April 2, 2021 - From Issue No. 8 - 2020 “The Morning Routine” - Jamie Soltis - (II of II).
March 31, 2021 - The Morning Routine - I of II.
These thoughts flash through my brain in an instant as I turn left onto Church Avenue in Kensington. And then . . . Nightmare Time. Traffic! Now I remembered why my bike had been collecting dust for so long. I don’t know if you know this, but drivers around here have the right of way every time, all the time. And the really magical part of this is that amongst each other, each individual driver also has the right of way every time, all the time. For example, you might think that, as a driver at a stoplight who will be going straight (or, gayly forward, as my friend Jeffy liked to say) has the right of way –––– and you’d be right! But do you also know that a driver coming from the opposite direction who will be turning left also has the right of way? I know! It’s a miracle! And did you know, drivers absolutely adore cyclists. They like to blast their horns in greeting and open their doors into bike lanes and give little love taps now and then. And don’t be dismayed by that spit and cigarette ash coming towards you ––– it’s just their way of saying hello!
The traffic forces you to heighten your senses. As Erica Ferencik says in Into the Jungle, “The ones who survive are the ones who pay attention.” And eventually you get used to it, and you learn to work with all elements of the city, and you remember that you are not the center of the uni- verse. And you ride through new neighborhoods and marvel at the huge houses you didn’t think Brooklyn had the room to build. And you find yourself thinking about the people who built such large houses. Did they need to go to Manhattan every day? Would they walk? Did they have bicycles? Was this house surrounded by farmland at one point? And before that, all forest?
What jobs do people have that they can afford these houses today? Would I like to live in one of these? Do people with big houses clean them themselves? The whole thing? Do they hire cleaners? Would I do that? Would I feel I was giving someone an employment opportunity or would I have issues with the class differences humans dreamt up? Would I pay them way above the average salary? Would I be reinforcing the idea that money is society’s greatest value?
One of my other voices chimed in: “Hey. Stop it. You’re biking. Don’t you ever get sick of your own thoughts?” “Uh, YES. Every second of every goddamned day. It is exhausting.” I realize this may be a reason people like to exercise. Have you ever pushed yourself so hard that you can’t think of anything except how much the exercising sucks? That’s a gift. It allows you to escape from your own narcissistic brain for a while.
Be in the moment, Jamie. Look at how maddeningly beautiful Brooklyn is. Argyle Road? Are you kidding me? Tree-lined, quiet, beautiful . . . old houses that people care about and little lawns that they maintain. Just being here is calming. Cortelyou Road: full of life, even in this pandemic, since restaurants have moved their tables to the sidewalk. People drinking coffee, possibly reading the Times on their phones or sharing a bagel with a friend –––– looks like the old normal again, but cuter, since outdoor dining rules. I bike on.
Clarendon Road offers a nice long bike lane, making the ride a little safer. East Flatbush turns into Canarsie; along this whole route, the style of neighborhoods change so quickly I want to ride even slower to take it all in. I get to Paerdegat Avenue and pass a canoe club. Kayaking! I make a mental note to come back here someday. Slowly the crack in my brain that lets in light opens a little wider; I’ve remembered another thing in this world that gives me pleasure. Suddenly, a park I had never seen before appears right in front of me, adorned with open fields and bike paths. This is incredible. I pass a playground and a skate park and frisbee-tossing people enjoying nature.
I ride until the path narrows and turns into a tunnel of trees. Where am I? More joy. After ten years in New York, I sometimes think I’ve seen all of it. But I’m always wrong. I ride up the hill through this tree-tunnel when suddenly ––––– water. The tunnel ends abruptly and there, without warning, the world gets bigger and shows me Jamaica Bay. It’s like running and running and running through a paper towel tube--a beautiful paper towel tube--forever, and then finally exiting to see the world’s horizons expand in an instant.
I gawk for a minute, wondering if I should walk down the beach to the water, but instead I continue on. The bike path merges into another bike path that parallels the Belt Parkway. I ride on, the bay to my right. I explore Canarsie Pier, which would later become the site of a birthday party on my way back.
