before on the phone with Andrea’s friend Monica. Monica knew Andrea from college. I knew Monica from work and Andrea through Monica. I had met Andrea three weeks before on a Saturday. That was the end of June. We were on a rooftop in Queens at night.
I had been at the party on the rooftop in Queens at night for an hour, and was on my way out when Monica stopped me. She introduced me to Andrea. We shook hands. I was going home that was all. Andrea asked me about my job, about how long Monica and I had been working together. I said about a year. I said we both worked in financial advising. We were both helping people spend money wisely. Andrea asked me where I stayed in the city. I was living in Brooklyn, she was living in Queens. She stepped away to grab a beer and I thought of walking out the door without saying goodbye. I stayed. She returned.
She said Monica had thought we should meet. I can’t remember what kept me up on Monica’s roof through the June night so long besides Andrea’s smile. Then it was three, and we were still standing beside each other, and I said I needed to go. She asked that I call. I said that I would.
I woke up the next day to a rainy Sunday, showered, and went out for a sandwich and coffee. The sky was dark. I felt light. I dropped into Michello’s, a small place a few blocks away from my apartment. I stayed for a while. Hector stopped in an hour later. By the time he got there I had already reviewed a few spreadsheets for work with Andrea on my mind. I had ordered another coffee with Andrea on my mind. I had looked out the window at the stormy late June sky with Andrea on my mind.
Hector was meeting me before he went to see Carolyn. I told him about the night before, about the woman I had met. He smiled. He asked when I would see her again. I didn’t have an answer. I didn’t know. Two weeks passed.
I worked and went home. I worked and went home again and again. Once on the subway in the evening I sat across from a woman who looked like Andrea. Had I known what to say I would have spoken to her. She stood up and walked out at Canal Street. I moved my briefcase from my lap to the open seat to my left and thought again of Andrea.
The Wednesday after I met Andrea I sat around a chess table in Hell’s Kitchen Park. For an hour I sketched out as best as I could the shape of her face, the nape of her neck, and what I could remember of her smile.
Two Saturdays after the night on Monica’s roof I picked up the phone in my apartment and called Andrea. She answered. We both laughed. I asked whether she’d want to meet the next day, Sunday afternoon. She couldn’t. I asked whether she’d like to meet for dinner Monday, or Tuesday, or Wednesday, or any evening. She couldn’t.
I went out that night. Hector and Carolyn and Elise and I took the train over into the city and went drinking through the evening. Elise and I had broken up in January. We found a bar with a roof-deck a few blocks south of Washington Square. I sat beside Elise. She had long brown hair and eyes that were a light green. She wore a dress that ended at the top of her knees, a navy blue print with white stripes going diagonal from her left shoulder toward her right knee.
I kissed her. Carolyn and Hector left. Elise came back to Brooklyn with me. We made love. She left in the morning. I heard from her Tuesday and she wanted to get back together. I told her we should meet to talk about it and we did. We got back together.
Elise and I were having fun again. Once we met in Central Park and shared a pitcher of iced tea with a bit of whiskey. We stayed out all afternoon beneath the early July sun. We didn’t leave until the park closed at night. On our way out we stopped for a while beside and beneath a yellow lamppost. We kissed. I had missed her.
Then one Friday in July, I was walking along 47th street and spotted Andrea again. I had spent the night before at Elise’s. I saw her first and she didn’t see me. I kept walking but she looked up then saw me. She called out to me. I stopped and turned around. It was the hottest day of the year. Her hair was in a bun.
I walked over to her and we embraced. I hadn’t seen her since we were on the roof that June night. She asked where I was headed. Two men in big boots, white socks, and jean shorts walked out of a doorway to my right, carrying a large white sofa wrapped in plastic. They walked between us. As they passed I held my words. I said I was headed to grab a coffee. It was ten in the morning. I went west. She headed east and asked that I call sometime.
Two weeks passed. Elise and I went to the Bronx Zoo on a Saturday. She was wearing the same navy summer dress. She laughed at the flamingos and reached for my hand. I asked about her brother. She said he had decided which schools he would apply to, that he might move out east. We took the train back into Midtown. She fell asleep on my shoulder. It was late August.
