February 2, 2021 - Beneath The Roosevelt Tram. by Jordan Myers

When I opened my eyes I didn’t mind that I had no idea who you were or where you came from. You had a tram ticket in your hand, and your tiny, sad, flickering eyes told me that you’d been staring at me while I, with my eyes closed, consumed the fracturing moment

.

I felt self-conscious thinking about how my lips were softly muttering above my chin in concert with the slippery din of the street: the hammering construction, the women begging their dogs to hurry up and shit already, the hoisting of the tram car, and the clanking of the vendor carts as they got jacked up to trailer hitches, and hauled across the bridge

.

My mouth moved around all of it, and in my mouth suddenly you were born and the tram was blooming and floating from my open jaw into the evening that was collapsing over the bridge, drawn over the island, sinking into the river. The world slid between itself, my throat as full as my ears with sound

.

You stood there, reflected in your own eyes, which were no longer small and sad, but two black moons colliding at the bridge of night and day where dawn is born again. I swallowed and my mouth took my mouth in its mouth and you wept as the tram collided with the bridge and the construction workers tore through the sky

.

The island in the river capsized and plummeted into a dizzying black eddy. The dogs took their final salute and the women wore dresses caked in asphalt, leaning into the glistening traffic, their teeth soldered to the pavement

.

The world was hoisted from your hand as if a puppet in a gamelan, and you took my face in your palm, held out your ticket and said - it’s time to go home

February 1, 2021 - Meet me at Dawn. by Jordan Myers

Meet me at dawn. Even if it's cloudy be there, first thing
in the morning. Meet me at dawn beneath the tree
that's already started losing its leaves in August. I'll wait
for ten minutes. The sun won't take very long to find
its place in the sky. Meet me at dawn by the building
that each morning declares the city awake. Bring the briefcase.
I'll slip on my sunglasses. We'll make it quick. No one will see

what happens / in plain sight / at dawn. If the M7 bus is early,

wait behind the staircase that leads to the facade. You'll see me.

I'll give the sign –––– go, or stay . . . wait. Don't make it obvious.

Don't move too quickly. Wear the sunglasses I gave you / if you have to.

January 31, 2021 - Together we walked out into the parking lot and fell into the car. by Jordan Myers

It was subtle, so subtle that at first I wasn’t sure that it actually happened. We were inside the gallery, on the third floor, and in one of those rooms off of the main room. The window was small and the mist and rain were heavy, but we could still see all the way across the island, and out into the bay.

Most people who were there said that they didn’t hear it; or that they didn’t see it; or that if they did hear it or see it, they didn’t find it all that unusual. It was April and strange things happened in April.

I hadn’t slept at all the night before, and barely at all the night before then, and just an hour or two the night before then, before then. So while you were driving us to the museum, I was drifting in between sleep, dream, and awake states as the windshield wipers picked up, slowed down, and then picked up again.

No one believed me. Not even you.

I remember running down the three flights of stairs toward the back of the room and paying very close attention to my steps and trying not to fall as I was making my way toward the information desk on the first level. When I arrived, trying not to pant or appear short of breath, all I could explain was that someone needed help ––– in the distance, three or four blocks away; and that the window on the third floor was slightly open, and that I had heard the sound of the steel and glass colliding with the concrete and brick.

I was told police officers would be deployed, and the fire department as well. I said I’d tell them everything, everything I saw ––– and in detail, moment-by-moment, whatever they needed, I would be their guy. I thought the museum would close early. I thought everyone could see the flames and smell the smoke.

Then the rain picked up and I found you on the second level, sitting on a wooden bench and writing in your journal. I said I was going to see what happened and implied that you should wait there, but you closed your journal, and together we walked out toward the parking lot and fell into the car.

“Which way?” you asked as we were heading west on Vine Street. “Left here,” I said, “Left!” as we were approaching Willow. The rain was really beating down, and the windshield wipers were going crazy, and I swear I could hear twelve police sirens and the horns of seven fire trucks honking all at once in the distance.

I thought the entire world was about to turn off, which felt different from dying or death, but more like a prayer or faith –––– or the strongest form of solitude –––– when the feeling of one’s own heart, beating, converges and aligns with all that has ever happened in time, and space. Now I can grasp that no one can see these moments; yet they happen regardless ––– seen or unseen, they happen all the same. That must have been what I saw.

January 30, 2021 by Jordan Myers

broken stillness

we long to understand stillness. to idle in our form.

as if in stillness we would not age or break, but simply exist

in a monument to time.

January 29, 2021 - “Don’t Tell me how it Ends” by Elizabeth Lerman.

I get my love of film from my father. Television too. We both exist under the belief that you can be anywhere in the world and feel at home with a familiar story. Characters become friends and narratives become well-traveled paths that you can speak and smile along with.

When I went to visit my father in Cambodia, he presented me with his DVD collection, hundreds of them, stacked in tall piles on a bookshelf. He bought them from the woman who sells bootlegs in the market. He talks to the woman everyday, he tells me, she even texts him when something he has been waiting for comes in. He tells me that she is the first friend he made in Siem Reap because the DVD shop in the market was one of the first places he went. He tells me how some of the movies make him cry but how others make him laugh so hard the dog starts barking. He takes me to meet the woman the morning after I arrive.