Soon, the colorful signs advertising the new Shirley Chisholm Park come into view. I think about the importance of naming things. Take the Kosciuszko Bridge: after crossing it a billion times, I thought, “Hey. Who is this Kosciuszko (guy, probably) anyway?” And I looked it up! (A colonel in the American Revolutionary War, if you’re wondering.) And I imagine the naming of this park with inspire people to look up facts about Shirley Chisholm, too. (She was the first Black woman elected to the US Congress, if you’re wondering. And the first African-American candidate for a major party’s nomination for President. And an author and an educator. And a Brooklynite!)
I enter the park, just to get a peek. More bike path, more water, more calm, quiet natural beauty. I come out, roll through East New York, whose style differs greatly from its next door neighbor Lindenwood which frankly, kind of freaks me out with its matchy-matchy suburban vibe. I tuck the image away in case I ever become a location scout for horror movies.
My sixth sense tells me that Resorts World Casino was a skip and a hop away, but the smart part of my brain tells me that a casino might not be the place to go during a global pandemic. Howard Beach comes next with its pretty driveways and great garage sales, and before I know it, the Addabbo Bridge is gayly forward ahead. I allow myself a sip of water and pedal on, knowing full well that my legs will one hundred percent become useless slabs of meat after today.
But I know what’s coming ahead . . . the Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge. I had been there once before and was astounded by the size of it, not expecting the beach component that accompanied the forest. Did I see wildlife while I was there? Well, no, but I blame myself for setting expectations too high. Today, however, I do not stop there; I just enjoy the bike path that’s set between the road and the refuge, protected by a long white picket fence.
I make it to Broad Channel, a lovely fishing neighborhood, I’m guessing? whose houseboats I have seriously considered buying. A little loop to ac- cess the bike path on the Cross Bay Bridge, and up I go. Looking over the side of the bridge, I get a bird’s-eye view of this thing in the water that houses a water slide and two trampolines. I’ll have to find out how to get up on that. Down the bridge I come, standing on my pedals, until I am released into my favorite place in New York City, the Rockaways.
I love the ocean. It’s where life began. It doesn’t have feelings or motives. It’s the most spectacular part of our Earth. It can also be the most dangerous. I’m not sure what life lessons I’m supposed to take from this. No matter what’s happening in the world –––– wars, political tragedies, pandemics –––– the ocean will always be here. And as New Yorkers, we can always go to it.
I scoot over to the boardwalk to enjoy the ride there for a few blocks. Around Beach 73rd St, I finally release my bike from between my legs and lock her up. I give her a pat, take off my shoes, and walk down to the shore.
The Rockaways on a weekday in the autumn makes me believe in God again. I sit down on the sand, watching the few surfers who don’t let the seasons keep them from the waves. I start to cry. Maybe it’s the endorphins the long ride has released for me; maybe it’s gratitude for seeing some- thing beautiful that’s right in front of me, that’s always been available to me. Maybe it’s grief for all the time that depression has stolen from me, keeping me from this.
After spending some time on the sand, I ride back home and think about how lucky I am to have my legs, my lungs, my life. Then a car almost hits me, and this seems about right. God, you rascal, you. The master comedian. It’s crazy to witness how my sense of humor before-and-after cycling differs so vividly. Is it possible that there’s something to this “exercise is good for you” dirge that fitness-pushers are always yammering on about?
A couple of hours later, I am home, and it looks different now that I’ve been away from it all day. Less cave-like, I’m sure, but now all I see it for is a bed. I cannot wait to get my body all up in that bed! As I drift off to sleep, my mind is filled with thoughts of how I’ll wake up at five, ride to the beach again, and be home by nine. I can’t wait.
Well, Rome wasn’t built in a day (so they say). I of course wake at ten and, as I get out of bed, promptly fall to the floor. Jelly legs! Ah, to be old and out of shape! This felt more familiar. I cheer up at the fact that at least I’ll be able to sit around and whine all day. That’s part of my charm.
Before I could get too hard on myself, I heard my spouse’s voice in my head, reminding me that the way I went through life didn’t have to be all-or-nothing. Just because I rode my bike, say, every other day as opposed to every day, didn’t mean I was a failure, nor did it mean I should give up immediately. Maybe my morning “routine” could be divvyed up a little. If I couldn’t ride thirty miles, read a little, write a little, volunteer at the orphanage or whatever every day, well, maybe I could at least accomplish one of those things. A difficult concept for an ambitious-mind-trapped- in-a-lazy-body to behold, but I guessed it was worth a shot.