Hector and I went running on a Thursday after work along the Hudson. He was faster, though I kept up as best as I could. I thought I’d call Monica that weekend. Elise and I stayed in Friday night and didn’t leave her place until Sunday morning. We went to the movies. A woman was having a mental breakdown and looked to her husband for support that he couldn’t give because he was having a mental breakdown as well. They divorced. I drank a ginger ale and wrapped my arm around Elise’s shoulder. When we walked out of the theater it was night.
Elise was thinking of quitting her job. She told me over dinner on a Thursday night in mid-September. She let the glass of red wine hold still against her lips for a while as she paused between sentences, waiting for my words. I didn’t care what she did. For whatever reason I thought of why we broke up in January. She needed promises. Again she asked what I thought and I told her I didn’t know. If she wasn’t happy with her job, then she should look for something else. Two weeks passed.
On a Friday, Monica called me just after I walked out of the office. She was having people over that next night. I was invited. Elise for the weekend was out of town. I showed up around nine, hoping to see Andrea again. She wasn’t there. I spoke with Monica, thanking her for the invite and asking how she had been. Busy she said. We were all busy. We were all in New York in our twenties and thirties and busy.
Monica walked with me down the steps toward the living room, away from the roof. I sat there in the love seat across the coffee table from where she sat on the sofa. Elise was calling me. I didn’t pick up. When she’d return I decided, we’d break up again. Monica got up and poured herself a drink in the kitchen. I followed. Finally there she asked about Andrea. I said I hadn’t spoken with her. Monica was leaning against the refrigerator and looking out over the island that faced the living room. It was late. Most everyone had gone home. I told Monica I would like to see Andrea again sometime and she said she would set something up. I left and walked home toward the train through the night.
I only left one blazer and button-up shirt at Elise’s after I gathered my things from her place. We were through. I called Andrea again the moment I returned from Elise’s for the last time. It was the third week of September and I let the windows in my bedroom wide open. The late summer wind blew in. She answered. She’d love to meet sometime. We set a date for the next Friday. The week went fast.
At 8:00pm on the 28th day of September I was waiting outside La Primavera Cafe on Elizabeth street wearing navy chinos with a light grey blazer over a white button-up shirt. Andrea arrived at five after. We went inside. We sat near the window. We talked and talked and talked: about the first night we met, about her and Monica in college, about what would happen if the world ran out of green apples. I didn’t know whether I was falling in love with her. After dinner we walked north along Broadway for a while. The taxis’ headlights moved toward us then away from us. I held her hand. We found a quiet place for coffee not far from Cooper Union. We sat inside listening to the conversations around us. It was nice just being near her without speaking.
Elise called me the next day, and the Sunday following, and the Monday and Tuesday afterwards as well. I called back and she didn’t answer.
Monica and Andrea and I had dinner at Monica’s place in Queens, the three of us and Monica’s brother Stanley. Stanley was in from Cleveland. He worked in accounting and was in the city on business. He and I were washing dishes a long while after Monica and Andrea had finished cooking and the four of us had eaten the steak frites and steamed vegetables. I was washing and rinsing and he was drying. He asked me about Andrea, whether we were an item and I said I didn’t know yet. He smiled. He said be careful with her.
Two nights later Andrea asked me over to her apartment to have dinner with her and her friend Chloe. And Stanley would be there as well. I showed up around eight with a bottle of wine I had never heard of. Andrea buzzed me up and answered the door. We embraced. Stanley was strewn across her sofa, his pant legs rolled up, the buttons of his shirt undone, presenting his chest. It was mid-October. He stood up and shook my hand. His boss needed him to stay in New York for a while longer. He had been sleeping on Andrea’s couch. He got up, moved toward the stereo, asked whether I enjoyed classical, and played a bit of Verklarte Nacht on a compact disc.
Andrea’s friend Chloe arrived a few moments later. She sat beside me on the couch. Andrea and Stanley were in the kitchen. Chloe knew Andrea from work. Chloe had heard so much about me. Chloe had heard so many good things about me from Andrea. Chloe asked whether I smoked and if I did would I like to join her on the balcony. I didn’t but said I would join her. Chloe was tall. Five feet nine inches with black hair to the length of her shoulders. Though it was in the mid-forties that night, she was wearing a summer dress.
