Tuesday, January 5, 2021 - Grapes & satin bouquets of wishing dreams / foreign resorts with pillows sleeping through woven sunlight. by Jordan Myers
Grapes & satin bouquets of wishing dreams / foreign
resorts with pillows sleeping through woven sunlight.
October leaves blowing across Tompkins Square Park / &
a man in all white playing Count Basie’s Midnite Blue
on a jazz saxophone while standing & swaying beneath
a break in the clouds. Two autumn sweaters over your shoulders
& one bodega paper cup of Bigelow earl grey tea in your hand at dusk.
Monday, January 4, 2021 - The greatest distraction of all on the Island of Manhattan is the grid . . . by Jordan Myers
The greatest distraction of all on the Island of Manhattan is the grid, which was first thrusted upon its landscape in March of 1811. Its desire for order; its plea for direction; and its demand for attention are too easily overlooked, and excused. West Seventy-Fourth Street is distinguished from West Fourteenth Street in name only. And the difference between the avenues of First and Eleventh rely upon the imposition of historical fictions. While walking the island, whether utilizing a compass and relying upon cardinal directions or not, do not allow these street names and numbers to assail you with their specious characterizations of the cityscapes that you sail through, around, and about. Lest all of the city’s magic, disappear.
Friday, January 1, 2021 - West Forty-Second Street & Eleventh Avenue. by Jordan Myers
At the corner of West Forty-Second Street and Eleventh Avenue last night I felt a voice as I was driving. The past was converging with the collective consciousness’ web of timelines and possibilities. It was dark and raining and four cars were driving south toward the Lincoln Tunnel. The rain was beating down against my windshield and Twenty-twenty-one was calling me forth. The rain kept falling; and only for a few moments did I hover.
Thursday, December 31, 2020 - Twenty Questions from Twenty-Twenty. by Jordan Myers
Purely off the cuff here; twenty questions to ponder as the year turns from ‘20 to ‘21; god-willing, we’ll answer these twenty Q’s this time next year, and also add one more Q for good measure. Twenty-twenty has been our year to grow, change, stabilize and evolve. Looking forward to wrapping up and sending out Issue No. 8 - 2020 in the coming days; and even more so, to getting back on track, steadying the course, and bringing you three (if not four) issues for 2021. Happy New Year to all. Thank you reading, writing, contributing and supporting this endeavor over these last twelve months.
All of our best,
C.Q.
(1) Is a major metropolis sustainable in the midst of a global pandemic?
(2) Is the idea of New York City still an idea worthy of pursuit while still occupied by the presence of the novel coronavirus?
(3) Should rent be cancelled?
(4) Should outdoor dining become a permanent part of the New York dining experience?
(5) Will New York bounce back?
(6) Did New York ever really go away?
(7) Will the subway be better than it was before the pandemic, i.e., cleaner and more efficient?
(8) Are yellow cabs making a comeback?
(9) Will we be gathering in Times Square to watch the ball drop in person for New Years Eve 2021?
(10) What will President-elect Joe Biden and Vice-president elect Kamala Harris be best known for as of this time next year?
(11) Will the vaccine get us out of this, and if so, how soon?
(12) What will we say of George Floyd this time next year?
(13) What reflections from Summer 2020 will we still remember?
(14) Will Andrew Yang become New York City’s next mayor?
(15) Will things ever be the same again?
(16) Do we want things to ever be the same again?
(17) How will New York mourn the tens of thousands of lives lost to Covid-19?
(18) How will the NYPD demonstrate that Black Lives Matter in 2021?
(19) Are New Yorkers going dancing at any point next year, and if so ––––– where, when, and how?
(20) What will be New York’s story of the year for 2021?
Monday, December 28, 2020 - From our poetry archives: Mervyn Taylor’s “Things I Can’t Throw Away,” from Issue No. 2 - Autumn 2017.
There are two times of the year when I love Mervyn Taylor’s poem, “Things I Can’t Throw Away,” the most. The first is in the late spring, when the weather is getting warmer and the first embers of summer air can be felt, which brings forth the natural impulse of spring cleaning –––– throwing out the old and thus, making room for the new.
The other time of the year is around this week (between Christmas and New Years), as well as over the next few weeks –––– after the excitement leading up to Christmas has elapsed, and before the speed and activity of a new year have returned once more.
I love the poem for its intricate detailed descriptions of the items that Taylor considers throwing away; for instance: “The key my daughter made / with my initials her first stay at sleepaway camp.” And also for its forthright approach to describing one facet of New Yorkers’ relationships with their living spaces: our apartments only have so much room; and we can’t keep everything forever. Even so, we can and often do end up keep things around for a while –––– and in echoing Taylor’s poem, that “a while” often becomes a lot longer than we’ve ever planned. Enjoy Taylor’s poem below; and also note, his newest collection of poems, Country of Warm Snow, was released earlier this year, and is available for purchase through his website.