So! Here we are, in the present. Am I riding around every day? Absolutely not. But I do still have a morning routine; through which I’ve decided to set the tiniest goals possible. If I accomplish them, then I’ve won! What a great trick. It can be used for everything. Goal: shower every day. You did it! Goal: don’t be mean to your sister. Great job!! What a winner. My hope is that maybe the tiny goals will begin to bore me, and eventually, who knows? Riding around the city every day might just make its way back into the plan. And I hope it does.
Living through this pandemic makes me miss New York so much. But when I ride around and see New York, I always marvel at what we humans have built. And at what we’ve had to rebuild. And at what we are currently rebuilding. Nothing releases gratitude in me like New York—nothing elicits inspiration in me like New Yorkers! ––– but I’ve got to get out there to see it. So please, allow me to put an end to this writing and go out- side. It’s a habit.
____________________________
Jamie Soltis is an actor with a special affinity for comedy. She has ap- peared in shows like Difficult People and the Blacklist and currently works with the Episcopal Actors Guild, a 501(c)(3) non-profit that pro- vides charitable assistance and career support for performers of all faith, and none. Via Blog O’ Beer (Can Beer Make me Friends?), she writes about bars and restaurants in and around New York, NY.
March 31, 2021 - From Issue No. 8 - 2020 “The Morning Routine” - Jamie Soltis - (I of II).
The Morning Routine
Jamie Soltis
After the first couple of weeks of quarantine, I took it upon myself to improve my tolerance for alcohol. Although I practiced as much as I could over the years, I certainly wasn’t winning any “Most Dedicated” awards like I was in my twenties. But that’s human, isn’t it? Life just gets in the way sometimes. However, since I was now working from home, it was clear that I had gained a few extra hours in the day. My commute disappeared, and showers slash clothing were now optional. So what to do with all of this extra time?
I told my spouse that we should use this time to become skilled bartenders. Sure, we were basically experts in the field of beer, but that was child’s play. Shouldn’t every grown-up be able to concoct a decent Manhattan? After swindling a friend into giving a cocktail-making class via Zoom for one of my “work events,” I bought all the fixings. I made a great Manhattan and it was a great day. And now there are two full-minus-one-ounce bottles of vermouth squatting in my refrigerator.
“Let’s just stick to what we know,” I said. “We know beer, we know we like beer, and we should be looking for any scraps of happiness we can find right now.”
“Agreed,” said Spouse. “And we should not feel guilty for the drinking because we’re all going through some tough times right now. We need to cope.”
“Right!” said I. “And we’re supporting businesses!” “Right! We are good people.”
“Right.”
As nice as that period of time was, it turned out it did make me feel guilty. And tired. And funny! (But only to myself. One person’s funny is an- other person’s mean.) Then after a few weeks, it seemed that the quarantine orders weren’t going anywhere. And I thought that maybe, just maybe, excessive drinking wasn’t a great habit to start up again.
I changed my coping plan: I would now become the most ethical and productive person money could buy, via my Morning Routine: 1) Awake at six. 2) Meditate. 3) Write some morning pages and a gratitude list. 4) Switch from coffee to tea. 5) Exercise. 6) Go outside. 7) Water the fire-escape plants. 8) Drink a smoothie. 9) Practice Spanish. 10) Read for pleasure. 11) Read for education. 12) Read the news. 13) Scream into my pillow. 14) Go to work.
The day had a plan, too: 15) Eat a lunch of vegetables. 16) Back to work. 17) Stretch those limbs once an hour every hour. 18) Go for a run. 19) Socialize via Zoom and/or with Spouse. 20) Reverse morning routine. 21) In bed by 10. 22) Repeat.
What really happened: Nothing, besides the screaming. (I’m not alone in this, right? I’m pretty sure we’ve all been expelling our new apocalyptic neurotransmissions in this way for months now.) So I thought, hey, I’m no morning person. Not a night person either, but stay focused, Jamie! Okay. What if I start my workday at noon? Then I can get up at 8, do all the stuff that good people do, and still be able to squash the guilt that comes along with sloth. Yes! Aren’t your Facebook friends saying to look at this time of quarantine as a blessing? Think positive!