“This is my daughter,” he says, presenting me proudly to the smiling young woman who takes my hands in hers and tells me how funny my father is. She shows me what’s new in the shop, checking the quality as she goes to make sure the discs are unscathed. I tell her I will come back very soon for more. She nods and waves, her warm goodbye following me down the narrow path of the market. And I do go back. The next morning I am there, my crisp Cambodian riel tucked securely in my wallet, a small clutch made from rice bags featuring a signature elephant as its logo. It is the kind of wallet you buy for the people back home who will want a tangible piece of this foreign place. I have already bought three for myself.

When I reach the DVD shop my friend is speaking to two tourists who remark on the delightfully low prices. She waves to me and motions me in. As I browse I can hear a small, whining echo coming from the side room, which is separated from the shop by a thin hanging curtain. I peer noisily around the curtain and see a remarkably sweet face. The baby is only a few months old, but plump and gurgling, lying on his back, entertaining himself with a small mobile. I smile at him and he looks at me with a startled look that makes me laugh out loud. “Yours?” I ask the woman when she comes around beside me, “yes,” she says smiling then holds up her hand to tell me he is five months old. She goes to him on the floor and I squat down beside them, letting the baby grip my finger in his tiny palm. “Strong,” I say to the woman, wriggling my finger out of his grasp as she laughs and nods.

I go back the next day and sit with the baby. This becomes a habit and I begin to consider myself his voluntary babysitter. His mother can help more customers in the store if I am there, holding the baby, bouncing him down the aisles of the market before tucking him back in a crib behind the curtain. And suddenly, in the small room behind the thin curtain I am very aware of where I am and who I am with and I find it oddly incredible, this path that has formed in front of me. And in this small shop with its rows and shelves of stories, I am very conscious of my own. It is one of few that I do not know the ending of.

________________________________________________________________

Elizabeth Lerman is a creative writer based in New York City. A graduate from the University of Vermont, where she earned her B.A in Film Studies and English Literature, Elizabeth is passionate about forging strong female voices and diverse narratives. In her writing she focuses on the significance of small moments and the space they hold in both her thoughts and those of her characters. Elizabeth currently lives in Brooklyn where she is working, slowly but surely, on her first novel.

January 28, 2021 - Lofted Earth by Jordan Myers

Gowanus

Brooklyn

NYC

I’m fascinated by our lofted earth, our attempt to lengthen and straighten lines across our sky, to direct our destination.

Here is the order of our cities and all the cities before that have crumbled in time.

January 27, 2021 - She had this collection of trinkets and things; she’d hang them on her wall (II). by Jordan Myers

On the second Sunday of November when we were at her apartment and drinking tea and talking I made a point to divert the conversation, as often as possible, away from the trinkets and things that she had hung on her wall.

Even though on that second Sunday of November I was doing my best to divert the conversation away from the trinkets and things on her walls, almost right away –––– perhaps after only twenty or thirty minutes –––– I realized that it was no use. She had trinkets and things on her walls and she was going to talk about them.

The next Sunday I tried a different approach. I let her talk and talk. I had been thinking a lot about space and time and thought maybe it would be better if I really just sat as quietly as possible and listened; it could be good for me. It could be good for us. It could be good for both of us.

January 26, 2021 - e s s e n t i a l s. by Jordan Myers

You’ve seen this storefront in its ubiquitous multiplicity.

An aggregate of the essential,

a chameleon of the urban landscape.

Fort Hamilton Parkway

Sunset Park

Brooklyn

NYC

January 25, 2021 - Whether it’s worthwhile to report on weather when a wintry mix of wind with snow winds its way toward New York. by Jordan Myers

Whether it’s worthwhile to report on weather

when a wintry mix of wind with snow

winds its way toward New York is a welcomed

wonder when wandering witnesses wonder why

weeping wiseman and weaving women walk

one way on West Street while whistling words

through Wednesday’s whiskied bottles of wine.

January 24, 2021 - She had this collection of trinkets and things; she’d hang them on her wall (I). by Jordan Myers

- Photograph by Adrian Moens.

I remember she had this collection of trinkets and things. She’d hang them on her wall and on Sundays in the fall for a while she’d invite me over just to sit and talk and drink tea and to look at the new trinkets that she had hung on her wall. She said she wasn’t really into collecting things –––– “random objects,” she had called them –––– she wasn’t into collecting random objects, but the more often she’d invite me over the longer we would sit and drink tea and the longer she would spend telling me about one or two or three or four (or more) new objects she had hung on her wall.

It wasn’t that I didn’t mind listening to her describe all of the objects that she had found and had decided to hang on her wall. It was just that I never knew how long she’d go on describing these things for, and sometimes it was tiring to listen to her describe all of these objects for too long; especially as the days grew shorter and shorter and as the weather grew colder and colder.

