Friday, June 16, 2006
Paris: In Spite of Itself
The Paris that we see, that we walk around in, that charms us so, is the Paris of 1850-1910. The buildings predominantly come from those years, certainly the physical layout of the city itself does. Were Paris to be razed and rebuilt today, odds are a radical change would be made. For the worst, we might decidedly add.
Paris is unique in that it was rather all built, or rebuilt at once. Vestiges of the medieval town are printed on the ground yes, but the typical 6-8 story building comes late in the 19th century. Paris is conspicuous for what it is absent: high rises for a start. There is one, rather out on its own, meant to be a counterpoint for the Eiffel Tower. It is at best mediocre, a blank symbol rather awaiting the wrecking ball. Other clusters of high-rises live in there own districts (Defense) as if quarantined, the majority of the modern, taller buildings, typical 15-20 story mid-rises have been banished to the suburbs.
If this creates the physical Paris that we love, then why am I intoning Paris: In Spite of Itself? This is because the city lives, perhaps unlike Venice or Bruge. Paris is the national seat. All the large corporations retain presences -or so it seemed to me - in central Paris. These organizations now are fighting their physical plant. There is not a large building for them to occupy, or to build. They have to be spread out in multiple locations, crammed into whatever structures they had in the past or anted up to purchase recently. The government buildings are much more spread out that in Washington DC, where they predominate their districts to the exclusions of restaurants and bars. In Paris rather a ministry will have a compound here, the blocks adjacent are typical mixes of housing, services, etc. And that ministry will no doubt have buildings elsewhere, close by, but out the door.
Paris now fights the demands of modern society, of a scope and organizational scale not imagined when Paris was laid in stone. This battle will determine the make-up of the city. For now, the vote is to keep the city as it is. Clearly, were Paris in America it would have been razed by now, and rebuilt with higher density and lower taste. So modern Paris now exists, in spite of its physical plant, in eternal conflict.
Paris is unique in that it was rather all built, or rebuilt at once. Vestiges of the medieval town are printed on the ground yes, but the typical 6-8 story building comes late in the 19th century. Paris is conspicuous for what it is absent: high rises for a start. There is one, rather out on its own, meant to be a counterpoint for the Eiffel Tower. It is at best mediocre, a blank symbol rather awaiting the wrecking ball. Other clusters of high-rises live in there own districts (Defense) as if quarantined, the majority of the modern, taller buildings, typical 15-20 story mid-rises have been banished to the suburbs.
If this creates the physical Paris that we love, then why am I intoning Paris: In Spite of Itself? This is because the city lives, perhaps unlike Venice or Bruge. Paris is the national seat. All the large corporations retain presences -or so it seemed to me - in central Paris. These organizations now are fighting their physical plant. There is not a large building for them to occupy, or to build. They have to be spread out in multiple locations, crammed into whatever structures they had in the past or anted up to purchase recently. The government buildings are much more spread out that in Washington DC, where they predominate their districts to the exclusions of restaurants and bars. In Paris rather a ministry will have a compound here, the blocks adjacent are typical mixes of housing, services, etc. And that ministry will no doubt have buildings elsewhere, close by, but out the door.
Paris now fights the demands of modern society, of a scope and organizational scale not imagined when Paris was laid in stone. This battle will determine the make-up of the city. For now, the vote is to keep the city as it is. Clearly, were Paris in America it would have been razed by now, and rebuilt with higher density and lower taste. So modern Paris now exists, in spite of its physical plant, in eternal conflict.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Paris Is Closed
Do not try to eat, shop, buy a ticket, or go to a show in Paris. The shop/Opera/ticket window/store/restaurant is closed. Which is annoying. Myself, I so wanted to go the Opera, just to get inside, but there were no performances the week I was there. Not in the other, newer Opera house either. Maybe the Opera doesn’t have a lot of shows, I’m not a veteran, but the schedule seemed pretty sparse. The line to buy a train ticket from CDG to the city was reminiscent of the Post Office in New York on April 14th. Yes there were automated machines, but they only took French issued credit cards. Or coins. My oydessy, my introduction to France, was hiking the half a kilometer back to the terminal and, since the money changing place was closed, pleading with the Tabac shop for change, hiking half kilometer back, using the machine, and then hiking off again to get the train. The sentiment seemed to be Yes we have this beautiful train, in this skylit space, you just can’t get a ticket, and when you do, you can’t be under the light, you have to go into the cave to get a ticket. Now, in NYC, we have Penn Station, a basement of a depot, but we know we made a mistake.
I wanted to buy some nice leggings for my friend Natassa, but the store was closed that week. Stores might open say, 11 to 12:30 and then 2-5. Be ready. The big stores, the multinationals next to the heavily used train terminal, they are open till 7. On the flip side, Parisians know how to do Post Offices. They are everywhere, there are no lines, I was flabbergasted in the best way.
Of course, this is a two edged sword. To work in a shop would be so pleasant. You can go home for lunch. You could run errands after work, except every other place is closed. You can at least enjoy life. Why do French people live longer? Is it the red wine? No, it is the hours. The suspicion is nothing gets done in Paris. Some nice theories and writings, but philosophy is possible only with contemplative opportunities. So take your pick. Civilized work hours, or the commodity market we live in here in NYC. Make no mistake, part of that commodity is our flesh and blood. We are the nascent slaves of the republic, the republic of 7/11, of the disposable, of the big car, of the I gotta have it.
Why does that ticket machine only take French cards? Because they are more advanced than ours, they have a security chip in them.
I wanted to buy some nice leggings for my friend Natassa, but the store was closed that week. Stores might open say, 11 to 12:30 and then 2-5. Be ready. The big stores, the multinationals next to the heavily used train terminal, they are open till 7. On the flip side, Parisians know how to do Post Offices. They are everywhere, there are no lines, I was flabbergasted in the best way.
Of course, this is a two edged sword. To work in a shop would be so pleasant. You can go home for lunch. You could run errands after work, except every other place is closed. You can at least enjoy life. Why do French people live longer? Is it the red wine? No, it is the hours. The suspicion is nothing gets done in Paris. Some nice theories and writings, but philosophy is possible only with contemplative opportunities. So take your pick. Civilized work hours, or the commodity market we live in here in NYC. Make no mistake, part of that commodity is our flesh and blood. We are the nascent slaves of the republic, the republic of 7/11, of the disposable, of the big car, of the I gotta have it.
Why does that ticket machine only take French cards? Because they are more advanced than ours, they have a security chip in them.
Monday, June 05, 2006
Paris #3
Paris gardens are amazing. Lush and green, and open. Rarely does one see a fence. This openness, perhaps a virtue of the culture - the land of Foccault and Descartes and the magnet that drew Marx, Stein, and Hemingway, resonates throughout the city. Should you wish to touch the most venerable structures you can. Notre Dame, the Institut de France and many others. Only the Senat (the Palais du Luxembourg) was sealed off, and then, only in the back. Devoid of Jersey dividers on the sidewalks, and garbage trucks in the alleys. We have grow so accustomed to over-scaled cities here in the States, towering monsters, or else the single floor of the provincial village thrust into the metropolis that when we find ourselves in the midst of a properly scaled city, it seems like a toy, like a model, not a real city. Could a real city be this pleasant, this wonderful? Only Greenwich Village can match Paris in scale.
Yet the Jardins of Paris play an integral role in connecting the town. I have seen a 100 pictures of the Louver in architecture books. Stubbornly portrayed from the street side, the photos are tantamount to showing the loading dock of the UN headquarters. The Louvre plays out to the garden around it in its horseshoe enclosure. That Garden opens to the Tuilleries, a long park, .5 kilometers, that fronts the Seine. The Tuileries stretches to the Place de la Concorde which opens to yet another park the size of the Tuilleries which then leads to the axis of the Champs Elysees, ended by the Arc de Triomphe. These parks combine to overlay another scale upon the city. At once shrinking it and overlaying a grand scale, while opening up the city.
The parks, each of them, is magnificent in their own way. The worn wan grass of American parks is nowhere to be seen. The paths are the finest chalky white gravel, reflecting skylight, contrasting the green, and draining water faster than asphalt. The clutches of trees, formally planted in rows, cast a dark spell underneath them, affecting your perception of the rest, lightening the world.
There is more. The police huts in the Jardin du Luxembourg are perfect architectural structures, the best I of any building I saw in Paris.
Yet the Jardins of Paris play an integral role in connecting the town. I have seen a 100 pictures of the Louver in architecture books. Stubbornly portrayed from the street side, the photos are tantamount to showing the loading dock of the UN headquarters. The Louvre plays out to the garden around it in its horseshoe enclosure. That Garden opens to the Tuilleries, a long park, .5 kilometers, that fronts the Seine. The Tuileries stretches to the Place de la Concorde which opens to yet another park the size of the Tuilleries which then leads to the axis of the Champs Elysees, ended by the Arc de Triomphe. These parks combine to overlay another scale upon the city. At once shrinking it and overlaying a grand scale, while opening up the city.
The parks, each of them, is magnificent in their own way. The worn wan grass of American parks is nowhere to be seen. The paths are the finest chalky white gravel, reflecting skylight, contrasting the green, and draining water faster than asphalt. The clutches of trees, formally planted in rows, cast a dark spell underneath them, affecting your perception of the rest, lightening the world.
There is more. The police huts in the Jardin du Luxembourg are perfect architectural structures, the best I of any building I saw in Paris.
Sunday, June 04, 2006
Paris #2: Lot Line Construction
Paris presents itself as a solid sheen of wall. Stately, indomitable, and most importantly consistently, these walls define the spatial experience of the street. Each building abuts directly the sidewalk. There are no recesses, no left over 5 feet, no setbacks. Similarly lacking are empty lots. Paris is a city devoid of street level parking lots, weed infested junk piles, or undesired property. The ramifications are multiple.
Stepping from New York, the best city in the States – without question or compare – to Paris one instantly sees the faults of New York. The wonders of a dynamic, non-gridded convergent street design was the matter of our last entry. The variety and sense of destination provided by Parisian streets are supplemented by the simple choice of lot line construction. We are not concerned here with suburban, freestanding buildings. Parisian buildings touch their neighbors, presenting their best face only to the street. Buildings abut to present to the street a continuous wall. Far from being oppressive, this unbroken wall separates street from building, defining both. Even small breaks, such as service entries, driveways, or 10 foot separations between edifices are rare to the point of non-existence. Back in New York now, the blocks appear fragmented, a desultory mix of intentions.
Remarkably, Paris, for all its unbroken massing, provides more street level transparency than New York. Lacking a hard winter, Paris can utilize flow through spaces on ground level. Arched openings provide physical and visual access to generous courtyards, some inside the building envelope, some in U shaped configurations, with the U opening to the street. Thus shaped, these buildings consist of three narrow wings, each getting near obscene amounts of Parisian skylight, glorious in the summer, perhaps necessary in the winter. The open side is walled and gated. These spatial explosions just on the other side of the façade divide are powerful draws, and provide a greater amount of spatial relief than New York. Not to mention a much greater quality of space. No, Paris does not compare to Rio as an open air city, but for its latitude, it makes quite the attempt.
Paradoxically, Paris can take an enveloping factor that at its worst becomes oppressive, and makes it open, and a visual delight, all driven by easily understood design considerations.
next: gardens
Stepping from New York, the best city in the States – without question or compare – to Paris one instantly sees the faults of New York. The wonders of a dynamic, non-gridded convergent street design was the matter of our last entry. The variety and sense of destination provided by Parisian streets are supplemented by the simple choice of lot line construction. We are not concerned here with suburban, freestanding buildings. Parisian buildings touch their neighbors, presenting their best face only to the street. Buildings abut to present to the street a continuous wall. Far from being oppressive, this unbroken wall separates street from building, defining both. Even small breaks, such as service entries, driveways, or 10 foot separations between edifices are rare to the point of non-existence. Back in New York now, the blocks appear fragmented, a desultory mix of intentions.
Remarkably, Paris, for all its unbroken massing, provides more street level transparency than New York. Lacking a hard winter, Paris can utilize flow through spaces on ground level. Arched openings provide physical and visual access to generous courtyards, some inside the building envelope, some in U shaped configurations, with the U opening to the street. Thus shaped, these buildings consist of three narrow wings, each getting near obscene amounts of Parisian skylight, glorious in the summer, perhaps necessary in the winter. The open side is walled and gated. These spatial explosions just on the other side of the façade divide are powerful draws, and provide a greater amount of spatial relief than New York. Not to mention a much greater quality of space. No, Paris does not compare to Rio as an open air city, but for its latitude, it makes quite the attempt.
Paradoxically, Paris can take an enveloping factor that at its worst becomes oppressive, and makes it open, and a visual delight, all driven by easily understood design considerations.
next: gardens
Friday, June 02, 2006
Paris #1
The beauty of Paris lies in the physical make-up of the town. Doesn't this sensibly follow for all beauty? That for beauty there must be a mechanism, some distinguishing feature, some discernable tendency? At times subtle, at times hidden, at times unseen, but ultimately restrained only by our limits of understanding.
We love Paris because the streets do not conform to a grid. This was the first noticeable difference, arriving as it was from New York. The streets in Paris converge like spokes on a wheel, to a hub. Hiding nothing, that word, hub, is exactly as it is, a collector, a focus point, a point different that the spoke. These hubs in Paris, called Plac – obviously the derivation of our evocative word place – create the differentiated space that creates a feeling of being somewhere. Ah, you’ve arrived. A journey of a few blocks is all that is required to arrive at the next place!
http://www.google.com/maphp?hl=en&tab=wl&q=paris
The Arc d’triumph defines one of these places. A more pedestrian place, but no less successful, is the Plac de Clichy.