I’m sure you can guess what happened. And if you for some reason don’t think I slept until 11:59 each day, you are incorrect, my friend.
But guilt is a strong motivator. Once it got loud enough, I thought, “Okay, let’s see if my smartphone has some sort of alarm clock inside.” It does! And then I got real with myself: was there anything on my ambitious morning routine list that I actually enjoyed? Not really. Was there anything in life that I actually enjoyed that was missing from the list? This question was hard to answer through a cloud of depression, but after a while, I thought I heard a voice in my head whisper, “biking.”
Biking! How had I forgotten about biking? My bike elicits such fond emotions from me, I regard it as a pet. I’ve hugged the dang thing. I love my little bike. Somehow, it’s survived five years with me so far without getting stolen. This is the beauty of buying cheap or ugly products. Life hack.
I hadn’t meant to abandon it for so long, but sometimes the thought of getting up and doing anything is just overwhelming. However, on this day, when my hormones seemed almost stable, I told myself, “Don’t think about it. Just grab your helmet and go.” So I did.
The first couple of pedals lit something up inside me. “Oh yeah . . . I love this.” The beauty of Brooklyn is that it’s mostly flat, so for a non-exer- ciser such as myself, cycling is a dream. It’s maybe the only thing I do for pure pleasure. I love it. I don’t force myself to go fast –––– I believe a jogger once passed me –––– and for the few bridges or hills that I do encounter a little cardio activity sneaks in, thereby erasing the guilt of not being active enough. And on the other side of those hills, I stand up on my pedals as I whoosh down. I believe it’s the closest to flying I’ll ever get.
These thoughts flash through my brain in an instant as I turn left onto Church Avenue in Kensington. And then . . . Nightmare Time. Traffic! Now I remembered why my bike had been collecting dust for so long. I don’t know if you know this, but drivers around here have the right of way every time, all the time. And the really magical part of this is that amongst each other, each individual driver also has the right of way every time, all the time. For example, you might think that, as a driver at a stoplight who will be going straight (or, gayly forward, as my friend Jeffy liked to say) has the right of way –––– and you’d be right! But do you also know that a driver coming from the opposite direction who will be turning left also has the right of way? I know! It’s a miracle! And did you know, drivers absolutely adore cyclists. They like to blast their horns in greeting and open their doors into bike lanes and give little love taps now and then. And don’t be dismayed by that spit and cigarette ash coming towards you ––– it’s just their way of saying hello!
The traffic forces you to heighten your senses. As Erica Ferencik says in Into the Jungle, “The ones who survive are the ones who pay attention.” And eventually you get used to it, and you learn to work with all elements of the city, and you remember that you are not the center of the uni- verse. And you ride through new neighborhoods and marvel at the huge houses you didn’t think Brooklyn had the room to build. And you find yourself thinking about the people who built such large houses. Did they need to go to Manhattan every day? Would they walk? Did they have bicycles? Was this house surrounded by farmland at one point? And before that, all forest?
_____________________________________
Jamie Soltis is an actor with a special affinity for comedy. She has ap- peared in shows like Difficult People and the Blacklist and currently works with the Episcopal Actors Guild, a 501(c)(3) non-profit that pro- vides charitable assistance and career support for performers of all faith, and none. Via Blog O’ Beer (Can Beer Make me Friends?), she writes about bars and restaurants in and around New York, NY.
March 30, 2021 - From our archives - January 16, 2020 - “Charlton Street.” by Jordan Myers
January Sixteenth, 2020
Outside our window there is a woman in all black. She is smoking a cigarette and looking off into the distance. Her look is pensive and she is taking her time in between each puff of the cigarette. Outside it is grey and very wintry, very January. This morning the sun made an appearance outside our window. The woman in all black standing outside our window beside the building on Charlton Street near Hudson must have seen the sun this morning. She must have had thoughts about the sun this morning. It must have done something to her.