I enjoyed being in her company and I enjoyed drinking tea with her and I enjoyed the moments when she would ask me for my opinion on any one or two or three or four (or more) objects she had shown me while we were spending time together, but after a while –––– more and more –––– it began to feel like whenever I’d stay at her place for more than an hour, almost right away, I wanted to be somewhere else.

It wasn’t that the objects were not interesting; they were! And it was not that she wasn’t interesting, she was! But there was just something about the way that the energy between us would linger forever in the air and how there never seemed to be quite enough of a conversation thread for us to follow over an entire afternoon that made those Sundays with her devastating. Though neither one of us picked up on this for a while.

We needed something from each other and we couldn’t really figure out what it was. I knew that I had moved to New York over the summer and that she was the only person I knew from college who was living in the city; and so I looked her up almost right away, or at least a few weeks after I found my own place and got settled. She had asked whether I wanted to live with her –––– she had an extra room because her roommate was moving back to Cleveland and maybe I could stay with her for a few months and save money before I found work; and it would be like old times between us.

She didn’t know that I didn’t really enjoy the old times between us, but that was on me. I should have been more open and honest when we were in college about what I was feeling as we were talking with each other and going out and doing nonsensical things (bowling, laser-tag, seeing movies, going to the mall) with four or five or six or seven (or more) mutual friends of ours -––– though most of those mutual friends were actually her friends.

“That was actually,” one of those Sundays she told me, “when I first started collecting a lot of these objects that are on my wall now, in college.” I did not want to feign interest but that was what I did; I feigned interest. But there was something about her. And there was something about us; which kept bringing the two of us together. She kept asking me to come over for tea on Sundays and I kept saying yes and then showing up a few hours later; and then doing the same thing the next week, then the next week, then the next week, then the next week.

Very quickly we fell into a routine and a pattern in this way. And at some point in October I realized that the pattern had been broken and that I was actually beginning to understand why she had kept asking me to come over on Sundays and drink tea with her, and also why I kept saying yes, “I’ll be by in a few hours; I’ll be right over.” It didn’t have anything to do with the objects on her walls. And it also had everything to do with the objects that she had hung on her walls. They were everything and nothing. And I’m still trying to think of my favorite one.

January 23, 2021 - We have a photography editor! His name is Adrian Moens.

"If a photograph is perceived a certain way or elicits an emotional response, then that's the value of the artwork ––– the response that it creates,

Art should always be accessible, and as an artist,

I'm merely taking energy and exchanging it for another form. It's not my work; it's god's work. And I'm merely a conduit for something larger than myself."

Curlew Quarterly is getting an upgrade! Having worked with Adrian Moens since November of 2017, I’m thrilled to share that he has recently began working as our photography editor. Along with Emily Fishman and Alexandra Bildsoe, Moens’ photography has appeared in nearly every issue of Curlew Quarterly to date; including but not limited to, photographs and portraits of Mervyn Taylor (Issue No. 2 – Autumn 2017), Tess Congo (Issue No. 3 - Winter 2017-18); as well as In the Shadow of Immovable Object, a photo essay of the Brooklyn Queens Expressway, which also appeared in Issue No. 3 – Winter 2017-18.

Moens grew up in Ashland, Oregon and studied at The School of the Art Institute of Chicago. While living in Chicago, he worked at the Museum of Contemporary Art as well as within the interior design industry. Almost five years ago, as his career evolved, he decided to move to New York.
           
We spoke last week by Zoom, and when asked about what he think of first when he thinks about New York, he didn't hesitate with his response. “Immediately I think about struggle,” he said. “Because I think this is a challenging place to live.” After reflecting on the journey of his last five years here, he then parried that idea of struggle against one of the main factors that brings people to New York in the first place.

“Alongside that struggle,” he said, “I think of reward, because New York is a rewarding place to live. The people and the communities that are living here together create a significant and distinct bond. And I think it’s something that exists in other places, but in my experience, New York has proliferated that experience in a way that’s unique.”
           
Although the editorial voice and cadence of our photography will be Moens', when we spoke this past Wednesday, he made it clear that he leaves it upon his photographs to speak for themselves. “The most important part of a piece of artwork is the viewer’s perspective, not the artist’s.” When I asked him to elaborate on this idea, he spoke of a photograph’s –––– or any piece of artwork's ability (or inability) -–– to evoke a response. "If a photograph is perceived a certain way or elicits an emotional response, then that's the value of the artwork, the response that it creates," and he offered. “Art should always be accessible, and as an artist, I'm merely taking energy and exchanging it for another form. It's not my work; it's god's work. And I'm merely a conduit for something larger than myself."

The full interview appears below. And for the record: Thank you, Adrian. I look forward to our continued collaboration, and am grateful for your energy, eye, and talent.

All of my best,
- Isaac Myers III

_______________

Adrian: I think the most important part of a piece of artwork is the viewer's perspective, not the artist's perspective. So if a photograph or a piece of writing is perceived a certain way or elicits an emotional response, then that's the value of the artwork –––– the response that it creates. When I take a photograph, my obligation is done the moment that I turn it over to the world. 