The unrelenting grid of New York makes all similar. Indeed, this was the stated goal of the now infamous 1810 Plan for the city, which overlaid the non-cardinal direction grid over all Manhattan north of Houston Street. We discovery daily the ineptitude and lower standard of living inflicted upon us in the city by this decision. Instead of places, we have intersections. Have you much enjoyed standing in the middle of 6th and 57th? How fun. The additional cooling load demanded by the non cardinal orientation of all buildings is calculable only to those inured to tears. (this is because the vast majority of solar load is via afternoon exposure, exactly where Manhattan’s grid was aligned for traffic convenience. Note to dead planners: Paris has less traffic than New York. Vastly so.)
Ask 10 people to name their favorite neighborhood of New York, and the winner is Greenwich Village. The rotated sets of grids here collide to create hubs, end vistas down the streets with buildings, and make you feel pleasantly enveloped by their starts and stops, their short but meaningful durations, their sense of distinction (in both senses).
Paris charms without it’s grid. You live in a city, not a set of lines. Café life springs up at every hub. Distances shrink in the beauty and variety of the city. The Arc d’triumph astonishes because a city district revolves around it.
I should not have waited this long to mention that these wonderful radial streets of Paris, as they converge, are necessarily not parallel. Hence the blocks are gentle triangles. And so are the buildings. Each building can now be imbued with a subtlety varied floorplan. The triangular shape allows for a light well, a hollow space, at the center of the building. A hub so to speak. Just like the plan of the city. Synchronicity. God at work.
Next: Lot line construction and the spatial envelope of the city.
We love Paris because the streets do not conform to a grid. This was the first noticeable difference, arriving as it was from New York. The streets in Paris converge like spokes on a wheel, to a hub. Hiding nothing, that word, hub, is exactly as it is, a collector, a focus point, a point different that the spoke. These hubs in Paris, called Plac – obviously the derivation of our evocative word place – create the differentiated space that creates a feeling of being somewhere. Ah, you’ve arrived. A journey of a few blocks is all that is required to arrive at the next place!
http://www.google.com/maphp?hl=en&tab=wl&q=paris
The Arc d’triumph defines one of these places. A more pedestrian place, but no less successful, is the Plac de Clichy.
The unrelenting grid of New York makes all similar. Indeed, this was the stated goal of the now infamous 1810 Plan for the city, which overlaid the non-cardinal direction grid over all Manhattan north of Houston Street. We discovery daily the ineptitude and lower standard of living inflicted upon us in the city by this decision. Instead of places, we have intersections. Have you much enjoyed standing in the middle of 6th and 57th? How fun. The additional cooling load demanded by the non cardinal orientation of all buildings is calculable only to those inured to tears. (this is because the vast majority of solar load is via afternoon exposure, exactly where Manhattan’s grid was aligned for traffic convenience. Note to dead planners: Paris has less traffic than New York. Vastly so.)
Ask 10 people to name their favorite neighborhood of New York, and the winner is Greenwich Village. The rotated sets of grids here collide to create hubs, end vistas down the streets with buildings, and make you feel pleasantly enveloped by their starts and stops, their short but meaningful durations, their sense of distinction (in both senses).
Paris charms without it’s grid. You live in a city, not a set of lines. Café life springs up at every hub. Distances shrink in the beauty and variety of the city. The Arc d’triumph astonishes because a city district revolves around it.
I should not have waited this long to mention that these wonderful radial streets of Paris, as they converge, are necessarily not parallel. Hence the blocks are gentle triangles. And so are the buildings. Each building can now be imbued with a subtlety varied floorplan. The triangular shape allows for a light well, a hollow space, at the center of the building. A hub so to speak. Just like the plan of the city. Synchronicity. God at work.
Next: Lot line construction and the spatial envelope of the city.
Saturday, May 27, 2006
There Are Two Kinds of Long Distance Affairs
At the internet cafe here on the Rue Clichy, I am the only single person. Every other person, all 24 of them, have long distance partners. I say this because they are all in front of webcams. For hours. Each day. Staring at their love typing. These people perhaps should not be apart. Their lives revolve around each other. They do nothing except want to be together. How else could you explain staring at a screen of a person staring down, at a keyboard, you don't see their face! Then, when their time is up, making that quick day ending phone call (expensive!)
Such is the second less enjoyable type of long distance affair. Come to think of it,the brazilian girl I knew, her sister in New York, that's all she did too, webcam to brasil. With her clothes on! Can you believe it?
Such is the second less enjoyable type of long distance affair. Come to think of it,the brazilian girl I knew, her sister in New York, that's all she did too, webcam to brasil. With her clothes on! Can you believe it?
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
How do you say too much?
Looking over Frank Duca's shoulder I spotted the book Blink. I wouldn't have thought twice about it, but it was at the Access Hollywood crew office. We were having a discussion about work conditions, about compressed time, about doing more. It was apt.
I was pinning a mic on Danny Meyer (Gramercy Tavern) while he was talking on the cell phone. He is one of the most gracious men I've ever met. He commented on the circumstances with a sad smile "we all have to be more productive, don't we?"
Today I made a potentially fatal error at work. A fundamental setting on my camera was switched. I didn't notice it, because I would never switch it to that setting. (for all you worry warts, it really wasn't fatal, a little gamma correction etc, should save crucial footage.) Why did I make such a mistake? Because I allowed myself to be influenced by the conditions of the job. Instead of taking my time, at my pace, I was working at an accelerated pace. Mistakes happen at high speed.
This is the direction of the world. How we carve ourselves into it or out of it will define our lives and our work.
Speed kills, remember?
I was pinning a mic on Danny Meyer (Gramercy Tavern) while he was talking on the cell phone. He is one of the most gracious men I've ever met. He commented on the circumstances with a sad smile "we all have to be more productive, don't we?"
Today I made a potentially fatal error at work. A fundamental setting on my camera was switched. I didn't notice it, because I would never switch it to that setting. (for all you worry warts, it really wasn't fatal, a little gamma correction etc, should save crucial footage.) Why did I make such a mistake? Because I allowed myself to be influenced by the conditions of the job. Instead of taking my time, at my pace, I was working at an accelerated pace. Mistakes happen at high speed.
This is the direction of the world. How we carve ourselves into it or out of it will define our lives and our work.
Speed kills, remember?
Monday, May 22, 2006
I am Jealous of ....
Had dinner with Sarah on Thursday. Discovered a few days later that I am very jealous. Not of her boyfriend, Rooster, well, okay, a bit, but rather of her situation. Like all ungracious people, I chided her for having a long distance relationship but then I realized that what she has is perfect, and I want it. No fuss. No coming over when you are really tired. No hot and heavy detail oriented I am in every facet of your life relationship. Just some good old fashioned sex - and a vacation! every other week! Because someone is always traveling so you do those things you would never do if you both lived in the same city.
Not to mention you can easily ignore their faults, which you never see, you can dream about seeing them, which you rarely do, you have someone to talk to every couple of days, and can, as Sarah said, genuinely look forward to seeing them. Plus who wants sex every day with someone you barely know? Every other week keeps the fling aspect going, the sex vacation aspect of it going. You can mythify and deify. You will be oh so much more tolerant.
So yes, I am jealous. I want my out of town relationship! Sarah!
Not to mention you can easily ignore their faults, which you never see, you can dream about seeing them, which you rarely do, you have someone to talk to every couple of days, and can, as Sarah said, genuinely look forward to seeing them. Plus who wants sex every day with someone you barely know? Every other week keeps the fling aspect going, the sex vacation aspect of it going. You can mythify and deify. You will be oh so much more tolerant.
So yes, I am jealous. I want my out of town relationship! Sarah!
Thursday, May 18, 2006
PhD Thesis Waiting To Happen
Next to my building on Avenue B is the Tompkins Square Gospel Fellowship. This is a church organization hailing from North Carolina. They have transformed the townhouse at 149 Avenue B into their church / meetinghouse / living quarters / visitors quarters. They have owned the building since 1985.
These kind people have a style befitting their roots and values, a style that points to them as "greenhorns" in the city. They did not move here to be changed, but rather to impart their values to the city.
Now, here is the thesis. Which is stronger, the City, or the people of the Gospel Fellowship? Are they more likely to be changed by the city or have an impact on the neighborhood? Of course this is an infinitely sliding scale. This is a classic situation, and those specialized in this type of research may be well advised to explore this opportunity.
These kind people have a style befitting their roots and values, a style that points to them as "greenhorns" in the city. They did not move here to be changed, but rather to impart their values to the city.
Now, here is the thesis. Which is stronger, the City, or the people of the Gospel Fellowship? Are they more likely to be changed by the city or have an impact on the neighborhood? Of course this is an infinitely sliding scale. This is a classic situation, and those specialized in this type of research may be well advised to explore this opportunity.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Avenue B Bar Survey
This is a rough draft ONLY.
Avenue B Bar Survey Part One
By Fred Soffa
For anyone who lives in the East Village the proliferation of bars and restaurants in the last few years is striking. Over the past 15 years, it is nothing short of remarkable. Avenue B at night was described this way in 1992 by a very observant resident of 13th St.: “Mona’s, Vazac’s, and every place else was shuttered.” Although, as Manny, a patron I met at Maia Meyhane who grew up in the neighborhood added, there were delis where Ding Dongs meant you wanted to buy heroin. Remarkable might be an understatement.
Yet with any change comes discontent, removal and loss. With additional uses come the attendant discomforts specific to that use. The proliferation of bars on Avenue B has added cars, honking taxis, and late night revelers. To any reader of this newspaper, these new establishments are contentious. To some, they have lowered the living standard of the neighborhood. The State Liquor Authority is being challenged for granting exemptions to the Alcoholic Beverage Control law, regulations that if enforced could radically curtail new bars in many East Village locations.
To add to a sophisticated discussion of this many faceted problem, I decided to conduct a survey of the bars on Avenue B, specifically between Houston and 7th St. Just who is out at these establishments? I conducted this survey in 7 bars (skipping one - sorry I was running out of gas.) I spoke to a total of 101 patrons. Roughly between 5 and 10% of the total patrons at all these establishments, depending on how busy the night. While I do not conduct surveys for a living, I have an extensive background in surveys: collecting, organizing, and analyzing data.
My primary purpose was to determine where the patrons lived. Patrons were asked which neighborhood they lived in. Those two people who declined were excluded. People were happy to talk. I do not think I was lied to, it is rather a simple and even expected question in New York. I also asked what percent of their going out happened in the East Village, but this question was not as perfectly answered. For my own edification I asked what brought them to the East Village to go out, instead of say, their home neighborhood.
Here’s what I found, bar by bar.
Out of Town
East Village 5 Borough incl Foreign Total Surv
Vazacs 5 6 5 16
Maia Meyhane 3 4 3 10
Mama's 3 10 0 13
Croxley Ale 1 9 4 14
Midway 0 6 6 12
Le Souk 0 13 9 22
Manitoba's 5 8 1 14
17 56 28 101
To a large extent, this data set is clear. Roughly 17 percent of the bar patrons on Avenue B below 7th Street on a typical Saturday night reside in the East Village. Not one responder listed the Lower East Side as their residence, so there is no effect here on a wider or narrower definition of the East Village geographically. The bars that were the most heavily populated by East Village residents tended to include in their patron base the friends whom the East Villagers brought with them. The newer bars tended to have fewer local residents. The bars that style themselves as clubs, destinations, or hot spots had fewer local residents, as might be expected: these types of establishments cast a wider net looking for those patrons who desire a very specific experience.
Friends of East Villagers listed being out with their friends as the number one reason they were in the East Village. With respondents not from the neighborhood the number one reason for coming to the East Village was the “vibe”, a combination of “edginess” and an absence of “frat boy types”. The younger the respondent, the stronger the lure of the “vibe” of the neighborhood. Long time residents and older patrons actually described the existing scene as “lame” and “gone”.
The number of out of town and overseas visitors, (incl the handful of Jerseyites and Long Islanders, sorry) was surprising, but in retrospect, should not have been. After all the tour buses lumber up Avenue A, Ginsberg, Spaulding Gray, and a whole host of artists have popularized the neighborhood through their works, the labor union history should not be overlooked, and while a bit off the path, the East Village has a significant place in the history of New York City. That coupled with the high number of distant visitors in this city, very few of them getting up to work early on Sunday morning, many of them here to have fun, would yield a high number of distant visitors going out.
Another group that was a surprise was the number of people who said they worked in the East Village. Lacking virtually any office space or major retail presence, we now see that perhaps the mass of bars and restaurants has become the primary employer of the neighborhood. As an ex-waiter, it is well known that workers in bars and restaurants constitute an inordinate percentage of the patrons of those establishments. The East Village will hew to this rule, just like any other locale.
Yet a quick mental survey of a midtown bar: happy hour workers, tourists, and on a rare occasion, a denizen -- is what we would expect. An Upper East Side establishment also draws a significant percent of it’s patrons from beyond it’s borders: clearly Queens and Brooklyn are alcoholically underserved. Perhaps the uptown avenues have been so loud for so long that the issue is not as flammable. Or, more familiar with these types of establishments we simply consider them the norm for their neighborhoods.
A quick note on age: Virtually all respondents were under 45. Primarily 25-35. Literate. I didn’t ask, but would surmise 80% had seen some college or graduated. Only significant gay presence was at Manitoba’s. There were a lot of hookas, but I am a hooka virgin, so I cannot surmise or infer from this. The one bar I skipped was a large hooka bar, perhaps most similar in type to Maia Meyhene.
A quick and partial tour of the terrain, bar by bar:
((the following needs to be made more regular from bar to bar, and will consist of the following information: Name, address, year license granted, capacity. Room description (patrons and space))
Vazac’s:
Old established bar. Rock and roll crowd. Drinking hole. It was telling that the first person I queried was from England. He’d read of the East Village in his guidebooks. Times change from over the counter drug sales at Vazac’s in the 70’s. The majority of out of towners were friends of the locals. Capacity 125
Maia Meyhane.