Chloe had a denim jacket around her shoulders when she walked in but left it on the table near the sofa. We looked out over the balcony. We couldn’t see much aside from the street directly below and the apartment building across the way. We looked into the neighbor’s window and she asked me how I met Andrea. On a rooftop in Queens in June I told her. She dropped and stomped out her cigarette then reached into her purse for another one. Stanley walked into the living room behind us and said that he needed help. I’ll let you smoke I said to Chloe, and went back inside.
Elise was calling me. I pulled the phone out of my pocket and picked it up then hung it up. She called again and I let it ring to voicemail. She left a message that I deleted without listening to. I pulled the vegetable lasagna from the oven and set it on the counter beside the bread maker. Stanley said he’d open the wine then moved to the living room with a corkscrew and did. Chloe stepped into the room again before drifting toward the kitchen. We all had wine and lasagna. Stanley asked whether any of us liked classical and moved toward the stereo. He pulled the Verklarte Nacht out and replaced it with a Wagner piece. He smiled and joined us again in the kitchen. After dinner we all went out to a bar that had just opened a few steps away from Andrea’s.
Through the night I walked alongside Chloe as Stanley and Andrea took steps beside one another. They were just ahead of us. Chloe said she designed clothes but couldn’t find enough clients to open her own store. I asked what type of clothes she made. Women’s clothing, all types. She said she made the dress she was wearing. It was a pale yellow and sleeveless, of a length that went just past her knees. I said I liked it because I did. Andrea said this is the place and looked back at me and Chloe. Stanley showed his ID and went in. We all did the same. It was loud.
We made our way to the bar. Chloe stood to my left, Stanley stood to my right, and Andrea stood to Stanley’s right. Stanley ordered drinks for the four of us. Everything was poured and handed out. He gave the bartender two twenty dollar bills. We said a cheers. Stanley dove in to asking me whether I preferred the Verklarte Nacht to the Wagner. I said I didn’t know and yelled that it was hard to decide beneath the music that was already playing at the bar. Chloe laughed. Stanley said that he used to prefer Wagner ––– above all other composers ––– but that over the last year he’s fallen out of favor with Wagner’s work. I didn’t care.
Andrea and Chloe excused themselves and headed toward the bathroom. Then there I was, with Stanley. He said not to worry about he and Andrea. That they had something years ago but it was cool now. We stayed for two more drinks. Along with the wine I felt drunk. We stepped out into the night around two in the morning. Andrea said Stanley was crashing at her place and that Chloe and I were welcome to join. Chloe said she’d take a taxi back to Brooklyn. She suggested we share a ride. Andrea said she’d call the next day.
Inside the cab Chloe leaned against my shoulder. I placed my arm around her. Together over the Pulaski Bridge we watched Manhattan pass by across the East River, the Empire State Building lit in a deep orange, and the Queensboro Bridge with white lights, delicate and bright behind us.
I called Andrea three nights later. I heard Stanley in the background. I think I heard Brahms as well though it’s hard to be sure. She said I should call her again over the weekend, that the four of us should meet again soon.
I met Hector and Carolyn for dinner after work the Wednesday before Halloween. They asked whether I had plans for the weekend. I didn’t. I invited Andrea to Hector’s that Saturday night. She said she couldn’t make it. She said one of Stanley’s old friends was having a reunion, and that it would be okay if I joined.
I went to Hector’s and Carolyn’s party with Chloe. She was Albert Einstein. I was Albert Einstein’s research assistant. She ordered me around all evening. We laughed and went home together for the first time that night. In and around her apartment, Chloe and I spent the next afternoon talking, reading, drinking wine, and all the while waiting for the winter storm. The trains stopped running. Through the evening it snowed twelve inches in four hours. And for a while we sat out there on the fire escape, just beside her bed, watching the snowflakes. Quietly they landed and gently they collected upon the street below.