C.Q.: Have you always felt that way? 

Adrian: I think it took me a while after art school, just to deprogram myself. I graduated in 2008, and I had a pretty different perspective on how I wanted to make art and what I wanted art to do. But I do feel like it has always been and will always be a shared experience.

I feel like art should always be accessible, at least in some way, but only recently did I really feel like I don't particularly own the artwork, but that my body is a medium or a vessel for creativity, and I'm merely taking energy and exchanging it for another form. 

It's god's work; that's the easiest way for me to put it. I'm merely a conduit for something larger than myself. That's often times how I feel about things that I make. With that said, I love the things that I make, for the most part; but the thing that I love the most about it is making it. The feeling of making something is such a beautiful feeling. 

C.Q.: The process.

Adrian: Absolutely, the process of making something; which encompasses a lot of different emotions, including difficult emotions like frustration and anger. There could be a lot wrapped up within me when I feel like the process isn't going the way that I want it to go. But a lot of it is about abandoning my will and letting the thing evolve and come out in its own terms; or in terms that are not my own. Whatever terms those are, I can't say. That's the process that I've used over the last four or five years.

C.Q.: That's fairly recent. 

Adrian: It is fairly recent. I like to think of it in terms that allow me to realize that art making is an enriching experience. It's an experience that enriches my life through the process of making it, and once I let it go, or let it go out into to the world, then I would hope that it enriches other people's lives, but my responsibility to it at that point is gone, in some ways.  

C.Q.: That makes sense. Thank you for sharing that. Just to change gears a bit, what do you think about first when you think about New York? 

Adrian: Oh gosh, immediately I think about struggle. Because I think this is a challenging place to live. And alongside that, I think of reward, because I think it's a rewarding place to live. The people and the communities that are living here together create a significant and distinct bond. And I think it’s something that exists in other places, but in my experience, New York has proliferated that experience in a way that’s unique.

C.Q.: Any other words, or ideas? 

Adrian: Another word that comes up immediately is success. Because I think it's a place where a lot of people land with an idea about, as well as an expectation about what success is; because it's a city where people become successful. I think that little bundle of words, thoughts, and feelings pretty much sums up an experience here in New York, definitely the one that I've had, and one that I feel a lot of people have here.  

C.Q.: If the reward and the success never come, and struggle and challenge persist, how does someone know when to stay or when to go? Or how have you made these decisions; when do you tap out? 

Adrian: My experience with New York City prior to moving here was through visiting friends who have had the same challenging experience –––– expecting success and not being rewarded, which lasted four or five years. I've had a couple of friends go through that process. They land here, they get their feet on the ground, get a little taste of having two or three part-time jobs and living in an apartment that they share with three other people, and not being able to move past that.

So the acid test for me has been, ‘Can I outlast those who have not survived before me?' Those people I know whose experiences I have to compare. So here I am on year five, having had a few jobs, but for the most part being gainfully employed, and having had a moderate amount of success, in both career and creative pursuits. So I feel like by my gauge I have overcome my expectations for that challenge.

Being able to find those things here; though they haven't been easy ––– I've certainly faced some challenges –––– I do feel like I've succeeded. That was my goal, to get beyond those four or five years, and those experiences of the people I knew who moved here. 

C.Q.: It's amazing how quickly four or five years can pass here. 

Adrian: Definitely. It flew by.

January 22, 2021 - “The Rain is Sitting Still” by Elizabeth Lerman.

The rain is sitting still, hovering in the air and existing without action.
Not falling, not pouring, not racing to reach the ground, just here,
in the space between, making me feel like I can touch the wind, and that
it can touch me back, leaving mist on my skin and a storm in the sky.
For one small moment, as gray blooms around me and blurs all the beyond,
I am certain the clouds are mountains. 

______________________

Elizabeth Lerman is a creative writer based in New York City. A graduate from the University of Vermont, where she earned her B.A in Film Studies and English Literature, Elizabeth is passionate about forging strong female voices and diverse narratives. In her writing she focuses on the significance of small moments and the space they hold in both her thoughts and those of her characters. Elizabeth currently lives in Brooklyn where she is working, slowly but surely, on her first novel.

January 21, 2021 - Into the blue, imaginary lines of life / pressing on / forward. by Jordan Myers

Into the blue,
imaginary
lines of life /
pressing on
/ forward

January 20, 2021 - President Joseph R. Biden's Inauguration Address. by Jordan Myers

Chief Justice Roberts, Vice President Harris, Speaker Pelosi, Leader Schumer, Leader McConnell, Vice President Pence, and my distinguished guests and my fellow Americans, this is America's day. This is democracy's day. A day of history and hope, of renewal and resolve. Through a crucible for the ages America has been tested anew. And America has risen to the challenge. Today, we celebrate the triumph ––– not of a candidate, but of a cause; the cause of democracy.