Recently converted from a failed “French New Wave Cinema Bar” to a hookah bar. Dark, not too loud. Primarily weekend traffic. Larger parties, including ex East Villagers and their friends, East Villagers and their friends. DJ stand. Capacity 100
Mama’s
A new bar, but an extension of an old institution (an established restaurant). Younger crowd. DJ stand. Significant “L” crowd, Williamsburg, Greenpoint. Perhaps got priced out of the East Village. Crowd goes out more, perhaps, that other patron groups. Capacity 75
Croxley’s
New bar. Sports bar in a neighborhood that could care less about sports. High percentage of first time to East Village patrons. Finance types. The gateway bar to the neighborhood? Capacity 150 w/o garden.
Midway
Did this used to be Scenic, just weeks ago? Live band just finished. More club type, young get dressed up (in clothes to panic your mother). Ruder. More of a destination place, much larger outside smoking presence. Capacity 250
Le Souk
A very large, recent establishment that includes a multi-level restaurant, two floor incl the basement. More of a draw, not let’s go to the East Village, but let’s go to Le Souk, although not exclusively. Hookas. Velvet rope and line of patrons outside waiting to go in. Table service. Clearly a “special” place, not a neighborhood hangout. Capacity 500?
Manitoba’s
Older bar. History in neighborhood. Older crowd, significant gay patronage. Smaller crowd. Seems to be quite the drinking place. Capacity 75
That concludes the snapshot. My intention is to get those mental gears turning. What is a typical bar and who goes there? Is that a real entity? A myth? A composite? Is there any neighborhood in Manhattan that would draw a majority of its patrons from its neighborhood? On a weekend? What sensibility is there in creating a mass of drinking establishments in close proximity?
What sort of perfect storm has created bars on Avenue B? An availability of cheap rent, empty space, and a lack of competition for the real estate leases from retail stores who wouldn’t have enough foot traffic to survive on Avenue B? Zoning laws? A reputation as the “partying” neighborhood? A younger demographic on the census tracts, eager to go out? Are there more bars on 2nd Avenue but we just don’t notice it as much because they have a lesser impact?
This is a complex issue, more complex at a city wide scope than the limits of Avenue B. The second part of this story will examine the questions raised by Jane Jacobs and Saul Bellow, perhaps not with an end in sight, but with the hope to both expand the problem and define it, handle it, in a broad, philosophical sense.
Avenue B Bar Survey Part One
By Fred Soffa
For anyone who lives in the East Village the proliferation of bars and restaurants in the last few years is striking. Over the past 15 years, it is nothing short of remarkable. Avenue B at night was described this way in 1992 by a very observant resident of 13th St.: “Mona’s, Vazac’s, and every place else was shuttered.” Although, as Manny, a patron I met at Maia Meyhane who grew up in the neighborhood added, there were delis where Ding Dongs meant you wanted to buy heroin. Remarkable might be an understatement.
Yet with any change comes discontent, removal and loss. With additional uses come the attendant discomforts specific to that use. The proliferation of bars on Avenue B has added cars, honking taxis, and late night revelers. To any reader of this newspaper, these new establishments are contentious. To some, they have lowered the living standard of the neighborhood. The State Liquor Authority is being challenged for granting exemptions to the Alcoholic Beverage Control law, regulations that if enforced could radically curtail new bars in many East Village locations.
To add to a sophisticated discussion of this many faceted problem, I decided to conduct a survey of the bars on Avenue B, specifically between Houston and 7th St. Just who is out at these establishments? I conducted this survey in 7 bars (skipping one - sorry I was running out of gas.) I spoke to a total of 101 patrons. Roughly between 5 and 10% of the total patrons at all these establishments, depending on how busy the night. While I do not conduct surveys for a living, I have an extensive background in surveys: collecting, organizing, and analyzing data.
My primary purpose was to determine where the patrons lived. Patrons were asked which neighborhood they lived in. Those two people who declined were excluded. People were happy to talk. I do not think I was lied to, it is rather a simple and even expected question in New York. I also asked what percent of their going out happened in the East Village, but this question was not as perfectly answered. For my own edification I asked what brought them to the East Village to go out, instead of say, their home neighborhood.
Here’s what I found, bar by bar.
Out of Town
East Village 5 Borough incl Foreign Total Surv
Vazacs 5 6 5 16
Maia Meyhane 3 4 3 10
Mama's 3 10 0 13
Croxley Ale 1 9 4 14
Midway 0 6 6 12
Le Souk 0 13 9 22
Manitoba's 5 8 1 14
17 56 28 101
To a large extent, this data set is clear. Roughly 17 percent of the bar patrons on Avenue B below 7th Street on a typical Saturday night reside in the East Village. Not one responder listed the Lower East Side as their residence, so there is no effect here on a wider or narrower definition of the East Village geographically. The bars that were the most heavily populated by East Village residents tended to include in their patron base the friends whom the East Villagers brought with them. The newer bars tended to have fewer local residents. The bars that style themselves as clubs, destinations, or hot spots had fewer local residents, as might be expected: these types of establishments cast a wider net looking for those patrons who desire a very specific experience.
Friends of East Villagers listed being out with their friends as the number one reason they were in the East Village. With respondents not from the neighborhood the number one reason for coming to the East Village was the “vibe”, a combination of “edginess” and an absence of “frat boy types”. The younger the respondent, the stronger the lure of the “vibe” of the neighborhood. Long time residents and older patrons actually described the existing scene as “lame” and “gone”.
The number of out of town and overseas visitors, (incl the handful of Jerseyites and Long Islanders, sorry) was surprising, but in retrospect, should not have been. After all the tour buses lumber up Avenue A, Ginsberg, Spaulding Gray, and a whole host of artists have popularized the neighborhood through their works, the labor union history should not be overlooked, and while a bit off the path, the East Village has a significant place in the history of New York City. That coupled with the high number of distant visitors in this city, very few of them getting up to work early on Sunday morning, many of them here to have fun, would yield a high number of distant visitors going out.
Another group that was a surprise was the number of people who said they worked in the East Village. Lacking virtually any office space or major retail presence, we now see that perhaps the mass of bars and restaurants has become the primary employer of the neighborhood. As an ex-waiter, it is well known that workers in bars and restaurants constitute an inordinate percentage of the patrons of those establishments. The East Village will hew to this rule, just like any other locale.
Yet a quick mental survey of a midtown bar: happy hour workers, tourists, and on a rare occasion, a denizen -- is what we would expect. An Upper East Side establishment also draws a significant percent of it’s patrons from beyond it’s borders: clearly Queens and Brooklyn are alcoholically underserved. Perhaps the uptown avenues have been so loud for so long that the issue is not as flammable. Or, more familiar with these types of establishments we simply consider them the norm for their neighborhoods.
A quick note on age: Virtually all respondents were under 45. Primarily 25-35. Literate. I didn’t ask, but would surmise 80% had seen some college or graduated. Only significant gay presence was at Manitoba’s. There were a lot of hookas, but I am a hooka virgin, so I cannot surmise or infer from this. The one bar I skipped was a large hooka bar, perhaps most similar in type to Maia Meyhene.
A quick and partial tour of the terrain, bar by bar:
((the following needs to be made more regular from bar to bar, and will consist of the following information: Name, address, year license granted, capacity. Room description (patrons and space))
Vazac’s:
Old established bar. Rock and roll crowd. Drinking hole. It was telling that the first person I queried was from England. He’d read of the East Village in his guidebooks. Times change from over the counter drug sales at Vazac’s in the 70’s. The majority of out of towners were friends of the locals. Capacity 125
Maia Meyhane.
Recently converted from a failed “French New Wave Cinema Bar” to a hookah bar. Dark, not too loud. Primarily weekend traffic. Larger parties, including ex East Villagers and their friends, East Villagers and their friends. DJ stand. Capacity 100
Mama’s
A new bar, but an extension of an old institution (an established restaurant). Younger crowd. DJ stand. Significant “L” crowd, Williamsburg, Greenpoint. Perhaps got priced out of the East Village. Crowd goes out more, perhaps, that other patron groups. Capacity 75
Croxley’s
New bar. Sports bar in a neighborhood that could care less about sports. High percentage of first time to East Village patrons. Finance types. The gateway bar to the neighborhood? Capacity 150 w/o garden.
Midway
Did this used to be Scenic, just weeks ago? Live band just finished. More club type, young get dressed up (in clothes to panic your mother). Ruder. More of a destination place, much larger outside smoking presence. Capacity 250
Le Souk
A very large, recent establishment that includes a multi-level restaurant, two floor incl the basement. More of a draw, not let’s go to the East Village, but let’s go to Le Souk, although not exclusively. Hookas. Velvet rope and line of patrons outside waiting to go in. Table service. Clearly a “special” place, not a neighborhood hangout. Capacity 500?
Manitoba’s
Older bar. History in neighborhood. Older crowd, significant gay patronage. Smaller crowd. Seems to be quite the drinking place. Capacity 75
That concludes the snapshot. My intention is to get those mental gears turning. What is a typical bar and who goes there? Is that a real entity? A myth? A composite? Is there any neighborhood in Manhattan that would draw a majority of its patrons from its neighborhood? On a weekend? What sensibility is there in creating a mass of drinking establishments in close proximity?
What sort of perfect storm has created bars on Avenue B? An availability of cheap rent, empty space, and a lack of competition for the real estate leases from retail stores who wouldn’t have enough foot traffic to survive on Avenue B? Zoning laws? A reputation as the “partying” neighborhood? A younger demographic on the census tracts, eager to go out? Are there more bars on 2nd Avenue but we just don’t notice it as much because they have a lesser impact?
This is a complex issue, more complex at a city wide scope than the limits of Avenue B. The second part of this story will examine the questions raised by Jane Jacobs and Saul Bellow, perhaps not with an end in sight, but with the hope to both expand the problem and define it, handle it, in a broad, philosophical sense.
Sunday, May 14, 2006
Saturday, May 13, 2006
Soccer, New York Style
Check out this article I wrote, now published in the Villager. Soccer at the East River Park.
http://www.thevillager.com/villager_158/eastriverparrk.html
not bad, the writing is awful, although so it the writing on this blog.
http://www.thevillager.com/villager_158/eastriverparrk.html
not bad, the writing is awful, although so it the writing on this blog.
Friday, May 12, 2006
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Teenage Prayers Video Link
Yesterday I was hanging out with Tim Adams and Remy Weber of the Teenage Prayers. Watching a performance video from a recent show right here in New York at the famous Lakeside Lounge. We decided to share it with the world. I say we because while yours truly is not a musician, I did participate in the project by shooting and recording the video.
So here it is, fully compressed down to the lowest possible quality for the web. It still sounds good, and the shooting isn't bad for one camera. But now is not the time for me to be shy.
So enjoy the sights and sounds, and let the band know what you think.
fred
And for those you know who know Tim and Remy, okay, myself, you can imagine that the conversation was multi-faceted, complex, and too long to be summarized here. Yes we touched on the media, being an artist, carving out a livable situation in this town, and the hazards of modern living, not to mention landlord degradation, and 10 schemes how to make money doing what we know how to do.
So here it is, fully compressed down to the lowest possible quality for the web. It still sounds good, and the shooting isn't bad for one camera. But now is not the time for me to be shy.
So enjoy the sights and sounds, and let the band know what you think.
fred
And for those you know who know Tim and Remy, okay, myself, you can imagine that the conversation was multi-faceted, complex, and too long to be summarized here. Yes we touched on the media, being an artist, carving out a livable situation in this town, and the hazards of modern living, not to mention landlord degradation, and 10 schemes how to make money doing what we know how to do.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Today's post -- click here for link
today's post is on my other blog, covering both.
header should have the link, or else click
http://betweenhereandtheunknown.blogspot.com/2006/05/death-of-friend.html
header should have the link, or else click
http://betweenhereandtheunknown.blogspot.com/2006/05/death-of-friend.html
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Lucky's Juice Joint is not Lucky or Civilized
Okay, so I'm trying to buy a juice at the place on 11th St and 2nd Av. I've been there before, and they are very aggressive, coming at you and saying, can I help You, can I help You. Now, a juice joint isn't like MickyD's where there are three things on the menu, and they are all the same. There are a slew of options, the menu is long, and you can mix and match.
Aware of all this, I walk in and slink way over to one side. The counter is on both the long and short side of the 25x50 foot space, but I am as far away from either side as I can be, to buy myself time to read the menu. It's Sunday afternoon. I have my sunglasses on. But alas, from 90 degrees on my right comes a voice SIR, CAN I HELP YOU? I stay silent and don't turn. The voice is coming from somewhere out of my life of sight. The voice leans in (how do I know? it's getting louder) SIR SIR - like I've committed some kind of crime and need to be apprehended -- Until finally I say, Do you mind if I read the menu first?
So now here comes the manager running right at me, some 40 year old white guy like myself. GET OUT OF MY STORE- shouting this as he flails his arms - HOW DARE YOU DISRESPECT MY STAFF LIKE THAT!! Have no illusions, this is the man who concocted the "we will confront all our customers in the name of courtesy" strategy. Now, I stay nice and relaxed and go - Babes, I just want a juice you know, do I have to engage in a conversation with someone SHOUTING at me that I can't even see -- but he didn't get the point. He just kept screaming GET OUT OF MY STORE. YOU CAN'T BUY ANYTHING until we were on the sidewalk.
Of course I felt pissy. I just wanted a juice. I tried my best, but I failed. Now I did mention to Mr Manager that I have spent, oh, 5 years in retail sales and 5 years in restaurants and so I understand customer service which clearly he does not. But since he doesn't understand, he didn't understand.