Saturday - August 15th, 2020 - “The Actor’s Instrument” - Edward Dwight Easty - Part I. by Jordan Myers
There is an idea that I like very much, which I first discovered in Edward Dwight Easty’s On Method Acting, which was first published in 1966.
I first read the book four years ago; though I can’t remember how I came across it –––– whether I saw it in a bookstore and it caught my eye, or whether I was browsing books on the creative process and it grabbed my attention. All I know for sure is that it was not recommended to me by anyone. This was a book that I summoned into my experience, one that called me up on the telepathic telephone and demanded that I answer its call; and begin reading its pages, at once.
Like many, I’ve long been fascinated by the thin line that divides a heartfelt and moving performance from one that presents, and therefore exists, as hackneyed and canned, and therefore: quickly becomes excruciating to watch, and nearly impossible to sit through.
As a poet and writer, concrete methods, measurements and instructions exist for creating strong lines and compositions: show don’t tell; drop the adverbs; keep it as simple as possible; use flowery language sparingly (if at all). But if these are a few of the more common tools for helping poets and authors; and screenwriters; and playwrights create the lines that the actors will rely upon to bring their characters to life, then what methods, and tools, can the actors rely upon in order to create realistic and moving characters on the screen, and on the stage?
Keep in mind, this line of inquiry was not moving through my mind when I first picked up (or ordered) On Method Acting; or if it was, it was happening in an intuitive and organic fashion, rather than as a deliberate and intentional series of thoughts and resulting actions. All of this is to say, I did not will myself toward this book; instead, I must have been in a calm and serene and curious vibrational state, and as a result, I allowed this book to present itself to me, and thereafter become a part of my experience.
This past July, I recalled the enjoyment that I felt while reading On Method Acting, and began looking for the book again. As I have moved a number of times since 2016, I couldn’t locate my copy, thus, following the same impulse that I followed four years ago, I ordered a copy of the book again. I’m glad that I did; and am enjoying reading it once more.
Here’s the block quote, which is printed upon the very first page of the 1989 version of On Method Acting:
“An actor’s instrument is his whole self. It is his body, his mind and being, complete with thoughts, emotions, sensitivity, imagination, honesty and awareness. Try to imagine the actor’s instrument in much the same way you picture the musician and his violin, the artist and his canvas, paints, and brushes. Think of them as one and inseparable. Just as the musician practices daily on his instrument, always perfecting its response to his will through training, and the artist mixes his paints, brushing them on with the precision and beauty accrued only by drill, so must the actor be concerned with the training and development of his instrument and its responses to his commands.”
For a number of reasons, I love the passage above: its precision and rhythm; its descriptions: quick, clean and neat; combined with the strength and clarity of its thesis –––– “The Actor’s Instrument is this _______,” makes for a gripping and important first hook of a passage.
Even more lovely, is one aspect of the Actor’s instrument which has been left out from this passage, which I’ll describe, through this light: Easty compares the Actor’s instrument to the Painter’s canvas, paints, and brushes; as well as to the Musician’s violin; however, he does not extend this comparison to the Writer’s pen. Why not? Because the Writer’s instrument is not his or her or their pen, nor is it the computer and keyboard that he presses his fingers against so that words may appear on a screen. Instead, in the same way that the Actor’s instrument is “his body, his mind and being, complete with thoughts, emotions, sensitivity, imagination, honesty, and awareness,” the same must be true for the Writer.
Whenever I have tried, whether intentionally, or absent-mindedly, to write from outside of my body; without my whole mind and being, without my thoughts, emotions, sensitivity, imagination, honesty and awareness, I have been disappointed, if not more severely: quite angry and resentful toward myself.
If the Writer’s instrument, like the Actor’s, is his body, his mind and being, complete with thoughts, emotions, sensitivity, imagination, honesty, and awareness; and not his pen; then what separates the Artist’s canvas and paint brush, as well the Musician’s violin, from the writer?
At present, I can only say that there is an answer to this question, and that it is, indeed, an important inquiry; but please, if you’ll allow me the time and the space to rest and fine tune the instrument from which I am writing these words, we’ll pick up here again, and I will get back to you.