The will of the people has been heard. And the will of the people has been heeded. We've learned again that democracy is precious; and that democracy is fragile. And at this hour, my friends, democracy has prevailed. Where now on this hallowed ground, where just a few days ago violence sought to shake the Capitol's very foundation, we've come together as one nation, under god, indivisible, to carry out the peaceful transfer of power, as we have for more than two centuries.

As we look ahead, in our uniquely American way, restless, bold, optimistic, and set our sights on the nation that we know that we can be, and we must be, I thank my predecessors of both parties for their presence here today. I thank them from the bottom of my heart. And I know the resilience of our Constitution and the strength of our nation, as does President Carter, who I spoke with last night, who cannot be with us today, but whom we salute for his lifetime in service.

I've just taken the sacred oath that each of those patriots have taken. The oath first sworn by George Washington. But the American story depends not on any one of us, not on some of us, but on all of us. On we the people, who seek a more perfect union. This is a great nation. We are good people. And over the centuries, through storm and strife, in peace and at war, we've come so far, but we still have far to go. We'll press forward with speed and urgency, for we have much to do in this winter of peril and significant possibility.

Much to repair. Much to restore. Much to heal. Much to build. And much to gain. Few people in our nation's history have been more challenged, or have found a time more challenging and difficult than the time that we're in now. A once in a century virus that silently stalks the country, which has taken as many lives in one year as America lost in all of World War II. Millions of jobs have been lost. Hundreds of thousands of businesses have closed. And a cry for racial justice, some four hundred years in the making moves us. The dream of justice for all will be deferred no longer.

A cry for survival that comes from the planet itself. A cry that can't be anymore desperate or any more clear. And now, the rise of political extremism and White supremacy and domestic terrorism that we must confront –––– and we will defeat. To overcome these challenges, and to restore the soul and secure the future of America requires so much more than words. It requires the most elusive of all things in a democracy: unity. Unity.

In another January, on New Years Day in 1863, Abraham Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation. When he put pen to paper the President said, and I quote, "If my name ever goes down into history, it will be for this act. And my whole soul is in it." My whole soul is in it. And today, on this January day, my whole soul is in this: bringing America together; uniting our people, and uniting our nation. And I ask every American to join me in this cause.

Uniting to fight the foes we face: anger; resentment and hatred; extremism; lawlessness; violence; disease; joblessness and hopelessness. With unity, we can do great things ––– important things. We can right wrongs. We can put people to work in good jobs. We can teach our children in safe schools. We can overcome the deadly virus. We can reward work and rebuild the middle class, and make healthcare secure for all. We can deliver racial justice. And we can make America once again the leading force for good in the world.

I know speaking of unity can sound to some like a foolish fantasy these days. I know that the forces that divide us are deep, and that they are real. But I also know, they are not new. Our history has been a constant struggle between the American idea –––– that we are all created equal, and the harsh ugly reality –––- that racism, nativism, fear, and demonization have long torn us apart. The battle is perennial, and victory is never assured. Through the Civil War, World Wars, The Great Depression and 9/11; through struggle, sacrifice, and setbacks, our better angels have always prevailed. And in each of these moments enough of us ––– enough of us –––– have come together to carry all of us forward. And we can do that now.

History, faith, and reason –––– show the way. The way of unity. We can see each other, not as adversaries, but as neighbors. We can treat each other with dignity and respect. We can join forces, stop the shouting and lower the temperature. For without unity, there is no peace, only bitterness and fury. No progress, only exhausting outrage. No nation, only a state of chaos. This is our historic moment of crisis and challenge. And unity is the path forward.

And we must meet this moment as the United States of America. If we do that, I guarantee you we will not fail. We have never ever ever ever failed in America, when we've acted together. And so today, at this time, in this place, let's start afresh, all of us. Let's begin to listen to one another again. Hear one another. See one another. Show respect to one another. Politics doesn't have to be a raging fire destroying everything in its path. Every disagreement doesn't have to be a cause for a total war. And we must reject the culture in which facts themselves are manipulated and even manufactured.

My fellow Americans, we have to be different than this. America has to be better than this. And I believe America is so much better than this. Just look around. Here we stand in the shadow of the Capitol dome, as was mentioned earlier, which was completed and made during the Civil War –––– when union itself was literally hanging in the balance. Yet we endured. We prevailed.

Here we stand. Looking out on the great mall; where Dr. King spoke of his dream. Here we stand, where one hundred and eight years ago, at another inaugural, thousands of protestors tried to block brave women marching for the right to vote. And today, we mark the swearing in of the first woman in American history elected to national office, Vice President Kamala Harris. Don't tell me things can't change.

Here we stand, across the way from Arlington Cemetery, where heroes, who gave the last full measure of devotion, rest in eternal peace. And here we stand, just days after a riotous mob thought they could use violence to silence the will of the people. To stop the work of our democracy. To drive us from this sacred ground. It did not happen. It will never happen. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever. Not ever.