Fast forward to Monday. I'm in room 252 of 60 Centre Street, aka the courthouse, aka the room where Dateline and ABC shoot all their standups, except now it's for the injunction to stop the asshole who owns the building next to ours to not demo the facade elements one week before the building has a Landmarks hearing and I'm talking to Monica, the cute one I've always had a little crush on, she's a designer too, and she goes -Oh, I know exactly which place you're talking about, they make me feel so uncomfortable, I'm so glad I'm not the only one. Which makes me feel vindicated. 100%
Aware of all this, I walk in and slink way over to one side. The counter is on both the long and short side of the 25x50 foot space, but I am as far away from either side as I can be, to buy myself time to read the menu. It's Sunday afternoon. I have my sunglasses on. But alas, from 90 degrees on my right comes a voice SIR, CAN I HELP YOU? I stay silent and don't turn. The voice is coming from somewhere out of my life of sight. The voice leans in (how do I know? it's getting louder) SIR SIR - like I've committed some kind of crime and need to be apprehended -- Until finally I say, Do you mind if I read the menu first?
So now here comes the manager running right at me, some 40 year old white guy like myself. GET OUT OF MY STORE- shouting this as he flails his arms - HOW DARE YOU DISRESPECT MY STAFF LIKE THAT!! Have no illusions, this is the man who concocted the "we will confront all our customers in the name of courtesy" strategy. Now, I stay nice and relaxed and go - Babes, I just want a juice you know, do I have to engage in a conversation with someone SHOUTING at me that I can't even see -- but he didn't get the point. He just kept screaming GET OUT OF MY STORE. YOU CAN'T BUY ANYTHING until we were on the sidewalk.
Of course I felt pissy. I just wanted a juice. I tried my best, but I failed. Now I did mention to Mr Manager that I have spent, oh, 5 years in retail sales and 5 years in restaurants and so I understand customer service which clearly he does not. But since he doesn't understand, he didn't understand.
Fast forward to Monday. I'm in room 252 of 60 Centre Street, aka the courthouse, aka the room where Dateline and ABC shoot all their standups, except now it's for the injunction to stop the asshole who owns the building next to ours to not demo the facade elements one week before the building has a Landmarks hearing and I'm talking to Monica, the cute one I've always had a little crush on, she's a designer too, and she goes -Oh, I know exactly which place you're talking about, they make me feel so uncomfortable, I'm so glad I'm not the only one. Which makes me feel vindicated. 100%
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
The Teenage Prayers
The Teenage Prayers are a good band. Check out their website and songs. Just heard a show at Pianos. They have songs that stick in your head. But what sticks is not the song as it sounds when they play it live, but rather a stripped out, melodic version, heavy on the lyrics and rhythm changes. I don't know if that's a function of me, or if that's rather instead the ideal state of the song. It could be an important question: the band has a rock and roll edge to it, while the songs are rather sui generis, I can imagine them as orchestral events, smoky jazz tunes, country for sure, etc.
Wouldn't it be nice to have a band that could flip through all these types of music to find out where the best fit is?
I have other notes also: Goodbye Baby. Is there a redundancy between what the guitar plays and what the organ plays? What opportunity does this present? If this song is reorchestrated to allow for more freedom in the guitar, a continuous background solo, what does this suggest for the orchestration of the band?
I am bored because I have heard all the songs before, and now each show sounds very much like the last? Do I prefer a "live" band, a risk taking band?
Should there be a stronger emotional arc to the set- an arc I feel is lacking right now?
Intersong dynamic range is still, in my mind, too low. some songs come down to nothing, but there still needs more ebb and flow.
The lyrics are great: how do you get this same lyricism of voice in the instruments? As Remy said a year ago: your band is only as good as the musicians in it. Should one of the songs be given to another band and see what happens?
that and more.
Wouldn't it be nice to have a band that could flip through all these types of music to find out where the best fit is?
I have other notes also: Goodbye Baby. Is there a redundancy between what the guitar plays and what the organ plays? What opportunity does this present? If this song is reorchestrated to allow for more freedom in the guitar, a continuous background solo, what does this suggest for the orchestration of the band?
I am bored because I have heard all the songs before, and now each show sounds very much like the last? Do I prefer a "live" band, a risk taking band?
Should there be a stronger emotional arc to the set- an arc I feel is lacking right now?
Intersong dynamic range is still, in my mind, too low. some songs come down to nothing, but there still needs more ebb and flow.
The lyrics are great: how do you get this same lyricism of voice in the instruments? As Remy said a year ago: your band is only as good as the musicians in it. Should one of the songs be given to another band and see what happens?
that and more.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Update
There are so many possible narrative streams. Perhaps it is exactly that choice of what to note, similar to the skill of a photographer's frame, that creates an ongoing story worthy of merit. Of being read. Here I would ask my readers to comment on which stream they prefer. Only the dearth of readers prevents me. For instance:
1. I dyed my couch's slipcover and rearranged my apartment. For this to be of general interest, I suspect it would have to veer suddenly to the comic, the universal, or simply be elevated to prose of the first rank.
2. Visited with my sister and my nephew. Possibly, with backstories, these would be of interest.
3. Working on the revisions of a short story, prompted by an excellent read by Ian Vollmer. He also has a nice site:
http://www.ivollmer.org/
4. Ruined my keyboard, and had to run out and get a new one. At the Apple Store.
Be rest assured that the style of this post does not bear repeating. It is only out of sloth that these words were put down.
1. I dyed my couch's slipcover and rearranged my apartment. For this to be of general interest, I suspect it would have to veer suddenly to the comic, the universal, or simply be elevated to prose of the first rank.
2. Visited with my sister and my nephew. Possibly, with backstories, these would be of interest.
3. Working on the revisions of a short story, prompted by an excellent read by Ian Vollmer. He also has a nice site:
http://www.ivollmer.org/
4. Ruined my keyboard, and had to run out and get a new one. At the Apple Store.
Be rest assured that the style of this post does not bear repeating. It is only out of sloth that these words were put down.
Update
There are so many possible narrative streams. Perhaps it is exactly that choice of what to note, similar to the skill of a photographer's frame, that creates an ongoing story worthy of merit. Of being read. Here I would ask my readers to comment on which stream they prefer. Only the dearth of readers prevents me. For instance:
1. I dyed my couch's slipcover and rearranged my apartment. For this to be of general interest, I suspect it would have to veer suddenly to the comic, the universal, or simply be elevated to prose of the first rank.
2. Visited with my sister and my nephew. Possibly, with backstories, these would be of interest.
3. Working on the revisions of a short story, prompted by an excellent read by Ian Vollmer. He also has a nice site:
http://www.ivollmer.org/
4. Ruined my keyboard, and had to run out and get a new one. At the Apple Store.
Be rest assured that the style of this post does not bear repeating. It is only out of sloth that these words were put down.
1. I dyed my couch's slipcover and rearranged my apartment. For this to be of general interest, I suspect it would have to veer suddenly to the comic, the universal, or simply be elevated to prose of the first rank.
2. Visited with my sister and my nephew. Possibly, with backstories, these would be of interest.
3. Working on the revisions of a short story, prompted by an excellent read by Ian Vollmer. He also has a nice site:
http://www.ivollmer.org/
4. Ruined my keyboard, and had to run out and get a new one. At the Apple Store.
Be rest assured that the style of this post does not bear repeating. It is only out of sloth that these words were put down.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Back To Reality
the new yorker shouts and murmurs that was published instead of mine was so much superior. Structurally, even. It took one genre, the travel description, and applied it to a situation you never would, a small new york apartment. and then used the fanciful categories "ATM" right next door, because you will need a lot of cash to be with me in my apartment -- etc, to create a humorous description of the desperate tenant. fantastic.
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Whitney Biennial of American Art
Every two years the Whitney curates a highly prestigious and well attended review of contemporary American Art. Remy and I went to the show. We were not impressed. Three floors and seemingly a hundred artists: paintings, drawings, photographs, videos, sculptures, installation rooms - variety of type was not the complaint. What was lacking was much more fundamental.
Initially, what was evident was a diminution of craft. This is not only in art, this trend is throughout society. Even in the bottom barrel of television craft is swiftly fleeing. A "hit" show like Queer Eye lacks in its production values exactly that Eye that the show purports to create in your home. These ingredients: space and proportion, time and narrative, these were the elements that were missing. These to me are the key staples of creation. Content and form, political comment: these are temporary attributes of a work, a temporal relationship between the work and the audience. As time passes what is left are the commonalities that remain: beauty, harmony, balance. Don't get me wrong, dissonance, imbalance, and horrific images are not precluded as timeless elements.
The only rationale, the only point the show could have been making, is that this is the end of the world as we know it, that art reflects that worlds failings, and that no one can make good art anymore. None of the art looked new. The videos were ugly, shot without compositional skill. One sculpture of personal objects would have been fine, except a girlfriend of mine was doing exactly the same work in 1987, with better results.
Ultimately, I was able to only really say what was missing in these recent works only came to me when I was visiting the adjacent Hopper and Calder rooms. These pieces, besides the evident craft, transported the viewer. They engaged the viewer to took to a psychic place beyond the artwork. The pieces in the Biennial did not have this quality. They did not engage the audience. They seemed about themselves. They will be judged harshly by time. Most of the pieces in the exhibit would not pass even the lesser test: would someone salvage them from the roadside?
The ability to engage and stimulate the viewer is a critical element, the defining quality of art. It is inclusive of, and supersedes, that awe that we feel and has been posited (Clive Bell, I believe) as the definition of art.
Here, what we saw, only made Remy and I feel good by knowing we were already doing better work ourselves. As to awe, I can only weakly say it was awful.
Initially, what was evident was a diminution of craft. This is not only in art, this trend is throughout society. Even in the bottom barrel of television craft is swiftly fleeing. A "hit" show like Queer Eye lacks in its production values exactly that Eye that the show purports to create in your home. These ingredients: space and proportion, time and narrative, these were the elements that were missing. These to me are the key staples of creation. Content and form, political comment: these are temporary attributes of a work, a temporal relationship between the work and the audience. As time passes what is left are the commonalities that remain: beauty, harmony, balance. Don't get me wrong, dissonance, imbalance, and horrific images are not precluded as timeless elements.
The only rationale, the only point the show could have been making, is that this is the end of the world as we know it, that art reflects that worlds failings, and that no one can make good art anymore. None of the art looked new. The videos were ugly, shot without compositional skill. One sculpture of personal objects would have been fine, except a girlfriend of mine was doing exactly the same work in 1987, with better results.
Ultimately, I was able to only really say what was missing in these recent works only came to me when I was visiting the adjacent Hopper and Calder rooms. These pieces, besides the evident craft, transported the viewer. They engaged the viewer to took to a psychic place beyond the artwork. The pieces in the Biennial did not have this quality. They did not engage the audience. They seemed about themselves. They will be judged harshly by time. Most of the pieces in the exhibit would not pass even the lesser test: would someone salvage them from the roadside?
The ability to engage and stimulate the viewer is a critical element, the defining quality of art. It is inclusive of, and supersedes, that awe that we feel and has been posited (Clive Bell, I believe) as the definition of art.
Here, what we saw, only made Remy and I feel good by knowing we were already doing better work ourselves. As to awe, I can only weakly say it was awful.
Friday, April 14, 2006
Top of the World
I received a rejection notice from The New Yorker! For those of you not in the know, apparently this is a rather rare event. Which means they read my piece, and it was worthy of comment.
line up to worship, please.
line up to worship, please.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
The Tide Turns
Today I finished a piece to send to Shouts and Murmurs. Finished (but not 100%) a short story, which I sent off to a couple of capable readers. Successfully held out for a better rate on the job that called for tomorrow. Talked to people I hadn't spoken to in ages, Cornelius and Antonito. Talked to Remy and Tim. Accomplished everything on the list but negotiating up my rate at Rolling Stone. Geez, maybe I should have hit on some chicks in the gym, but I did speak to the chick at the production house who I threw a smile to outside the work building only to have her walk up and introduce herself as the person who just hired me (oops? or good, one or the other).
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
What a Disaster
I got nothing done today. I went over to Remy's. Some contractors came to fix the water damage on his wall. They didn't have any tools, and seemed wholly unprofessional. We went to buy some wood for a shelf at Home Depot. We got two pieces of sanded plywood. Then when we went to cut them using the landlord's table saw, he remembered that he had given it away. Somehow he hadn't remembered this a week ago. Then we had to pay 40 bucks to get the plywood cut. We started screwing the pieces together, and it was clear I had made some design orientation errors and we were building a clearly second best design. Then we noticed these great air gaps in the plywwod we had bought, really inferior wood.
It was dark, so I came home. My camera batteries died after taking two pictures. I have a headache from what I ate for lunch. I should be charging more for the work I do. I wanted Remy to rev up my ipod. I have to send out my reel. I have to finish my writings. The phone didn't ring all day.
That's Remy and his wife, Orianna. Photo #3 was flash, #4 needs a bounce card.
It was dark, so I came home. My camera batteries died after taking two pictures. I have a headache from what I ate for lunch. I should be charging more for the work I do. I wanted Remy to rev up my ipod. I have to send out my reel. I have to finish my writings. The phone didn't ring all day.
That's Remy and his wife, Orianna. Photo #3 was flash, #4 needs a bounce card.
Monday, April 10, 2006
Check Out Jessica Delfino
Here are a couple of pictures of my friend Jessica Delfino. She's hot, she's funny, and she sings the most seemingly innocent songs, none of which would ever get past the FCC. Maybe she can be on XM.
Click on the title and you'll go to her blog, although she may be down a bit because he beloved man is incarcerated, and he isn't even black! More of a political prisoner type.
Jessica was kind enough to come over and play her guitar, while I struggled along on the bass, although when I listened to it, it sounded good, I didn't object to my playing.
Click on the title and you'll go to her blog, although she may be down a bit because he beloved man is incarcerated, and he isn't even black! More of a political prisoner type.