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Friday, August 14th, 2020 - Postcards from New York. by Jordan Myers
Hello, Hello! Here’s what happened at dusk. I stood at the corner of West 66th and Amsterdam Avenue and walked into the middle of the street. You can do that now. You can stand in the middle of the street; in the middle of these giant avenues and take photographs now. You could do that before but you didn’t have as much time. You definitely couldn’t do that before during rush hour. We used to have rush hour. We have rush hour now but only kind of. The traffic isn’t bumper to bumper at rush hour. I’ve driven around the city only a couple of times since March. The traffic is almost welcome; it means our city is alive. Some people say our city is finished; that we won’t recover this time. I find this hard to believe. The people who root, quietly, for the demise of New York City forget that the city isn’t just an idea. It’s an actual place. People live here; people have lived here. People are living here.
Thursday, August 13th, 2020 - The Memorandum: Chief Administrative Judge Lawrence K. Marks’ memo offers temporary relief for tenants, and clarity for landlords. by Jordan Myers
The Memorandum, dated August 12th, 2020, and signed by the Chief Administrative Judge, Lawrence K. Marks, of New York State’s Unified Court System, and which the New York County Lawyers Association sent to its members earlier this afternoon, helps everyone. In brief, tenants have gained time; and landlords have gained clarity.
While the nuances and caveats concerning the newly-amended procedures for administrating commercial and residential landlord/tenant matters in New York State are extensive, this much is clear: their impact is felt most immediately by residential tenants: no one will be evicted from their home before October 1st, 2020.
For tenants who have been calling upon Governor Cuomo to cancel rent and/or extend the stay on evictions past the previously set (and fast approaching) August 20th date, this new memorandum creates a window for a sigh of relief, even if only a small one.
For landlords, the Memorandum, though broadly, does outline the steps that they can and cannot take against tenants who have fallen behind on their rent obligations. More specifically, if the landlord had initiated an eviction action before March 17th, 2020; then the landlord has an opportunity to utilize the Court to summon their tenants into a virtual conference with the Court. However, if the landlord had initiated an eviction action after March 17th, 2020, then they’ll just have to wait –––– as per Chief Judge Marks’ memorandum, those cases have been suspended.
The text of the introductory paragraph of the Memorandum appears below, while the document, in its entirety, can be read on the New York County Lawyers’ Association’s website.
___________________________
“In light of recent revisions in statewide restrictions on the filing and prosecution of eviction matters in New York State arising during the course of the Covid-19 public health emergency, attached please find a copy of AO/160/20 (Attachment A), which amends the temporary protocol for handling of those proceedings in several significant respects. In brief: (1) eviction proceedings filed on or after March 17, 2020 continue to be suspended; (2) cases filed before March 17 may proceed; (3) residential eviction cases filed before March 17 ––– including cases where a warrant of eviction has already issued but not been executed ––– must be conferenced before a judge before any further action is taken, and no outstanding or new residential warrants of eviction may be executed prior to October 1, 2020; and (d) commercial evictions may proceed without a conference. The order is described in further detail below.
___________________________
Wednesday, August 12th, 2020. by Jordan Myers
Artie makes no promises. The stars, two shooting / at night it’s cold; the first breath of fall.
Tuesday, August 11, 2020 - A precarious city from afar & tears of joy at Jack’s Wife Freda up close. by Jordan Myers
One question that I have had, often, of late, is this: has New York City ever been in a more precarious state.
The articles describing the downfall of the city are being published in droves:
New York Times – Retail Chains Abandon Manhattan: ‘It’s Unsustainable’
Fox News - American taxpayers footing NYC's bill to house the homeless in boutique hotels
Bloomberg –New York and San Francisco Can’t Assume They’ll Bounce Back.
In March and April few were writing about a city that would never recover. The national focus and narrative was different. Here was the novel coronavirus, wreaking havoc on a city that was woefully unprepared for its arrival. Yet, although we acted late ––– with our mayor telling us to go on about our regular lives (even through the first half of March), when we did act, we acted fast.