_________________
THINGS I CAN’T THROW AWAY
Mervyn Taylor
Like the garlanded Buddha,
a gift from a fortune-telling mom
who came to class on parents’ night.
The key my daughter made
with my initials her first stay
at sleepaway camp.
The red shoes with elastic across
the instep that pained like the dickens
after a few hours’ wearing.
A diseased plant that refuses to die,
or get well. It sits in a quarantined
corner of the kitchen.
Cards from a mysterious ‘Fifi,’
signed with puckered lips, whose
husband has since passed away.
A Jet centerfold, featuring
an old girlfriend on board a yacht,
somewhere in the Bahamas. And
a simultaneous painting, ripped
across a cloudy moon, done by
four stoned artists around a table.
Twice a year, I declare these things
dead, junk, clutter. I line them up
by the door. Then they beg, and I
put them back, the house squaring
itself and sighing, my new loves
finding space among the old.
Saturday, December 26, 2020 - From our poetry archives: “I’ll Follow You” - Jason Koo
Jason Koo’s “I’ll Follow You,” captures the sweet languor felt within the first few hours of the morning light; as a beloved begins readying for the day, and eventually, walking out the door. I like this one as a companion piece for the languor that accompanies Boxing Day: having the balance of an entire year resting within the rearview mirror, while also enjoying the quiet and peace of the week leading up to New Year’s Day ––– it is sweet.
________________________________
I’LL FOLLOW YOU
It is sweet to kiss the ear of your kitty
as he sleeps. Sweet to pull the high-top sneakers
off your girlfriend’s feet as she sleeps.
Sweet to discover she is not completely asleep
by the way she lifts her second foot a little
to make the untying easier. Sweet to wake up
to the sound of her silence in the bathroom
as she readies herself for work, touching up her face
as gently as your kitty laps water from his bowl.
At these times you don’t question anything,
what is love, whether you’re working hard
enough, whether you’re not missing something
somewhere else. Life couldn’t be elsewhere.
She comes to kiss you goodbye and rests her head
on your chest for a moment, so sweet to pretend
you’re asleep through this, sweet to listen to her
walk out your door remembering to lock it,
sweet through the hall, sweet through the second
door, through the gate, the sweet of the latch,
sweet imagining the singular sounds she makes
as she moves through the rest of her day.
So sweet you don’t ask how to reconcile all this
with what sweetness you feel alone after she leaves.
Friday, December 25, 2020. by Jordan Myers
Happy holidays to and from our city. Even with the quiet and surreal shadows and echoes that fell across New York this year, still, something happens when you walk the streets here. You don’t have to stay for long; once it gets inside of you, you can carry it with you for all of your life, if you want. Neither a promise nor a pledge, not even a vow. Just whispers of the imagination, rooting themselves within you —- memories of future timelines / resting in peace beside you, weaving dreams of past lives together with a now that’s still sleeping / however deeply / and however soundly / you’ll allow.
Thursday, December 24, 2020 - “Home for the Holidays” (1995). by Jordan Myers
Home for the Holidays goes a lot farther than its title would suggest. Not to be mistaken for a Lifetime or Hallmark seasonal family comedy, Jodie Foster’s sophomore effort as a director carries artistic chops, the likes of which are lifted by its cast ––– most notably, Holly Hunter, Robert Downey Jr. and Dylan McDermott.
Claudia Larsen (Hunter) works in art restoration at a gallery in Chicago –––– even if only for the film’s first five minutes. Few plot devices can set a film in motion with the same blend of energy, fear, and freedom as being let go, and such is the case here. Claudia responds by booking a flight to her parents’ house for Thanksgiving, thus sending her home . . . for the holidays. Her brother, Tommy (Downey Jr.), makes a surprise visit as well, bringing along a friend who may or may not be his new paramour, Leo Fish (McDermott).
This is what happens in seasonal family films: at least once or twice, connections between family members have to unravel to a near-breaking point, and then –––– just before it appears that all is lost –––– ravel back together again, all the while making everyone stronger and more resilient as a result. Home for the Holidays does this at least once, but only kind of.
Its strength lies less in the raveling or unraveling of connections, but more so in the overall climate that’s created by the interwoven lives of the three Larson siblings, Claudio, Tommy, and their sister Joanne (Cynthia Stevenson), who, when enraged, walks slowly and deliberately on a stair-master, which is the same machine she uses to bring to a head an altercation with Claudia by offering, “Do you mind? This is the only thing that I do all day that I like.”
The question of whether Claudia and Leo will form a bond strong enough to keep them together across a fifteen hundred mile distance (Leo might be living in Montana, but it’s unclear ––– he travels a lot!) is alluring enough. Two or three of the film’s strongest moments take place after everyone else has either gone to bed, or have busied themselves with other tasks, and it’s just Leo and Claudia in the frame, charming one another. In one such moment, while wrapped within the euphoric calm of a night that follows a day filled with boisterous family gatherings, Leo, standing outside Claudia’s door, asks her to be brave. It’s a beautiful, quiet, and spellbinding scene; you won’t be able to look away.