Jessica was kind enough to come over and play her guitar, while I struggled along on the bass, although when I listened to it, it sounded good, I didn't object to my playing.
Sunday, April 09, 2006
I want to be the president of Turkmenistan
I was eating with my friend Aaron. I asked him, what do you want to do? He goes, I don't know, I'd do something if I felt passionate about it, there just isn't anything I feel passionate about. I used to be exactly the same way. I just couldn't get excited about anything, I could not find my calling. Now I know.
I want to be the president of Turkmenistan. Not that there isn't one already, indeed, he is showing the way. He named himself president for life. Then he wrote a book that contains all the necessary wisdom in the known universe. Everyone has to read it. You don't think so? Then you're not going to pass your driver's license test, which relies heavily on the book. In fact, everyone has to carry the book around, cover forward, so it's clear you are reading the book. Protesting puts you in the Gulag.
There's more. He's renamed the days of the week after himself. Buildings are named after his mother. There is no press, and no books are published without his approval. Raise your voice and you are in the gulag. I presume he uses the national treasury as his personal checking account. He suspended most professional visas.
I can only assume he has a harem, the best chef, and a string of dachas.
Now this would be a job worthy of me.
I want to be the president of Turkmenistan. Not that there isn't one already, indeed, he is showing the way. He named himself president for life. Then he wrote a book that contains all the necessary wisdom in the known universe. Everyone has to read it. You don't think so? Then you're not going to pass your driver's license test, which relies heavily on the book. In fact, everyone has to carry the book around, cover forward, so it's clear you are reading the book. Protesting puts you in the Gulag.
There's more. He's renamed the days of the week after himself. Buildings are named after his mother. There is no press, and no books are published without his approval. Raise your voice and you are in the gulag. I presume he uses the national treasury as his personal checking account. He suspended most professional visas.
I can only assume he has a harem, the best chef, and a string of dachas.
Now this would be a job worthy of me.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Cut To The Chase
It's time to stop all the bullshitting and hand wrangling, and holding. There is one problem in the Middle East that dominates all other problems. None of the other problems are going to go away, unless this problem is addressed. The problem is the doctrinal belief that anyone who is not a Muslim is an infidel, and being an infidel is punishable by death.
Take Iraq for instance. While the country is dissolving towards civil war, reports now state that the Sunnis have declared anyone not a Sunni to deserve death. The Shia say the same. In Afghanistan, simply not being a Muslim is punishable by death. Elsewhere, Muslims are exporting their death threats. Theo Van Gogh, Salman Rushdie, Wafa Sultan (the woman in California who spoke her mind.)
I believe in tolerance. But we have discovered tolerance is not a universal desire yet. Until it is, those of us in favor of tolerance will have to use power to enforce those ends. This requires a world effort.
I'm no fool. The recent crackdown in Syria reinforces that virtually all those in power take staying in power as their objective. Not making the world a better place. Not using power for good, or even for national benefit.
This is the world we live in. Now it is time for us to build the world we desire.
Take Iraq for instance. While the country is dissolving towards civil war, reports now state that the Sunnis have declared anyone not a Sunni to deserve death. The Shia say the same. In Afghanistan, simply not being a Muslim is punishable by death. Elsewhere, Muslims are exporting their death threats. Theo Van Gogh, Salman Rushdie, Wafa Sultan (the woman in California who spoke her mind.)
I believe in tolerance. But we have discovered tolerance is not a universal desire yet. Until it is, those of us in favor of tolerance will have to use power to enforce those ends. This requires a world effort.
I'm no fool. The recent crackdown in Syria reinforces that virtually all those in power take staying in power as their objective. Not making the world a better place. Not using power for good, or even for national benefit.
This is the world we live in. Now it is time for us to build the world we desire.
Monday, April 03, 2006
New Story!
Title: Why Is This Girl Smiling?
I’m not going to sit here and say that I, Katie Turner Starr Khoury Evinrude, would have done it differently. The world doesn’t work that way. You close your eyes asleep and then your dream erupts, are you telling me that you have control over that dream? If you do, just stop right now. When we say we wish it were a dream we mean we can wake up and find that dream world gone.
I wish Nairobi was a dream, that Matt in Nairobi was a dream. Not Matt was a dream, no, I love Matt. At times, I think he was the only one I really loved, certainly the only one I ever wanted to have children with. Him and I: to build that in a little rolling shrieking bundle of joy, that would have made my life. But ... So I wish Matt in Nairobi was a dream, because, if it was, everything would be different.
Matt wanted to go, he begged at his office to go. Kenya is civilized for Africa. It was going to hurt like hell to let him go. Three months, maybe three more if things went well! We hadn’t even been married that long! My husband, my baby husband, off to do his part to change the world. We were raised to do good, in that old-fashioned Midwestern way, Matt and I, and that was part of the attraction, the trust, the us. That’s what had brought us to Washington to work, and that’s what took Matt to Nairobi.
When it happens, it’s like a car accident. This can’t really be happening AND WHY IS IT TAKING SO LONG TO HAPPEN? A phone call. Turn on the TV. Why hasn’t he called? Where was he when the bomb went off? He wasn’t there, I know he wasn’t there, but he could have been there, so I don’t know he wasn’t there but I don’t know that he’s dead, I know he isn’t dead, have I ever been wrong before I have been wrong before but I’ve been right before too, right about Matt, about us, of course he hasn’t called, it’s chaos and since when did the phones ever work there (ha ha) but look at all the smoke and fire and glass except they would say if a westerner was dead – it’s not fair that’s just how it is - unless he was right there when it went off and that’s where he’s supposed to be oh my god help!
I thought that was the worst day of my life. What can your mom say, or Matt’s boss Larry? No one knows anything beyond their thoughts and prayers and little hopes. But when the phone rang I knew it was him. I didn’t stop crying, but you can’t tell tears just by looking at them.
He was two blocks away when it went off. Just dumb luck – like the night back in school when we both needed to read the same reserve book. Was it fate? Of course, the world that is is, and we just swim in it, facing the current, presenting the illusion of the fight, because when you turn your back that’s when you get swept away, lose your bearings, slam into the concrete wall.
None of us were prepared for what happened next. The Nairobi office closed, of course, and the staff flew back home. On the plane, Matt was reading a book and the next minute he felt a little dizzy, his fingers tingled, and then his heart stopped. You want a miracle? The pilot had a defibrillator on board, and he knew how to use it. How do you say thank you to that?
Would you be nervous if you were me? Would you wonder if those simple dreams of living and growing and being together were going to happen? Of course. For a while it seemed we cried every night, we were just so happy to be together. And that first night, I said I want a child right there and then, but Matt said let’s stick to our plan, nothing’s changed. A year is not going to matter. He’s here now, he’s not going to die. The scare is over. All he has to do is take his medication. We have to protect your career, he said, we’re in this together, it’s not just about me.
July 4th. We had a fight, we never fight. But why did he want to go overseas again? Why did he tell me now, on this boat in this stupid filthy river? Yeah, I’m pissed. This is a decision that is ours together. No, I don’t want you to go. Why? Gee, I don’t know, what happened the last time? I love you, I know you love me, but why take the risk. Even the office doesn’t want you to go. I know it will make you a better person, but it won’t make me a better person and I don’t want to be alone for three months and Yes I need some air and I’m going up top.
I felt it, and I had to grab the rail with both hands just to stay up. I felt it, and I’ll always feel it. I’ll never forgive myself, never. The slightest thought of it brings it back roiling in the cauldron tht is the bottom of my heart. Surging. The pain you feel in your heart. There has to be some medical term besides a broken heart. I felt a snap, too, at the instant. And I heard Matt from inside of me , calling for help, calling for hope, calling for me “KATIE SAVE ME.” Inside of me. We were that connected. So why wasn’t I there? Why did I have to stomp off? Why did I trigger this? Why didn’t I die instead?
I ran and ran and ran and pushed and pushed and pushed – to get to my angel – no no no and finally there he was, it couldn’t have been more than seconds and I smothered him, let my love bring him back and then they were unpacking his defibrillator –
The moment I cannot escape. At the slightest it’s back in a flash. More me than me. Forever. But I can’t dwell there and stay on the deck like I did for so long. Moving on is more important, now. Not at first, though. It was all of me. Every little thought. Every suggestion, every moment of the sun, or not sun. We had that conversation 10,000 times, 10,000 times we hugged we kissed, we conceived, we lived forever. Only once-
After that it just didn’t matter. I’m not a crier, but there was no point. Mom came, I love her, but what can she do? She can’t bring back Matt. Oh and everyone else, they tried, I even tried - but
I laugh at those little girls who need constant approval from the outside to have any little smidge of self-worth. Have a spine! So it’s not like, oh Matt is gone now I am nothing. It was Matt is gone, and really, I just don’t want to be here. I am, but why? It has to get better, or it has to end. I can’t go on like this.
I know I stopped swimming and the current swept me away. I left DC, I was never one for haunted houses. New York is the place to go to get lost. New York has no illusions. You are alone, and New York let’s you know that you are alone. You walk the streets, there’s no one, no one you know. What, you walk around expecting to know somebody? No looks of sorrowed pity, no there but the grace of god. No one calls you, and surprisingly, there are a dearth of public spaces. New York has no joy because there is no joy.
When the settlement money was gone – and what a joke that was – I took a job. Not a bad job, in my field, a public/private service job to help the less fortunate. But 65k in New York isn’t much. I took another job, a writing gig, on the side. An internet how to invest account, might as well get some use out of my MBA. Stay busy. time is bad is time to dwell and that’s time for Matt except he is not here. So move on. Move on to being alone, move on to my all black exterior and interior. Move on to this best of all possible worlds, thank you God. Indeed, how can I ever thank you?
New York is there for you when you need a slap in the face. Because it doesn’t know how to pull punches. Sure there are people at work, but the men are all gay, the women, somehow different. Cheery even. You navigate through them with a few polite demurrals from your social obligations and everyone gets the hint.
The multitudes of New York? The ones you see at the deli and Spin City, at the DMV and the MTA? These people do not talk to you, why would they? Hello Yemen. Other than when you spend money no one cares. Does it hurt? Yeah, it hurts, but given the circumstances, just what are you expecting? You hope to die, comforted that there are many forms of suicide.
Sometimes you splurge. That once a month gush of hope (irrational). You get dressed up, you put on make-up. You go to dance class or go eat sushi alone. Mostly you just go home and sigh at the end, (rational). Still, you were surprised. He was just there talking suddenly, so easy so natural, like maybe we had met before, and it makes you smile, beam even. He says let’s go see a movie. You jump a bit when you heard you said yes. Your body does have a mind of it’s own.
Khoury is over the next night. I give him the grand tour of my now cleaned squalor. Boys are curious, and even older boy are still boys, still curious, and Khoury saw all the pictures and the plaques and the memorabilia. He even snooped around a bit on his own. So I gave him the big test “Did you notice?”. He failed. That should have been it, the end, but somehow it endeared me to him even more. We never were apart again after that night.
Don’t jump on me here. Life wasn’t all that pleasant. Maybe Khoury wasn’t the most sensitive the most adept observer, the brightest bulb in the box. His me and my me were very different, but I caught on right away his me was the better me. In his me, I wasn’t a widow, I wasn’t crying myself to sleep every night, I hadn’t vowed never to open my legs again, or laugh again, or live again. He didn’t send flowers and he didn’t apologize for being insensitive, he never washed his hands and every now and then he introduced me to the kids in the hood as the widow. What do you see in me, I pestered. Your smile, always your smile.
Khoury wanted sex. Matt, I realized for the first time, didn’t want it that much, that often, or that anything. Once a week was normal, or was it that I didn’t want it either? I did with Khoury. It made me feel good, it made me forget, and being wanted was being wanted and trust me I was not wanted before, not by me even. Okay, enough on that.
Like I said, we were together every night. When we first met, I said, under my breath (why did I say this?) that “this is my New York fantasy.” Of course, Khoury heard that, although I promptly denied saying it. But isn’t that the way it should be? You meet someone, you like them, and then you are together? It was that way with Matt. Why wouldn’t it be that way again? It’s not like the other person has to be perfect – God knows Khoury has his list of shit, arrogance, cold, bitter, demanding, isolated, and I suppose I had my list too (no blowjobs!) –just about as perfect as you. And happy, happy goes a long ways. We were happy.
Because life with Khoury was so much better than life before Khoury. Call it the honeymoon period but that’s all we knew. It seemed like Matt and I had been brother and sister. Khoury said of the all the people he met, and he met everyone, I was the only one he ever considered marrying. Mostly, he just made me happy in a million little ways. I knew he was going to ask, and couldn’t wait to say yes.
We decided to go upstate for Memorial Day. A mini-holiday. Khoury had a boat, an inflatable boat, so we were going to put in as he called it. He knew a great little motel, not too expensive, right on the river, the Cottonwoods, and the guy who ran it, Jeff. Used to be one of those forlorn motels on the abandoned federal highway, but nothing’s abandoned in the Hudson Valley anymore and so they built a ingenious hallway to cover the exterior doors and redid the rooms in retro. Ours had a Jacuzzi. 99 dollars a night. Yes Khoury earned more than me, and together we earned enough to be comfortable, to splurge, but that just wasn’t who we were. We’d rather save. There were going to be changes. We had to prepare. Khoury was a planner.
Knowing what I know, why would I be eager to say yes? I almost died when Khoury mentioned he had a bad heart! And a father that hadn’t busted out of his 40’s! It came ball, all of it, but I swallowed it. Oh, he said, I am too old, too slow, for someone as sexy as you. Maybe he just said this to get a rise out of me. Or maybe he really thought he could go at any moment. Well, I said, life is a risk. I’ve bet once and lost once. But I’ll bet again if you will. Love, plain and simple.