Our governor asked that we go on P.A.U.S.E. (Policies - Assure - Uniform - Safety - (for) Everyone), and we did –––– we sheltered in place. We stocked up and stayed home. Or we got out of the city for a while. We applauded essential workers, clinking and clanking wooden spoons and metal pots and cast irons pans together from our fire escapes ––– or through the cracked open windows of our apartments every evening at 7:00pm. And we watched, in shock and horror and sadness as the number of confirmed cases and deaths steadily increased. Of course, some of us weren’t lucky enough to just watch. We lost some twenty thousand of our friends and family members and loved ones. And of those who lost loved ones, we took time, and we still are taking time, to grieve.
In June we spoke in words and phrases consisting of key markers and measures, attempting to make sense of stages and progressions, which, upon reflection, simply did not make sense: Phase I means construction workers (I thought they had already gone back to work?); Phase II means retailers (which is different from a grocery store or a drug store), offices, and outdoor dining. And Phase III was supposed to mean indoor dining, at fifty percent capacity, but that, as yet, will have to wait.
To write of the downfall of the great metropolis from the perspective of a major media corporation makes sense: make it good, and make it sensational. Infrastructures must careen and crash; revenue ––– projected as well as actual –––must plummet; storefronts had better be vacant; unemployment had better skyrocket; and landlords and tenants had better duel and dance a one-two step of missed rents and pending evictions if the illusion of a destroyed and forgotten city is to be upheld.
When New York is written about through the lens of a nation that’s struggling to find itself; while rebuilding its identity in the wake of a massive and steadily growing call for greater justice, equality, and accountability, it’s just easier to leave the entire city for the birds.
These are the giants who loom above our Manhattan streets: The New York Times: 242 West 41st Street. CNN: 10 Columbus Circle. Fox News: 1211 Avenue of the Americas. CBS: 51 West 52nd Street. NBC: 30 Rockefeller Center. Bloomberg News: 731 Lexington Avenue. And the list goes on. In some respects, we need these giants (even Fox News!). We need them because they can crank and churn out stories about our city and broadcast those stories to the entire nation and the world. Day in day out, they’re painting the picture for the nation of what goes on within and throughout our streets, which gives people something to chew on and consider about New York, New York. And in that respect, we’re always a part of the national conversation, and often heading the table. But this much is clear: if you paint too broadly; if you churn out too quickly; and if you showcase too indiscriminately, too often, you’ll either overlook, or otherwise misdraw the truth.
With my entire heart, I miss the New York that I lived in this past January and February. It felt pristine; we felt untouchable; our streets and subways were overflowing and crowded; and rush hour was actually a thing. But the reality, we all know, was different from the perception. Even before the end of March, and April, the luxury condos that were sprinting toward the sky; altering Manhattan’s skyline; and hovering, precariously over Central Park as well as the avenues and streets of Midtown Manhattan, were nearly deserted.
The luxury market was tapping out. Billions of dollars worth of real estate had been built to attract foreign investors, but the Russian oligarchs and the Chinese billionaire moguls, as well as investors throughout the world who were previously keen on New York’s luxury residential real estate market, were no longer eating the cake. And the people who were and are living here, either couldn’t afford to live in these places ––– or simply chose to spend their money somewhere else, or save.
Here is one reason why independent publishing is needed: I cried today while standing outside of Jack’s Wife Freda at 224 Lafayette Street. I wept, quietly and softly to myself, tears of gratitude, as the waiter who took my to-go order, Chulo, was kind and caring, and cheerful and attentive, and encouraging and humorous; and because he kept refilling the glass of water, which I hadn’t asked for, though I was, nonetheless, oh so thankful to have while I waited.
Precarious means it’s not over yet. It means we could fall, but it also means we could rise again. It means that we could actually create a city that’s more beautiful, heartfelt, and compassionate –––– one where the car horns keep honking (I miss that sound!), but also one where it’s not impossible to find a place to live without demonstrating that you make 40 times the monthly rent. A city where people work together and look out for each other more often. A city that the titans who blast out the images and stories that describe what our city feels like won’t be able to capture; but that’s okay and here’s why: that city has already arrived. You just have to be here, to feel it.
- Isaac Myers III