For all those who supported our campaign, I'm humbled by the faith that you placed in us. To all of those who did not support us, let me say this: hear me out as we move forward. Take a measure of me and my heart. And if you still disagree, so be it. That's democracy. That's America. The right to dissent peaceably, in the guard rails of our republic, is perhaps this nation's greatest strength. Yet hear me clearly, disagreement must not lead to disunion. And I pledge this to you: I will be a president for all Americans. All Americans. And I promise you: I will fight as hard for those who did not support me as for those who did.

Many centuries ago, Saint Augusta, a saint in my church, wrote that a people was a multitude defined by the common objects of their love. Defined by the common objects of their love. What are the common objects we as Americans love? That define us as Americans. I think we know. Opportunity. Security. Liberty. Dignity. Respect. Honor. And yes, the truth. Recent weeks and months have taught us a painful lesson: there is truth and there are lies. Lies told for power and for profit. And each of us has a duty and a responsibility, as citizens, as Americans, and especially as leaders –––– leaders who have pledged to honor our Constitution, and protect our nation –––– to defend the truth and defeat the lies.

Look, I understand . . . that many of my fellow Americans view the future with fear and trepidation. I understand they worry about their jobs. I understand that like my dad they lay in bed at night wondering . . . can I keep my healthcare? Can I pay my mortgage? Thinking about their families. About what comes next. I promise you, I get it.

But the answer is not to turn inward, and to retreat into competing factions. Distrusting those who don't look like you, or worship the way you do. Or don't get their news from the same sources that you do. We must end this uncivil war that pits red against blue, rural versus urban, conservative versus liberal. We can do this. If we open our souls instead of hardening our hearts. If we show a little tolerance and humility. And if we're willing to stand in the other person's shoes as my mom would say, 'Just for a moment, stand in their shoes.'

Because here's the thing about life . . . there's no accounting for what fate will deal you. They'll be some days, when you need a hand. And there will be other days, when we're called to lend a hand. That's how it has to be. It's what we do for one another. And if we are this way, our country will be stronger, more prosperous, and more ready for the future. And we can still disagree. My fellow Americans, in the work ahead of us, we're going to need each other. We need all our strength, to persevere through this dark winter.

We're entering what may be the toughest and deadliest period of the virus. We must set aside politics and finally face this pandemic as one nation. One nation. And I promise you this: as the bible says, "Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning." We will get through this together. Together. Look folks, all of my colleagues who I serve with in the House and in the Senate, we all understand . . . the world is watching, watching all of us today. So here's my message to those beyond our borders, America has been tested. And we've come out stronger for it. We will repair our alliances, and engage with the world once again. Not to meet yesterday's challenges, but today's and tomorrow's challenges. And we'll lead, not merely by the example of our power, but by the power of our example.

We'll be a strong and trusted partner for peace, progress, and security. Look, we all know that we've been through so much in this nation. And in my first act as President, I'd like to ask you to join me in a moment of silent prayer to remember all of those who we lost in this last year to this pandemic. Those four hundred thousand fellow Americans, moms, dads, husbands, wives, sons, daughters, friends, neighbors, and co-workers. We'll honor them by becoming the people and the nation that we know that we can and should be. So I ask you, let's say a silent prayer for those who have lost their lives, and for those left behind, and for our country.

___________________

Amen. Folks, this is a time of testing. We've faced an attack on democracy and on truth. A raging virus. Growing inequity. And the sting of systemic racism. A climate in crisis. And America's roll in the world. Any one of these would be enough to challenge us in profound ways, but the fact is, we face them all at once. Presenting this nation with one of the gravest responsibilities we've ever had. Now we're going to be tested: are we going to step up, all of us? It's time for boldness.

For there is so much to do, and this is certain: I promise you, we will be judged –––– you and I –––– by how we resolve these cascading crises of our era. Will we rise to the occasion? Is the question. Will we master this rare and difficult hour? Will we meet our obligation to pass along a new and better world to our children? I believe we must. I'm sure you do as well. I believe we will. And when we do, we'll write the next great chapter in the history of the United States of America. The American story.

A story that might sound something like a song that means a lot to me. It's called, "American Anthem." There's one verse that stands out, at least for me, and it goes like this, "The work and prayers of century, have brought us to this day. What shall be our legacy? What will our children say? Let me know in my heart, when my days are through. America, America, I gave my best to you." Let's add our own work and prayers to the unfolding story of our great nation. If we do this, then when our days are through, our children and our children's children will say of us, 'They gave their best. They did their duty. They healed a broken land.'

My fellow Americans, I close today where I began, with a sacred oath. Before god and all of you, I give you my word: I will always level with you. I will defend the Constitution. I'll defend our democracy. I'll defend America. And for all of you, I'll keep everything I do in your service, thinking not of power, but of possibility. Not of personal interest but of the public good. And together, we shall write an American story: of hope, not fear. Of unity, not division. Of light, not darkness. A story of decency and dignity. Love and healing. Greatness and goodness. May this be the story that guides us. The story that inspires us. And the story that tells ages yet to come, that we answered the call of history. We met the moment. Democracy and hope; truth and justice; did not die on our watch but thrived.