He asked in the hot tub! Of course I cried, but like I said, you can’t tell tears. The ring was wonderful, understated. It fit (how did he figure that out?). Should we start right now I said? Yes, but first we have to go into the river. It’s great once you’re all heated up. Trust me I was already heated, my nipples had never been that hard before, but off we went over the cold night ground to the river, naked! Khoury slapping around half up already. We laughed as we jumped in. It wasn’t deep, but it hit like a tub of cold concrete. I jumped up, and out but Khoury didn’t. He was in head first. NO! This can’t be. How can this be? No. He was so heavy. I fell in and that was going to be that. No traction. No breath. Chaos. You can tell I’m holding back here. I am, yes.
In the end, I tried, Jeff tried, the paramedics tried. We went to the hospital to try. They jumped him up out of the surgery bed with the voltage. Nothing. Who was more numb, my Khoury or me?
The tide was going down, and so I went until the floor was there. Because when there is nothing left, where there is no where to go down, to go out, to be for, there is the floor. There is always a floor. The lowest possible point. I was there. I couldn’t get up. What I realized was is, the floor was the place for me. Hard and fast, flat. Here I dissolved. My heart, that caustic mix of self-immolation spilled through all of me and then washed me out until I was as thin as a jug of water on an infinitely flat surface.
There’s no use going on. In life, or in my tale. Somethings you can’t describe. You look at someone, you know there is a hole in their heart. I wonder, back in World War Two, that people didn’t look at you and say, you will die soon, I can see it. For me, the floor was enough. No one came, I never went out, I tossed the mirror.
My mother? I hadn’t told her about Khoury, and I had already learned to lie on the phone. His funeral. It was so pathetic I could have cried just about it. Me, a couple of bud he worked with. That was in. He was alone. I knew then that I was always alone, had always been alone, and for whatever moments I dreamt I had not been alone, those were the cruelest illustions.
What hurt, because the pain simply was, a huge dial turned to zero, Zero, zero pointing at me, sorry I couldn’t resist one more dig, what hurt was that it wasn’t going to get better. Ever. I gave myself a nickname, The Destroyer. If I just talk to you, that could be it. My Back of the Village Voice Ad: Painless Death! Decide to Marry Me and I’ll take care of the rest! Liquid Sky 2.
Sleep was not good. So I didn’t sleep. TV. McDonalds. Carbs. There are many forms of suicide. Not that any of this answered the big question: What sin had I committed to deserve this? Clearly in another life I was …. Stalin! Because in this life, alright, I was a piece of shit, but not bad …
What was left but my delusional escape? My period, I’ll miss my period, we had been fooling around, why not? Then Khoury and I will live forever. Of course I’ll name him Matt. Khoury will understand, and if he doesn’t why doesn’t he come here and we casn talk about it?
I was with my high school friend Charlie Schmidt on a church trip to eastern Colorado. Keanseburg. We skipped out to eat by ourselves. The town idiot came and sat down with us. Too stupid to shoo him away we listened. He was fat 40, and knew he was stupid, useless. He said, I used to read the Playboy and get all excited. But I stopped. No one is ever going to want me. I am going to be alone. All I ever wanted was to go to Disneyland. Then my uncle died. I had to go to Anaheim. The last day I went to Disneyland. To stand in the parking lot, by the gates. Hoping. A ticket was 40 dollars! When have I ever had 40 dollars? Ever. So I just stood there. Then up came Jackie from Keanseburg. He said You need a ticket don’t you? He bought me a ticket! From Keanseberg, what are the odds? Zero. There are angels in this life, I know it for myself.
My period was late! I’m never late! I danced! I was me, finally, the me I wanted to be, not the other mes! Finally!.
That lasted for a day. July 4th. There are angels. Some are just different. I became a woman of action. I didn’t know what I was going to do next. But at this instant, I knew I needed to leave my apartment. With the inflatable boat.
A greater consciousness is at work, your body the mere tool. For once I was free.
The tide was going to the east river, but now I was back to swimming. I sling the sack on my back and went to the Hudson, across the Hudson, on a water taxi. To under the ticking Colgate clock. Next to the toxic waste dump, right at the marina at the edge of endless sea. My symbolic world making some sense finally. Is it going to hurt? Yes, but those are the circumstances.
At the end of the pier I pulled out the boat and the pump. I’d done it once before, it wasn’t too hard. 10 minutes of sweat. Did I pause once or twice? Did I have to beat down once more the caustic spill of my brokenness? So. I can do it. I’m not useless, I can do this. I am good enough.
I drunk in all the boats, the softening gloam. I edged the boat over the wall into the water. There was a shot right behind my head, and every frayed connection in me fizzled. I lost the tow rope, but stepped on it. Whoopsie came from behind me, with a cheer and an expectancy I rarely have felt. Gave you quite the fright didn’t I? He was the most beautiful old man, with an overactive champagne bottle. You were about to give me the fright of my life, dearie, tossing that swimming pool toy into our ocean here. Had to run here to save you.
Am I just that fucking sap that involuntarily smiles? Am I all autonomic nervous system? With all the development of an 18 month old? Can’t I complete even the most simplest of tasks?
Of course by now his entire crew was over. It was decided. I was going on their boat. “You would have died on that thing!” they joked. I know! Their boat just happened to be 138 feet. Come on, the fireworks are starting!
So the old geezer has my arm. Introducing himself, I really wasn’t even paying attention. Tonight is tonight, and tomorrow is tomorrow and there is the floor, waiting for me. The boat, that will have to be sacrificed for now. There are many ways to do it, my friend.
You’re Katie Turner, he gushed! I know you, I read your column! And so he did. What were the odds people? That it was my turn to have an angel? That it was my turn to be saved? I’m Bob, he said, and that’s the Evinrude. That Evinrude. Was his second wifes, she got it from her husband before, her third, and now it was his except he was all alone, except for the crew, you know. Cheers.
I let my last ray of hope fade. If I jumped from the boat they would have fished me out anyway. And Bob, he was like a father to me, especially since we never could do it, this being in the days before Viagra and all. It took him halfway into the fireworks to propose.
Stop it. I am not insane. I told Bob what was going to happen to him. He laughed. Every day he wakes up is a surprise to him, so he didn’t care. But I have to live with myself I said. In mere seconds I would have been afloat ready to find the swirls under the Narrows. There was going to be no tomorrow. And what, I am just supposed to add this on top? That you are the next? That your silver hair, your compassion, your carefree smiles, that this too, I shall undo? He laughed. That’s a hell of a story from a young girl like you. What you need is an agent. I liked his me …
We got married at sea, and he was buried at sea, eleven days later. Didn’t even both to go back into port. Why? No one was there, and I knew what was in his will, hell I wrote it. The crew runs the boat just like nothings changed, Florida in the summer, Newfoundland in the winter. I figure we have enough for 50 cycles. They’re my boys now.
Yes, that’s my picture on the bow. How do I look? You see, on the one hand, nothing’s changed. I’m not getting married again, I’m not even going to so much as hold the hand of a man. Because I am the widow-maker. The floor is still under my feet, touching me at every moment while the tide swirls and the only question in life is to swim or not swim. And every night is black.
Then again, there’s that little picture of me at the front of this, smiling. Now why would I be smiling?
(Note: frontpiece to this article is a very nice piece of art, in broad sunny stokes, of a very very happy woman on the bow of her 138 foot boat.)
I’m not going to sit here and say that I, Katie Turner Starr Khoury Evinrude, would have done it differently. The world doesn’t work that way. You close your eyes asleep and then your dream erupts, are you telling me that you have control over that dream? If you do, just stop right now. When we say we wish it were a dream we mean we can wake up and find that dream world gone.
I wish Nairobi was a dream, that Matt in Nairobi was a dream. Not Matt was a dream, no, I love Matt. At times, I think he was the only one I really loved, certainly the only one I ever wanted to have children with. Him and I: to build that in a little rolling shrieking bundle of joy, that would have made my life. But ... So I wish Matt in Nairobi was a dream, because, if it was, everything would be different.
Matt wanted to go, he begged at his office to go. Kenya is civilized for Africa. It was going to hurt like hell to let him go. Three months, maybe three more if things went well! We hadn’t even been married that long! My husband, my baby husband, off to do his part to change the world. We were raised to do good, in that old-fashioned Midwestern way, Matt and I, and that was part of the attraction, the trust, the us. That’s what had brought us to Washington to work, and that’s what took Matt to Nairobi.
When it happens, it’s like a car accident. This can’t really be happening AND WHY IS IT TAKING SO LONG TO HAPPEN? A phone call. Turn on the TV. Why hasn’t he called? Where was he when the bomb went off? He wasn’t there, I know he wasn’t there, but he could have been there, so I don’t know he wasn’t there but I don’t know that he’s dead, I know he isn’t dead, have I ever been wrong before I have been wrong before but I’ve been right before too, right about Matt, about us, of course he hasn’t called, it’s chaos and since when did the phones ever work there (ha ha) but look at all the smoke and fire and glass except they would say if a westerner was dead – it’s not fair that’s just how it is - unless he was right there when it went off and that’s where he’s supposed to be oh my god help!
I thought that was the worst day of my life. What can your mom say, or Matt’s boss Larry? No one knows anything beyond their thoughts and prayers and little hopes. But when the phone rang I knew it was him. I didn’t stop crying, but you can’t tell tears just by looking at them.
He was two blocks away when it went off. Just dumb luck – like the night back in school when we both needed to read the same reserve book. Was it fate? Of course, the world that is is, and we just swim in it, facing the current, presenting the illusion of the fight, because when you turn your back that’s when you get swept away, lose your bearings, slam into the concrete wall.
None of us were prepared for what happened next. The Nairobi office closed, of course, and the staff flew back home. On the plane, Matt was reading a book and the next minute he felt a little dizzy, his fingers tingled, and then his heart stopped. You want a miracle? The pilot had a defibrillator on board, and he knew how to use it. How do you say thank you to that?
Would you be nervous if you were me? Would you wonder if those simple dreams of living and growing and being together were going to happen? Of course. For a while it seemed we cried every night, we were just so happy to be together. And that first night, I said I want a child right there and then, but Matt said let’s stick to our plan, nothing’s changed. A year is not going to matter. He’s here now, he’s not going to die. The scare is over. All he has to do is take his medication. We have to protect your career, he said, we’re in this together, it’s not just about me.
July 4th. We had a fight, we never fight. But why did he want to go overseas again? Why did he tell me now, on this boat in this stupid filthy river? Yeah, I’m pissed. This is a decision that is ours together. No, I don’t want you to go. Why? Gee, I don’t know, what happened the last time? I love you, I know you love me, but why take the risk. Even the office doesn’t want you to go. I know it will make you a better person, but it won’t make me a better person and I don’t want to be alone for three months and Yes I need some air and I’m going up top.
I felt it, and I had to grab the rail with both hands just to stay up. I felt it, and I’ll always feel it. I’ll never forgive myself, never. The slightest thought of it brings it back roiling in the cauldron tht is the bottom of my heart. Surging. The pain you feel in your heart. There has to be some medical term besides a broken heart. I felt a snap, too, at the instant. And I heard Matt from inside of me , calling for help, calling for hope, calling for me “KATIE SAVE ME.” Inside of me. We were that connected. So why wasn’t I there? Why did I have to stomp off? Why did I trigger this? Why didn’t I die instead?
I ran and ran and ran and pushed and pushed and pushed – to get to my angel – no no no and finally there he was, it couldn’t have been more than seconds and I smothered him, let my love bring him back and then they were unpacking his defibrillator –
The moment I cannot escape. At the slightest it’s back in a flash. More me than me. Forever. But I can’t dwell there and stay on the deck like I did for so long. Moving on is more important, now. Not at first, though. It was all of me. Every little thought. Every suggestion, every moment of the sun, or not sun. We had that conversation 10,000 times, 10,000 times we hugged we kissed, we conceived, we lived forever. Only once-
After that it just didn’t matter. I’m not a crier, but there was no point. Mom came, I love her, but what can she do? She can’t bring back Matt. Oh and everyone else, they tried, I even tried - but
I laugh at those little girls who need constant approval from the outside to have any little smidge of self-worth. Have a spine! So it’s not like, oh Matt is gone now I am nothing. It was Matt is gone, and really, I just don’t want to be here. I am, but why? It has to get better, or it has to end. I can’t go on like this.
I know I stopped swimming and the current swept me away. I left DC, I was never one for haunted houses. New York is the place to go to get lost. New York has no illusions. You are alone, and New York let’s you know that you are alone. You walk the streets, there’s no one, no one you know. What, you walk around expecting to know somebody? No looks of sorrowed pity, no there but the grace of god. No one calls you, and surprisingly, there are a dearth of public spaces. New York has no joy because there is no joy.
When the settlement money was gone – and what a joke that was – I took a job. Not a bad job, in my field, a public/private service job to help the less fortunate. But 65k in New York isn’t much. I took another job, a writing gig, on the side. An internet how to invest account, might as well get some use out of my MBA. Stay busy. time is bad is time to dwell and that’s time for Matt except he is not here. So move on. Move on to being alone, move on to my all black exterior and interior. Move on to this best of all possible worlds, thank you God. Indeed, how can I ever thank you?
New York is there for you when you need a slap in the face. Because it doesn’t know how to pull punches. Sure there are people at work, but the men are all gay, the women, somehow different. Cheery even. You navigate through them with a few polite demurrals from your social obligations and everyone gets the hint.
The multitudes of New York? The ones you see at the deli and Spin City, at the DMV and the MTA? These people do not talk to you, why would they? Hello Yemen. Other than when you spend money no one cares. Does it hurt? Yeah, it hurts, but given the circumstances, just what are you expecting? You hope to die, comforted that there are many forms of suicide.