March 29, 2021 - The first time I took a breath of air on the island of Manhattan / by Jordan Myers
The first time I took a breath of air on the island of Manhattan as someone old enough to remember his experiences must have been before 2007, when I visited New York a month and a half after my twenty-first birthday ––– but I can’t remember when. I know I visited the city as a child, decamping from the middle of Ohio with my parents and siblings in a Chevy Suburban and heading east. We made these trips at least once or twice a year for a while, but those memories aren’t clear for me. I remember being outside of the giant apartment complex in the Bronx where my godmother lives and hearing and watching subway trains in the distance. The convergence of buildings and roads and sidewalks and above-ground subway trains felt other-worldly. Although I was only seven or eight years old; I must have known back then that the feeling of being driven around and guided through the great metropolis would be an emotional landscape that I’d want to revisit ––– again and again, as I grew older. Though back then, in the nineties, my earliest trips to New York were less about a blossoming love affair with the city, and more about noticing the world, as well as my ideas about it, expand whenever we’d arrive in Manhattan. We never stayed for very long, three or four days at the most.
March 28, 2021 - “Key” + an interview with Rahil Najafabadi.
Rahil Najafabadi is a multimedia artist and writer from Rocky Hill, Connecticut. Most of her work includes the elements of her hometown in setting, theme, and style. When we talked with Rahil two Fridays ago she told us a little about her plans to move to New York later this year, while also reflecting on one of her earliest trips to the city –––– visiting from Connecticut, taking a ferry through the rain, and glancing over at the Statue of Liberty.
As an illustrator, painter, and writer, she shared a few words about her creative process –––– the fears and blocks that she comes across from time to time –––– “With writing, it's holding back. I don't like to hold back when I'm writing, because that's mainly the reason why I write,” ––– along with a few of the practices that she relies on to transcend those fears: “For writing I try to revise as much as I can –––– especially with poetry. I've realized that whenever I'm revising I let go of that fear, and I stop holding back from saying what I want to say.” Her poem, “Key,” along with the interview, following.
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Key
The train stretches its edges as it arrives after its time.
Cabins open doors and come out keys that open doors.
I’ve been waiting for a key to my upstate house that will be
built in a cold crossroad. Two tattered hands sewing my pink quilt
in the Lower East Side, patching silk and cotton in squares side by side.
As I walk down 7th Avenue, small stains appear on my shoe.
I’m standing under a wet oak tree, waiting for my unmade key.
My poorly stitched quilt is prepared, but my spattered shoe isn’t repaired.
There are salty tears dripping from the sky, or maybe it was a dream last night.
But children cried for keys that weren’t ribbon-tied.
Teardrops frozen on every building, making them rectangular ice rinks.
Kids climbed the rooftops to the clouds, making fog castles and running about.
They condense the tears, a thunderstorm washes my shoe and clears
the colored silk to a pale pink. I forget the key, but I spread it and sleep
on three seats in the subway.
_____________________________________________
C.Q.: What can you tell us about the poem “Key”?
Rahil: The poem “Key” was supposed to be a poem for a workshop in university for one of my poetry classes, but I kind of changed it in the process of revising. It was supposed to be a poem of place, and it was first inspired by where I grew up, which is Connecticut, but it slowly changed. I kind of moved it into the direction of where I want to be, instead of where I was.
So it's all about New York, and all of those little moments of my own life. Some of the images are from when I visited New York, and a few of the small things that would happen. I kind of stitched them all together into a whole experience of waiting. So the poem is just about waiting and summing up what that experience is like, and how little those annoying things are and how they don't matter.
C.Q.: You mentioned that you changed it from being based on from where you were to more about where you want to be. Could you say more about that?
Rahil: Yes. Basically, when we were told that this poem was supposed to be inspired by where you grew up, everyone definitely started writing about that. And I had a lot to write about, because I grew up in Connecticut. But after that class was over, I didn't really like that it had to be about where I was from.
I felt like I could use the focus of a place, but instead, I could create another scenario. And even though it wasn't an exactly accurate experience –––– I kind of changed it because I thought that the experiences that I created for myself and in my head were a little bit more interesting ––– because obviously New York is more interesting than Connecticut.
C.Q.: Is that obvious?