That America secured liberty at home, and stood once again as a beacon to the world. That is what we owe our forbearers, one another, and generations to follow. So, with purpose and resolve, we turn to those tasks of our time, sustained by faith, driven by conviction, and devoted to one another and the country we love with all of our hearts. May god bless America. And may god protect our troops. Thank you, America.

Tuesday, January 19, 2021 - Nowhere: the last few hours of an abomination of a presidency. by Jordan Myers

Although I’ve lived in New York for nearly a decade, before tonight I didn’t know where to find Trump Tower. I’ve likely walked past the Trump International Hotel, which sits between Central Park West and Broadway, just north of Columbus Circle and right next to the park almost a hundred times. But I didn’t know that that building was the hotel; whereas the other building (I’m not sure if I even knew that there was another building), which might be considered the main building, Trump Tower, sits at Fifth Avenue, between East Fifty-Sixth and East Fifty-Seventh Street.

It would have been easy to look those coordinates up. But I never did. And doing so never crossed my mind. But tonight I had an errand to run on the Upper East Side, and rather than cycling up Madison Avenue and cutting down on the time that it would take to reach East Seventy-First and Park, I decided to walk.

I hadn’t seen Midtown East or the Upper East Side at night for a while, and I wanted to just walk and take in the sights: the empty storefronts; the empty sidewalks and streets; the restaurant here or there with outdoor dining made possible by built-out tents and heat lamps; and the local and express buses that would pass by, carrying five or so passengers along their routes, north.

Even though I’ve grown used to the city being this slow and empty and quiet, especially at night, and especially on the Upper East Side –––– there’s still something startling about the darkness, and about the desertedness. How quiet is it? It’s so quiet that as I was walking down Madison Avenue at one point a man on an electric bike started laughing into his cell phone –––– it wasn’t that loud! –––– but still, I jumped. Just hearing another person’s voice so close to me was a surprise. That’s how quiet it is on the Upper East Side; at least for now.

But as I walked by Trump Tower this evening, I had already walked five to ten steps past the building before I could register that I had just past a building bearing the name of a man who has caused so much pain and suffering. Already I had watched clips from Joe Biden’s remarks from Wilmington, Delaware earlier today. And in doing so, I had witnessed a man about to take the helm of the presidency of this country who could, and would, and did –––– actually express emotions, and actually allow himself a moment of quiet reflection and tears as he prepared to leave home and head back to Washington. But outside Trump Tower –––– along the sidewalk and streets of Fifth Avenue and Fifty-Sixth, there was nothing.

Just a vacuum. Emptiness. Absence. Hollow air. Yet this was the man who was responsible for leading The United States through the last four years –––– and this was the energy that he brought to the job: Emptiness. Absence. Hollow air. The rage and lies. The refusal to acknowledge realty or engage in civil debate: Emptiness. Absence. Hollow air. How many times can a man puff-up and beat on his chest before his audience realizes that there’s nothing there. Smoke n mirrors. Emptiness. Absence. Hollow air.

Like millions Americans, Trump’s sensationalism, his ever-increasing need for attention and headlines did a number on my heart and my psyche over these last four years. And most recently, it was hard to watch and read the news from the riot in Washington on January Sixth without viewing the scenes of the danger and tumult through the same lens that Trump himself must have viewed them: something interesting to watch; and a spirited group of people actively engaging in their patriotic duties to protect our country. But of course it was none of those things.

It was madness, and the result of a group of people who’ve had their emotions played upon for the last five years by one hell of a salesman ––– being led to act according to his most recent wiles. Apart from dangerous, deadly, and a stark reminder of the discrepancies between law enforcement’s treatment of minorities ––– compared to the almost free reign that those who stormed the capitol were given –––– it wasn’t anything else. Smoke n mirrors. Emptiness. Absence. Hollow air.

It’s fitting that Fifth Avenue feels the way that it felt this evening, and has felt since Covid-19 first hit New York last March. Amidst a global pandemic, which has sacked this city and wrought havoc, and pain, and suffering, and death on this country at a rate far worse than it had to, it makes sense that these Manhattan streets would feel as empty as they did tonight.

With a nation led by a man without any center, and led by a man who has spent the last four years blowing hot air; spouting lies; seeking headlines at all costs; and protecting his ego before anything or anyone else, how could the space outside of Trump Tower feel any different than it felt tonight. Emptiness. Absence. Hollow air.

Though after my walk tonight, at least I can now place the building on Manhattan’s map. Some might say that it’s located at Fifth Avenue and East Fifty-Sixth Street. Though given all that’s happened over the last four years, including the outright assault on truth, diplomacy, and facts; at least within these last few hours of this abomination of a presidency, this much is just as true: it’s nowhere.