Sometimes you splurge. That once a month gush of hope (irrational). You get dressed up, you put on make-up. You go to dance class or go eat sushi alone. Mostly you just go home and sigh at the end, (rational). Still, you were surprised. He was just there talking suddenly, so easy so natural, like maybe we had met before, and it makes you smile, beam even. He says let’s go see a movie. You jump a bit when you heard you said yes. Your body does have a mind of it’s own.
Khoury is over the next night. I give him the grand tour of my now cleaned squalor. Boys are curious, and even older boy are still boys, still curious, and Khoury saw all the pictures and the plaques and the memorabilia. He even snooped around a bit on his own. So I gave him the big test “Did you notice?”. He failed. That should have been it, the end, but somehow it endeared me to him even more. We never were apart again after that night.
Don’t jump on me here. Life wasn’t all that pleasant. Maybe Khoury wasn’t the most sensitive the most adept observer, the brightest bulb in the box. His me and my me were very different, but I caught on right away his me was the better me. In his me, I wasn’t a widow, I wasn’t crying myself to sleep every night, I hadn’t vowed never to open my legs again, or laugh again, or live again. He didn’t send flowers and he didn’t apologize for being insensitive, he never washed his hands and every now and then he introduced me to the kids in the hood as the widow. What do you see in me, I pestered. Your smile, always your smile.
Khoury wanted sex. Matt, I realized for the first time, didn’t want it that much, that often, or that anything. Once a week was normal, or was it that I didn’t want it either? I did with Khoury. It made me feel good, it made me forget, and being wanted was being wanted and trust me I was not wanted before, not by me even. Okay, enough on that.
Like I said, we were together every night. When we first met, I said, under my breath (why did I say this?) that “this is my New York fantasy.” Of course, Khoury heard that, although I promptly denied saying it. But isn’t that the way it should be? You meet someone, you like them, and then you are together? It was that way with Matt. Why wouldn’t it be that way again? It’s not like the other person has to be perfect – God knows Khoury has his list of shit, arrogance, cold, bitter, demanding, isolated, and I suppose I had my list too (no blowjobs!) –just about as perfect as you. And happy, happy goes a long ways. We were happy.
Because life with Khoury was so much better than life before Khoury. Call it the honeymoon period but that’s all we knew. It seemed like Matt and I had been brother and sister. Khoury said of the all the people he met, and he met everyone, I was the only one he ever considered marrying. Mostly, he just made me happy in a million little ways. I knew he was going to ask, and couldn’t wait to say yes.
We decided to go upstate for Memorial Day. A mini-holiday. Khoury had a boat, an inflatable boat, so we were going to put in as he called it. He knew a great little motel, not too expensive, right on the river, the Cottonwoods, and the guy who ran it, Jeff. Used to be one of those forlorn motels on the abandoned federal highway, but nothing’s abandoned in the Hudson Valley anymore and so they built a ingenious hallway to cover the exterior doors and redid the rooms in retro. Ours had a Jacuzzi. 99 dollars a night. Yes Khoury earned more than me, and together we earned enough to be comfortable, to splurge, but that just wasn’t who we were. We’d rather save. There were going to be changes. We had to prepare. Khoury was a planner.
Knowing what I know, why would I be eager to say yes? I almost died when Khoury mentioned he had a bad heart! And a father that hadn’t busted out of his 40’s! It came ball, all of it, but I swallowed it. Oh, he said, I am too old, too slow, for someone as sexy as you. Maybe he just said this to get a rise out of me. Or maybe he really thought he could go at any moment. Well, I said, life is a risk. I’ve bet once and lost once. But I’ll bet again if you will. Love, plain and simple.
He asked in the hot tub! Of course I cried, but like I said, you can’t tell tears. The ring was wonderful, understated. It fit (how did he figure that out?). Should we start right now I said? Yes, but first we have to go into the river. It’s great once you’re all heated up. Trust me I was already heated, my nipples had never been that hard before, but off we went over the cold night ground to the river, naked! Khoury slapping around half up already. We laughed as we jumped in. It wasn’t deep, but it hit like a tub of cold concrete. I jumped up, and out but Khoury didn’t. He was in head first. NO! This can’t be. How can this be? No. He was so heavy. I fell in and that was going to be that. No traction. No breath. Chaos. You can tell I’m holding back here. I am, yes.
In the end, I tried, Jeff tried, the paramedics tried. We went to the hospital to try. They jumped him up out of the surgery bed with the voltage. Nothing. Who was more numb, my Khoury or me?
The tide was going down, and so I went until the floor was there. Because when there is nothing left, where there is no where to go down, to go out, to be for, there is the floor. There is always a floor. The lowest possible point. I was there. I couldn’t get up. What I realized was is, the floor was the place for me. Hard and fast, flat. Here I dissolved. My heart, that caustic mix of self-immolation spilled through all of me and then washed me out until I was as thin as a jug of water on an infinitely flat surface.
There’s no use going on. In life, or in my tale. Somethings you can’t describe. You look at someone, you know there is a hole in their heart. I wonder, back in World War Two, that people didn’t look at you and say, you will die soon, I can see it. For me, the floor was enough. No one came, I never went out, I tossed the mirror.
My mother? I hadn’t told her about Khoury, and I had already learned to lie on the phone. His funeral. It was so pathetic I could have cried just about it. Me, a couple of bud he worked with. That was in. He was alone. I knew then that I was always alone, had always been alone, and for whatever moments I dreamt I had not been alone, those were the cruelest illustions.
What hurt, because the pain simply was, a huge dial turned to zero, Zero, zero pointing at me, sorry I couldn’t resist one more dig, what hurt was that it wasn’t going to get better. Ever. I gave myself a nickname, The Destroyer. If I just talk to you, that could be it. My Back of the Village Voice Ad: Painless Death! Decide to Marry Me and I’ll take care of the rest! Liquid Sky 2.
Sleep was not good. So I didn’t sleep. TV. McDonalds. Carbs. There are many forms of suicide. Not that any of this answered the big question: What sin had I committed to deserve this? Clearly in another life I was …. Stalin! Because in this life, alright, I was a piece of shit, but not bad …
What was left but my delusional escape? My period, I’ll miss my period, we had been fooling around, why not? Then Khoury and I will live forever. Of course I’ll name him Matt. Khoury will understand, and if he doesn’t why doesn’t he come here and we casn talk about it?
I was with my high school friend Charlie Schmidt on a church trip to eastern Colorado. Keanseburg. We skipped out to eat by ourselves. The town idiot came and sat down with us. Too stupid to shoo him away we listened. He was fat 40, and knew he was stupid, useless. He said, I used to read the Playboy and get all excited. But I stopped. No one is ever going to want me. I am going to be alone. All I ever wanted was to go to Disneyland. Then my uncle died. I had to go to Anaheim. The last day I went to Disneyland. To stand in the parking lot, by the gates. Hoping. A ticket was 40 dollars! When have I ever had 40 dollars? Ever. So I just stood there. Then up came Jackie from Keanseburg. He said You need a ticket don’t you? He bought me a ticket! From Keanseberg, what are the odds? Zero. There are angels in this life, I know it for myself.
My period was late! I’m never late! I danced! I was me, finally, the me I wanted to be, not the other mes! Finally!.
That lasted for a day. July 4th. There are angels. Some are just different. I became a woman of action. I didn’t know what I was going to do next. But at this instant, I knew I needed to leave my apartment. With the inflatable boat.
A greater consciousness is at work, your body the mere tool. For once I was free.
The tide was going to the east river, but now I was back to swimming. I sling the sack on my back and went to the Hudson, across the Hudson, on a water taxi. To under the ticking Colgate clock. Next to the toxic waste dump, right at the marina at the edge of endless sea. My symbolic world making some sense finally. Is it going to hurt? Yes, but those are the circumstances.
At the end of the pier I pulled out the boat and the pump. I’d done it once before, it wasn’t too hard. 10 minutes of sweat. Did I pause once or twice? Did I have to beat down once more the caustic spill of my brokenness? So. I can do it. I’m not useless, I can do this. I am good enough.
I drunk in all the boats, the softening gloam. I edged the boat over the wall into the water. There was a shot right behind my head, and every frayed connection in me fizzled. I lost the tow rope, but stepped on it. Whoopsie came from behind me, with a cheer and an expectancy I rarely have felt. Gave you quite the fright didn’t I? He was the most beautiful old man, with an overactive champagne bottle. You were about to give me the fright of my life, dearie, tossing that swimming pool toy into our ocean here. Had to run here to save you.
Am I just that fucking sap that involuntarily smiles? Am I all autonomic nervous system? With all the development of an 18 month old? Can’t I complete even the most simplest of tasks?
Of course by now his entire crew was over. It was decided. I was going on their boat. “You would have died on that thing!” they joked. I know! Their boat just happened to be 138 feet. Come on, the fireworks are starting!
So the old geezer has my arm. Introducing himself, I really wasn’t even paying attention. Tonight is tonight, and tomorrow is tomorrow and there is the floor, waiting for me. The boat, that will have to be sacrificed for now. There are many ways to do it, my friend.
You’re Katie Turner, he gushed! I know you, I read your column! And so he did. What were the odds people? That it was my turn to have an angel? That it was my turn to be saved? I’m Bob, he said, and that’s the Evinrude. That Evinrude. Was his second wifes, she got it from her husband before, her third, and now it was his except he was all alone, except for the crew, you know. Cheers.
I let my last ray of hope fade. If I jumped from the boat they would have fished me out anyway. And Bob, he was like a father to me, especially since we never could do it, this being in the days before Viagra and all. It took him halfway into the fireworks to propose.
Stop it. I am not insane. I told Bob what was going to happen to him. He laughed. Every day he wakes up is a surprise to him, so he didn’t care. But I have to live with myself I said. In mere seconds I would have been afloat ready to find the swirls under the Narrows. There was going to be no tomorrow. And what, I am just supposed to add this on top? That you are the next? That your silver hair, your compassion, your carefree smiles, that this too, I shall undo? He laughed. That’s a hell of a story from a young girl like you. What you need is an agent. I liked his me …
We got married at sea, and he was buried at sea, eleven days later. Didn’t even both to go back into port. Why? No one was there, and I knew what was in his will, hell I wrote it. The crew runs the boat just like nothings changed, Florida in the summer, Newfoundland in the winter. I figure we have enough for 50 cycles. They’re my boys now.
Yes, that’s my picture on the bow. How do I look? You see, on the one hand, nothing’s changed. I’m not getting married again, I’m not even going to so much as hold the hand of a man. Because I am the widow-maker. The floor is still under my feet, touching me at every moment while the tide swirls and the only question in life is to swim or not swim. And every night is black.
Then again, there’s that little picture of me at the front of this, smiling. Now why would I be smiling?
(Note: frontpiece to this article is a very nice piece of art, in broad sunny stokes, of a very very happy woman on the bow of her 138 foot boat.)
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Our Own World Cup
The World Cup is upon us. Alternately billed as the world’s largest sporting event or the world’s largest television event, the 64 final games rocket the world’s attention to soccer. Yet at East River Park, just off East 6th St, there is a soccer field that qualifies, if not as the World Cup of soccer, than at least as its United Nations.
The World Cup features teams from 32 countries, the winners of 2 years of qualifying matches that feature nearly every country on the earth. Cyprus, Trinidad and Tobago, Qatar, American Samoa. Regardless of how small or seemingly sports unfriendly the country may be, they field a soccer team in international competition. The soccer pitches(aka fields) at the East River Park feature players from an astounding number of countries. The difference is they are all on the pitch at once.
A Sunday visit to the pitch captured a usual slice of diversity. Granted on the full-sized pitch there were back to back league games for 11 on 11, in this case the women’s elite league. But right behind the net, there was a run of Astroturf seeing a spirited game.
Limited in size this game is more typically a six on six, or thereabout, with duffel bags forming the goals. And here’s the roster of countries, in order of who I spoke to: Japan, Japan, Italy, Bulgaria, Puerto Rico, Spain, England, Nigeria, Iran, New Jersey, New York, Columbia, Hungary, Poland, Japan, Japan, Mexico, and as I left, another group of Statesiders.
Now, this is virtually everyone playing on the small field at one time. Is there a more diverse group of people in New York at given time? In the world? Or a more mixed team? Not at the world cup.
This group had two female players, including a very young Japanese high-schooler now living in Queens. Players had all different reasons for playing. Exercise, said Jorge, nearing 60, originally from Puerto Rico and now living in Brooklyn. David from New Jersey had come down for softball practice but now was staying for soccer. Others were regulars who remember back when the field was dirt not turf, and a tumble meant a serious opportunity to experience some glass or other trash first hand.
Among the regulars is Taiwo, late from Nigeria now living on the LES. There were other places to play, from Chelsea to uptown, he said, but all of them in some way or another had rules, formal or not, to keep people from playing, from feeling welcome. That is not what the game of soccer is about, he continued. Often when he traveled to London he would bring his shoes (ie look for a game) and never had to look hard to find one. And that is what soccer is about, it is an open game for an open world, a friendly world. Taiwo said that in Manhattan, this was the only field where you could come, knowing you would always be “promised to play.”
Taiwo went on. Visitors to the city will come to east river park, whether it is for the summer or just for a week, because they have heard of the field. Soccer he declared, should be New York City’s official or unofficial sport, for exactly those qualities: universality, openness, and friendliness. This particular field, he described as “everything to everybody.”
This is not to say there aren’t politics on the field, or concerning use of the field. A sticking point is that in the days before the turf, when every day really was a glass hunt, the field was no less used. Daily there would be three games going the short way, or if it was a weekday or early AM, one game full field. Yet the day the turf was finished, it seemed the leagues arrived, the high schools to practice, the necessity of getting a permit seemed to arise, and the very people who used the field so heavily, no doubt inspiring and campaigning for the restoration (petitions did circulate) – that these very people are now in some ways, shut out of the pitch in prime time.
