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March 19, 2021 - Intention. by Jordan Myers

Walking up the Lower East Side’s Orchard Street through the rain last night, I heard a man call out a refrain from across the street: This isn’t Instagram. This is Orchard Street. He kept saying it, over and over again. I couldn’t see him; he must have been standing behind one of the outdoor-dining cabins along the street –––– along Orchard Street. I wasn’t even sure who he was talking to, if anyone at all. He just kept saying it. This isn’t Instagram. This is Orchard Street. Which was true.

On Wednesday evening I had a call with Adrian and after a while our conversation drifted ––– as it often does ––– toward the purpose of art, as well as the criteria for strong art. Interesting, we agreed, should be replaced by evoking an emotional response. And convenience, without question we decided, can’t serve as the impulse that leads to quality artwork. With these ideas in mind, we asked each other: if the idea is to go beyond convenience, while also surpassing interesting, then what vehicle, if any, is best for navigating these differences and crossing over this bridge?

Intention, we decided, intention. First we thought we’d make it the word of the day; then we realized it should be the word of the year (and beyond). Intention. The word kept buzzing through my mind last night as I was walking up Orchard Street and listening to the voice of the man who I could not see repeat ––– again and again ––– his creed: This isn’t Instagram. This is Orchard Street.

Later that night, as I was home again, I kept reflecting on my walk up Orchard Street and considering the words of the man who I could not see. At first I thought something like this: being intentional with Curlew Quarterly means creating a journal that the gentleman on Orchard Street would want to read.

It took me another hour or so, along with the viewing of a film from 2002, Max, to see the whole picture. Evidence of the fact that Curlew Quarterly is made with intention would not mean that this man –––– who was, whether he knew it or not, adamantly speaking out against art that’s made for pure consumption –––– and without any intention ––– would like or enjoy C.Q. No. Intention means that with his blessing –––– our pages would carry his words, his wisdom, and his truth. If I could find him, I would thank him.

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March 17, 2021 - The Applejack Diner. by Jordan Myers

Evening at the Applejack Diner on Broadway; dining inside at a quarter till nine, shrimp parmigiana -–– first the house salad with blue cheese dressing and two rolls, one poppyseed the other plain. Deliliah’s radio show carries the tune of the night, interspersed with soundbites from WWE matches that play on a television that hangs from the ceiling near the kitchen. The breaded shrimp is covered completely by mozzarella cheese and served with tomato sauce over spaghetti noodles. Just water to drink. Almost anything goes at the Applejack. When I walk in the maitre d takes my temperature and asks me to write my name and address and phone number down on their contact-tracing list. I oblige. It’s only the second time in a long time that I’ve dined inside. Everything happens faster and there are far less scenes to observe as compared to outdoor dining. No cars driving by, no cyclists –––– no people watching. I can’t eat everything on my plate. The portions are huge and although I make a real effort at joining the clean plate club, still there’s three or four more bites that I can’t get through. Me: “May I please have a small to-go box?” Waiter: “Of course, how was everything; did you want anything else?” After a long pause. Me: “No, thank you. It was lovely. I’m full.”

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March 15, 2021 - At dusk in September / by Jordan Myers

At dusk in September, I tried drinking hot tea & weeping
with the autumn wind falling into our window. I wanted
to skip October, pass on the crimson leaves & cold drives
up the Taconic, with promises of progress & the two of us,
closer. On Sundays we’d drive south, back toward the city,
and in November we caught the skyline in the distance.
That night we looked for off-ramps from a highway, which
stretched along the horizon, & inched toward a void so wintry
that no April rain, or forlorn and floral spring could ever bloom.

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March 10, 2021 - A fortress ––– nearly underground ––– runs between Hudson Yards and West Forty-first Street. by Jordan Myers

A fortress –––– nearly underground ––– runs between Hudson Yards and West Forty-First Street; where multiple forms and aspects of the city exist on top of each other: The Javitz Center; hotels (economy and luxury); Michael J. Quill’s bus depot; condos; mechanics’ garages, tire repair spots, and body shops; as well as free-standing walk-up buildings, which hold steady and strong above the far west side.

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March 8, 2021 - Horizontal skylines of memories have everything to do with timeliness that have been called forth. by Jordan Myers

Horizontal skylines of memories have everything to do with timelines that have been called forth. Visions, which were once conflated with the sound of traffic moving south down Ninth Avenue, have resurfaced in the earliest morning hours, of late. Preparations for the returning emergence of the city’s rhythm and energy have recently descended upon Manhattan, in spurts. Only a well-trained heartbeat can detect these spurts, though if one stands still and remains quiet for long enough, these spurts will become obvious. Even video montages, which were once dismissed as camp, have gained notoriety and reverence for their mere existence, over these last few months. And by way of the arrival of these energetic portals, a gratitude is being expressed, merely for the distance that this city has travelled.

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March 7, 2021 by Jordan Myers

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Waiting beneath the signs / one Sunday evening

the whole summer collapsed into a dueling skyline:

an oasis of memories & light sounds
of July, forever

mornings awash with full breath moments of clarity

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March 5, 2021 - From Issue No. 8 - 2020 - “My nails are the same color as your sweater.” by Jordan Myers

March 13, 2020

The final days of pre-covid Manhattan-living had come and gone. The subways were empty and there was a noticeable amount of sadness and sorrow in the air. Coupled with the forlorn feeling of seeing street corners that were packed with life and activity just a week before, now wholly abandoned and silenced, the entire city was in a dark place.

Despite this, over lunch on March 13th, 2020, I sat on a park bench on Varick Street, and felt a small glimpse of one of those quiet and calming New York moments –––– when strangers speak to each other in passing, not saying very much, but making a real difference in each others’ lives all the same.

_________

I sit on a silver bench at the corner of Varick and Charlton. A woman delivering mail for the U.S. Postal Service walks by, pushing a dolly, north along Varick. She lifts the back of her right hand toward me. “My nails are the same color as your sweater,” she says and smiles, waves, then continues walking by.

_________

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March 1, 2021 - From our archives, from January 3, 2020. by Jordan Myers

This morning I walked from Fiftieth Street down to Sixth Avenue and Spring; the city was recovering from a New Year’s hangover. I needed to move; I needed to feel the air in my lungs. I walked by B&H at Thirty-fourth and Ninth, though just before crossing Thirty-fourth I looked west, where the landscape drops down toward the Hudson; and in the great distance and amongst the fog and clouds of the morning, the end of the street looked like the end of the world.

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