Monday, January 18, 2021 - Happy ninety-second birthday, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. by Jordan Myers

From October 26, 1967, Martin Luther King Jr. delivers a speech to an audience at Barratt Junior High School in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania: “What is Your Life’s Blueprint?” Speaking for a little over twenty minutes, Dr. King encourages the students to consider making three principles as the solid, sound, and proper foundation for their lives:

(1) A deep belief in your own dignity, your own worth, and your own somebodiness;

(2) The determination to achieve excellence in your various fields of endeavor; and

(3) A commitment to the eternal principles of beauty, love, and justice,

One oft-quoted principles which Dr. King preached was the idea that whatever you do, do it to the very best of your abilities: “It isn’t by size that you win or you fail. Be the best at whatever you are,” which he illustrated on this autumn afternoon in 1967 by focusing in on the lot of a street-sweeper. The full quote, below.

If it falls to your lot to be a street-sweeper, sweep streets like Michelangelo painted pictures. Sweep streets like Beethoven composed music. Sweep streets like Leontyne Price sings before the Metropolitan Opera. Sweep streets like Shakespeare wrote poetry. Sweep streets so well that all of the hosts of heaven and earth will have to pause and say, 'Here lived a great street-sweeper! Who swept his job well.'

Sunday, January 17, 2021 - Sarah Simon “i can’t answer that.”

i can’t answer that

there is a certain transcendental
grace
in saying
“i can’t answer that.”
it is out of my scope i will
humble myself down i am
not fit to respond
responsibly.
precedents,
hypotheticals?
no concrete
details /?/

and then the woodsy Klobuchar,
down to earth on earth following
the tracks since
Minnesota asks,
“why are we even here?”
why,
when we have a public
health crisis?
when we have millions fearing
for their lives when we bend over ovaries
after RBG before the 5 to 4
days (!)
before election when he said
he would take it to court when cases
are spiking with
270 people quarantining
on Long Island,
after the sixteen that Cuomo quipped,
“wasn’t that sweet.”

if you were really all so humble
and responding responsibly,
you would know that
this
is not the moment to be transcendental.
you would listen.
you would listen and not ask her,
who does the laundry?
who washes the dishes?
how do you manage home
school?
oh, you have seven kids, two
adopted.
wow!!

with so many personal questions in what is supposed to be
a service to the country,
i wonder if this hearing and all is really just
planning for the next backyard pool
party or country club
outing or
rose garden
gala.

i wonder if this is to push into our faces
that we never received an invitation,
apparently.
feeling a bit like way back in
2000, when
the popular kids
with lots of old money
interrupt you in the middle of a science
presentation.
the eclipse of a ringing cell phone,
the shrill titillation of a text.
and they blurt out laughing,
cupping a hand over a mouth just for show.
and when the teacher challenges, “what’s so funny?”
they just keep laughing.
“no, no, no. i can’t answer that.”

______________________________________________________________

Sarah is a New Yorker at soul, teaching English and studying film in Uruguay. Doing all the things to become a multimedia journalist. She published her first book, "core collection: poems about eating disorders" with Adelaide Books in 2019.

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/19663814.Sarah_E_Simon

Instagram, @ssimon8; Twitter, @smileformebabyg.

Saturday, January 16, 2021 - I have listened closely for the inner-rumblings of the city, which ring-out from even further below the surface of the city than the subway. by Jordan Myers

I have listened closely for the inner-rumblings of the city, which ring-out from even further below the surface of the city than the subway.
Only once did I hear something that felt like a voice. Everything else has been instrumental calculations and measurements of frequencies.
But the voice; the sound of the voice which I heard from beneath the city just once, has stayed with me. I have tried listening for it again.
At least twelve times I’ve gone back to the same subway station along the R train, just south of Central Park at 5th Avenue & 59th Street,
just to see if the voice would be there again. But nothing. For many years I convinced myself that I did not actually hear the voice at all.
I allowed myself to believe the voice that I knew that I had heard was only an illusion. Though I knew this to be a lie, I did try to believe it.

Friday, January 15, 2021 - The auditory signals of synchronicities, which take place all the time and always all at once –––– have arrived. by Jordan Myers

Their synthesis requires a heart and mind in tune with one another and also adept at noticing subtle shifts. Metrics like speed and velocity matter very little for those who wish to experience these shifts. They cannot be summoned through direct command nor called by force. Though once the mind is quiet and the heart is able to beat slowly, steadily, and with an unwavering calm, they appear. Reports that these shifts have always existed within the confines of these five boroughs (as well as beyond) –––though met with a heightened degree of doubt ––– based on all credible sources, are in fact, true. Their legacy and place of origination have been debated over centuries –––– to no avail. Questions with answers that extend beyond points of understanding parallel with constructions similar to the gridded streets that outline the Island of Manhattan are often scattered and dismantled by these rhythms and shifts. They do not equate. Nor do they translate with any semblance of familiarity or discernible accord. Yet even so, and regardless, the fact remains –––– whether they have always existed in this city, or whether they have just arrived, they’re here now; and those who wish to enjoy their presence may do so –––– to whatever extent, and to whatever degree, they so desire.

Thursday, January 14, 2021 - Before anything else / the voyage of sound . . . by Jordan Myers

Before anything else /

the voyage of sound . . .

the whispers ––––– the promise

of Grove Street & Seventh Avenue South

in April
at dawn.