Rahil: Yeah! I'm being honest. But I think that it felt really ordinary to write about where I grew up, so I just wanted to write something about New York before actually living there, and then see how it would compare. There could be a second part to the poem, once I actually move there.
C.Q.: Maybe it'll be like, “I wish I was in Connecticut.”
Rahil: Yes! It could be.
C.Q.: What's most important to you right now?
Rahil: Right now I'm mostly focused on working on my poetry and my art, and I've also been really into the process of getting things published ––– both art and poetry. And the thing that's the most important to me right now is a children's book that I've illustrated, and I'm really looking forward to getting it published because I've collaborated with a writer ––– I'm really excited about that.
C.Q.: What's the book about?
Rahil: It's a children's book that is basically teaching the alphabet but with musicians and singers of jazz. So it's about jazz, and all of the icons of jazz. And what I really like about it is how diverse it is and how different it is, in comparison to other children's books in the market right now, or ever.
Generally, I do really like children's books because of the illustrations. So this book is a fresh concept and take on children's books, which I think people will like.
C.Q.: And you're doing the illustrations for the book?
Rahil: Yes. It's basically finished, so now we're just looking for a way to get it published, or to self-publish it. It's in its final stages.
C.Q.: That's exciting. What do you think of when you think of New York?
Rahil: For me, it's like an endless hallway of paintings. But not just paintings, but so many frames that you can look at and learn from. But that hallway doesn't necessarily have to be a museum. It could be a street. It could be anywhere. But you could learn as much as you do walking down a street in New York as you would in a museum. That's what I think about when I think about New York.
C.Q.: An outdoor hallway filled with art that you can learn from. That's an image and idea ––– or actually –––– that's a lot of images and ideas, and lessons. Just to shift gears a bit, I'd like to ask you a little bit more about your creative process: to begin with, what scares you the most about writing and art?
Rahil: With writing, it's holding back. I don't like to hold back when I'm writing, because that's mainly the reason why I write. So that I can say the things that I wouldn't normally vocalize. But in art, it's similar, but it's more so the fear of not being able to create the image that I have in my head.
C.Q.: Why do you think holding back is a fear for you, with your writing?
Rahil: I think I've had difficulties with going deeper into experiences, and sometimes the emotional reactions that I've had to those experiences get in the way, and instead of focusing on what needs to be said, I'm focusing on the experience, and so I don't say what has to be said. But I'd like to get better at saying what people don't necessarily want to hear, but sometimes I hold back. And I don't like that.
C.Q.: I think we all struggle with that, at least to varying degrees. Thank you for sharing that. And with art, you said what scares you the most is that what you're picturing doesn't actually appear on the canvass, or on the page? Why do you think that is?
Rahil: Because when you create an image in your head, sometimes it's so clear . . . and you'd definitely like to show it to other people, but when it doesn't come out right, there's so much that people will catch that's not what you initially wanted to share. And as a result, people just don't get the point of the image.
And the whole point of painting is to show what's inside your head and show that scene or an image or something that people don't really see themselves. But sometimes it comes out wrong, and that's the worst feeling in art ––– when you can't deliver the whole scenario and scenery of your imagination onto the page.
C.Q.: Yes. That can definitely be frustrating. Then what do you to transcend those fears?
Rahil: For writing I try to revise as much as I can –––– especially with poetry. I've realized that whenever I'm revising I let go of that fear, and I stop holding back from saying what I want to say.
And with art, I think maybe laying out designs and sketching more, and preparing that image before showing it to people. So for example, if it's a painting and I'm going to be using oil paints or oil colors or soft pastels, then I would be sketching the image beforehand a lot more vividly ––– and with a lot more details; that way it'll be a lot easier to get closer to what's inside of my head. Because if the sketch isn't matching what's in my mind, then it's a lot easier to adjust the sketch then it would be to adjust the painting.
C.Q.: That's very wise ––– getting into it before getting into it, or preparing to be successful.
Rahil: Exactly.
C.Q.: What does home mean to you?
Rahil: I think home is feeling comfortable with myself. It's not a place. It's not even an emotion. I think its just feeling comfortable in my own skin and just being confident. That's when I feel the most at home.
C.Q.: That make sense. Some people can spend an entire lifetime seeking that feeling.
Rahil: I know.
C.Q.: Last question: any good New York stories, anecdotes, moments, or memories that you'd like to share; anything that comes to mind?
Rahil: I have a New York story that parallels –––– it happened twice. Basically, when I was a kid, and probably in first grade, I came to New York with my family to visit and we went to the Statue of Liberty, as anyone would. And we got on one of those ferries and it was raining, so it wasn't the perfect time to go. So my dad told me, You know, it's unfortunate that it's raining right now, maybe another time you could go and you could really see the color of the Statue of Liberty –––– when it's not raining.
I don't know why I remembered that for such a long time, because I was just a kid and I didn't really care about the color of the Statue of Liberty. It was this kind of turquoise color that I thought was beautiful.
But then two years ago, when I came back to New York to visit again, we got on one of those ferries again and it was raining again. And so I never got to see the color of the Statue of Liberty when it's not raining. It was still that darker greenish color, and not the blue color that you see in pictures.
So that's why I'm moving to New York! I really want to see the Statue of Liberty without the rain.
C.Q.: What do you think it is about that story that made you think of it just now?
Rahil: I think just how much it didn't matter to me what color it was. But since I'm so obsessed with colors now, it kind of makes sense, even though blue and green are my least favorite colors.
I think I also remember it because what my dad was saying was such a strange thing to say to a kid ––– that you should check out the color of the statue when it's not raining. That just stuck with me for the longest time.
Maybe I'll include it somewhere in a poem, but I really liked thinking about it –––– going back to when I was on that boat again. I was just thinking about it a little while ago. It made me laugh a little.
March 26, 2021 - In soho on the sidewalk along Grand Street on Monday I sat outside in the mid-morning sunlight drinking English Breakfast tea. by Jordan Myers
In Soho on the sidewalk along Grand Street on Monday I sat outside in the mid-morning sunlight, drinking English Breakfast tea, looking at a croissant, and reading. Everything was under construction, and in place of horns honking and the chatter of voices walking by in and endless procession, I heard the banging and knocking of wood and steel being lifted up, carried around, and set in place. The sunlight covered the sidewalk and there wasn’t any place nearby to stand in the shade, which was perfect. This felt great for March. The Spring Equinox had made its arrival a few days before; and I just wanted to sit there in the sunlight until summer would sweep into town. I thought that I might. I didn’t want anything else.
March 24, 2021 - Grey morning. Herald Square. Yunan Breakfast tea. by Jordan Myers
Grey morning. Herald Square. Yunan Breakfast tea. Glancing east. Walking down Sixth Avenue from west 48th: past Bryant Park and The Picnic Basket, at West 37th. No crowds, but each day more people are out ––– traversing the island on foot: the first few embers of a post-covid city, hovering and floating through the air. Four days after the Spring Equinox, mid-fifties, rain all afternoon.
March 22, 2021 - From Issue No. 8 - 2020 - Revisiting Mayor de Blasio’s infamous tweet. by Jordan Myers
March 2, 2020
In early March the idea that Covid-19 would simply blow into the city and then blow out of town just as quickly as it came was becoming less and less common. We knew we were in for something, though we didn’t know what. March 2nd, 2020 was the day of Mayor de Blasio’s infamous “New Yorkers should go on with your lives + get out on the town . . .” tweet. He must have meant well, with a bit of film criticism to boot. The tweet is reprinted in its entirety, below.
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Since I’m encouraging New Yorkers to go on with your lives + get out on the town despite Coronavirus, I thought I would offer some suggestions. Here’s the first: thru Thurs 3/5 go see “The Traitor” @FilmLinc. If “The Wire” was a true story + set in Italy, it would be this film.
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March 21, 2021 - I gave my twenties to this city, the J train from Halsey /. by Jordan Myers
I gave my twenties to this city, the J train from Halsey
across the Williamsburg Bridge to Delancey and back
only for a little while. Only the A at Utica to West 4th
and back for a little while. Only a little while the F train
rising up from Carroll Street & soaring above Gowanus
for a little while. Only the Q stretching all the way down
to Newkirk from Dekalb and back for a little while. Only
the 6 at 77th & Lex to Spring and back for a little while.
Only forever years. Only forever days. Only for a little while.
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.
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.”
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.