Yet in some ways, the leagues have cut into the flavor of the park. Back when I first started to play, it was not unusual to see of the six teams engaged playing across, to see one team of Japanese, another team of Ecuadorians, Columbians, and Peruvians, a Mexican team., a mostly European team, and of course the American team, the mutt of the group. Countries retain their styles, their philosophy, and their aesthetic flair in their soccer teams. No one who is the least familiar with soccer will fail to distinguish Germany from Brazil from Senegal.
For myself, there was a wonder watching the precision of the Japanese, the spirit of the Ecuadorians. I myself played with the Reggaeboyz. Their verdict? “You’d be dead boy if that was a real game.” The greatest single play I saw came from an Irish central defender that as the forward with the ball came rushing towards him he merely held his position perfectly still but perfectly placed. The ball stopped, the forward hurtled forward to the turf as the defender started up the field. That’s how we play, the defender said, strong.
Raza. late of Iran, and that day the elder statesman of the pitch, for he had been coming for over 8 years, had a more sanguine approach. The leagues are just here in the summer he said, but I am here all year round, all winter spring and fall, so there is plenty of time to play. There are other places to play next door, notably “The Cage” – a fenced in short field. I don’t like the Cage, said Raza, it’s too easy to get hurt. The fence. This is where I play. See you here again.
The colorful teams still exist, it is just a bit more of a process to play. Perhaps some spontaneity is lost, some promise to play. In any case, time moves forward, and no one would ever wish to go back to the dirt field.
Which leaves us with the soccer pitch at the East River Park. Today, the way it is. The everything to everybody. The United Nations of soccer. The most diverse place in one of the world’s most diverse cities. Our own World Cup of Soccer.
The World Cup features teams from 32 countries, the winners of 2 years of qualifying matches that feature nearly every country on the earth. Cyprus, Trinidad and Tobago, Qatar, American Samoa. Regardless of how small or seemingly sports unfriendly the country may be, they field a soccer team in international competition. The soccer pitches(aka fields) at the East River Park feature players from an astounding number of countries. The difference is they are all on the pitch at once.
A Sunday visit to the pitch captured a usual slice of diversity. Granted on the full-sized pitch there were back to back league games for 11 on 11, in this case the women’s elite league. But right behind the net, there was a run of Astroturf seeing a spirited game.
Limited in size this game is more typically a six on six, or thereabout, with duffel bags forming the goals. And here’s the roster of countries, in order of who I spoke to: Japan, Japan, Italy, Bulgaria, Puerto Rico, Spain, England, Nigeria, Iran, New Jersey, New York, Columbia, Hungary, Poland, Japan, Japan, Mexico, and as I left, another group of Statesiders.
Now, this is virtually everyone playing on the small field at one time. Is there a more diverse group of people in New York at given time? In the world? Or a more mixed team? Not at the world cup.
This group had two female players, including a very young Japanese high-schooler now living in Queens. Players had all different reasons for playing. Exercise, said Jorge, nearing 60, originally from Puerto Rico and now living in Brooklyn. David from New Jersey had come down for softball practice but now was staying for soccer. Others were regulars who remember back when the field was dirt not turf, and a tumble meant a serious opportunity to experience some glass or other trash first hand.
Among the regulars is Taiwo, late from Nigeria now living on the LES. There were other places to play, from Chelsea to uptown, he said, but all of them in some way or another had rules, formal or not, to keep people from playing, from feeling welcome. That is not what the game of soccer is about, he continued. Often when he traveled to London he would bring his shoes (ie look for a game) and never had to look hard to find one. And that is what soccer is about, it is an open game for an open world, a friendly world. Taiwo said that in Manhattan, this was the only field where you could come, knowing you would always be “promised to play.”
Taiwo went on. Visitors to the city will come to east river park, whether it is for the summer or just for a week, because they have heard of the field. Soccer he declared, should be New York City’s official or unofficial sport, for exactly those qualities: universality, openness, and friendliness. This particular field, he described as “everything to everybody.”
This is not to say there aren’t politics on the field, or concerning use of the field. A sticking point is that in the days before the turf, when every day really was a glass hunt, the field was no less used. Daily there would be three games going the short way, or if it was a weekday or early AM, one game full field. Yet the day the turf was finished, it seemed the leagues arrived, the high schools to practice, the necessity of getting a permit seemed to arise, and the very people who used the field so heavily, no doubt inspiring and campaigning for the restoration (petitions did circulate) – that these very people are now in some ways, shut out of the pitch in prime time.
Yet in some ways, the leagues have cut into the flavor of the park. Back when I first started to play, it was not unusual to see of the six teams engaged playing across, to see one team of Japanese, another team of Ecuadorians, Columbians, and Peruvians, a Mexican team., a mostly European team, and of course the American team, the mutt of the group. Countries retain their styles, their philosophy, and their aesthetic flair in their soccer teams. No one who is the least familiar with soccer will fail to distinguish Germany from Brazil from Senegal.
For myself, there was a wonder watching the precision of the Japanese, the spirit of the Ecuadorians. I myself played with the Reggaeboyz. Their verdict? “You’d be dead boy if that was a real game.” The greatest single play I saw came from an Irish central defender that as the forward with the ball came rushing towards him he merely held his position perfectly still but perfectly placed. The ball stopped, the forward hurtled forward to the turf as the defender started up the field. That’s how we play, the defender said, strong.
Raza. late of Iran, and that day the elder statesman of the pitch, for he had been coming for over 8 years, had a more sanguine approach. The leagues are just here in the summer he said, but I am here all year round, all winter spring and fall, so there is plenty of time to play. There are other places to play next door, notably “The Cage” – a fenced in short field. I don’t like the Cage, said Raza, it’s too easy to get hurt. The fence. This is where I play. See you here again.
The colorful teams still exist, it is just a bit more of a process to play. Perhaps some spontaneity is lost, some promise to play. In any case, time moves forward, and no one would ever wish to go back to the dirt field.
Which leaves us with the soccer pitch at the East River Park. Today, the way it is. The everything to everybody. The United Nations of soccer. The most diverse place in one of the world’s most diverse cities. Our own World Cup of Soccer.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Rest of the Story
I’m not going to sit here and say that I, Katie Turner Starr Khoury Evinrude, would have done it differently. The world doesn’t work that way. You close your eyes asleep and when the dream erupts, are you telling me that you have control over that dream? If you do, just stop right now. Because when we say we wish it were all a dream we mean we might wake up and find that world gone. No one dreams pleasant dreams, no one I know. Maybe I only know myself, maybe every dream I’ve ever had has been a nightmare.
I wish Nairobi was a dream, that Matt in Nairobi was a dream. Not Matt was a dream, no, I love Matt. At times, I think he was the only one I really loved, certainly the only one I ever wanted to have children with. Him and I. To build that, in a little rolling shrieking bundle of joy, that would have made my life. It didn’t. So I wish Matt in Nairobi was a dream, because, if it was, everything would be different.
Matt wanted to go, he begged at his office to go. Kenya is civilized for Africa. It was going to hurt like hell to let him go. Three months, and maybe three more! We hadn’t even been married that long! My husband, my baby husband, off to do his part to change the world. We were raised to do good, in that old-fashioned Midwestern way, Matt and I, and that was part of the attraction, the trust, the us. That’s what had brought us to Washington, and that’s what took Matt to Nairobi.
When it happens, it’s like a car accident. This can’t really be happening AND WHY IS IT TAKING SO LONG TO HAPPEN? A phone call. Turn on the TV. Why hasn’t he called? Where was he when the bomb went off? He wasn’t there, I know he wasn’t there, but he could have been there, so I don’t know he wasn’t there but I don’t know that he’s dead, I know he isn’t dead, have I ever been wrong before I have been wrong before but I’ve been right before too, right about Matt, about us, of course he hasn’t called, it’s chaos and since when did the phones ever work there (ha ha) and that was before but look at all the smoke and fire and glass except they would say if a westerner was dead – it’s not fair that’s just how it is unless he was right there when it went off and that’s where he’s supposed to be oh my god help!
That was the worst day of my life. What can your mom say, or Matt’s boss Larry? No one knows anything beyond their thoughts and prayers and silly little hopes, you know. When the phone rang I knew it was him. I didn’t stop crying, but you can’t tell tears just by looking at them.
He was two blocks away when it went off. Just dumb luck – like the night back in school when we both needed to read the same reserve book. Was it fate? Of course, the world that is is, and we just swim in it, facing the current, presenting the illusion of the fight, because when you turn your back that’s when you get swept away, lose your bearings, slam into the concrete wall.
None of us were prepared for what happened next. The Nairobi office closed, of course, and the staff flew back home. On the plane, Matt was reading a book and the next minute he felt a little dizzy, his fingers tingled, and then his heart stopped. You want a miracle? The pilot had a defibrillator on board, and he knew how to use it. How do you say thank you to that?
Would you be nervous if you were me? Would you wonder if those simple dreams of living and growing and being together were going to happen? Yes you would. For a while it seemed we cried every night, we were just so happy to be together. And that first night, I said I want a child right there and then, but Matt said let’s stick to our plan, nothing’s changed. A year is not going to matter. He’s here now, and he’s not going to die. All he has to do is take his medication. You have to protect your career, he said, we’re in this together, it’s not just about me.
July 4th. We had a fight, we never fight. But why did he want to go overseas again? Why did he tell me now, on this boat in this stupid filthy river? Yeah, I’m pissed. This is a decision that is ours together. No, I don’t want you to go. Why? Gee, I don’t know, what happened the last time? I love you, I know you love me, but why take the risk. Even the office doesn’t want you to go. I know it will make you a better person, but it won’t make me a better person and I don’t want to be alone for three months and Yes I need some air and I’m going up top.
I felt it, and I had to grab the rail with both hands just to stay up. I felt it, and I’ll always feel it. I’ll never forgive myself, never. The slightest thought of it brings it back stewing steaming in the cauldron of my heart. That surge in your bottom of the heart pain. There has to be some medical term besides a broken heart. A snapping too, just then, at the instant. And I heard him inside of me, calling for me, calling for help, calling for hope, for life, for anything “KATIE SAVE ME” he shouted inside of me. Why wasn’t I there? Why did I have to stomp off? Why did I trigger this? Why didn’t I die instead?
I ran and ran and ran and pushed and pushed and pushed – where’s my angel? – no no no and finally there he was, it couldn’t have been more than seconds and I smothered him, let my love bring him back and then they were there with the defibrillator –
That moment I cannot escape. In a flash it’s all back, part of me now forever, but I can’t dwell there and stay on the deck like I did for so long. Moving on is more important, now. Not then, though. It was everything. Every little thought. Every suggestion, every moment of the sun, or not sun. We had that conversation 10,000 times, 10,000 times we hugged we kissed, we conceived, we lived forever. Only once-
After that it just didn’t matter. I’m not a crier, but there was no point. Mom came, I love her, but what can she do? She can’t bring back Matt. Oh and everyone else - only the floor seemed true. Because I had hit the floor and I couldn’t get up. I wasn’t planning on being on the floor, I didn’t expect it, really, but until Matt comes back or it’s clear he never left for the first time –
I laugh at those little girls who need constant approval from the outside to have any little smidge of self-worth. Have a spine! So it’s not like, oh Matt is gone now I am nothing. It was Matt is gone, and really, I just don’t want to be here.
I stopped swimming and the current swept me away. I left DC, I was never one for haunted houses. New York is the place to go to get lost. New York doesn’t hide it, either. You are alone, and New York let’s you know that you are alone. You walk the streets, there’s no one, no one you know. No looks of sorrowed pity, of there but the grace of god. No one calls you, and surprisingly, no where to go really. In New York there is no joy because there is no joy.
When the settlement money was gone – and what a joke that was – I took a job. Not a bad job, in my field, a public/private service job to help the less fortunate. But 65k in New York isn’t much. I took another job, a writing gig, on the side. Stay busy. time is bad is time to dwell and that’s Matt except he is not here. So move on. Move on to being alone, move on to my all black exterior and interior. Move on to this best of all possible worlds, thank you God.
New York is there for you when you need a slap in the face. Yes, you will meet some people at work, but all the men seem gay, all the women, somehow different. A few polite demurrals from social obligations and everyone gets the hint. Don’t ask don’t tell. And the rest of New York? The ones you see at the deli and Spin City, at the DMV and the MTA? These people do not talk to you, why would they? No one cares. Does it hurt? Yeah, it hurts, it’s supposed to hurt. Time will desensitize, that’s the best you can hope for. Death would be welcomed, but there are many forms of suicide.
Sometimes you splurge. That once a month surge of hope. You get dressed up, you put on make-up. You go to dance class or go eat sushi alone. Mostly you just go home and sigh at the end, because you are not a hedonist and this just isn’t reason enough. Still, you are surprised when it happens. He was just there talking to me, so easy so natural, like maybe we had met before, and it makes you smile, beam even. Your body does have a mind of it’s own, oh, yes of course I want it, him, my Khoury. He says let’s go see a movie and it’s a surprise to hear yes.
Khoury is over the next night. I give him the grand tour of my now cleaned squalor. Boys are curious, and even older boy are still boys, still curious, and Khoury saw all the pictures and the plaques and the memorabilia. He even snooped around a bit on his own. So I gave him the big test “Did you notice?”. He failed. That should have been it, the end, but somehow it endeared me to him even more. We never were apart again after that night.
Don’t jump on me here. Life wasn’t all that pleasant. His me and my me were very different, and can anyone sit there and say his me wasn’t the better me? In his me, I wasn’t a widow, I wasn’t crying myself to sleep every night, I had never vowed not to have sex again, or laugh again, or live again. He didn’t send flowers and he didn’t apologize for being insensitive and every now and then he introduced me to the kids in the hood as the widow. And he wanted sex.
Matt, I realized for the first time, didn’t want it that much, that often, or that anything. Once a week was what I thought was normal, or was it that I didn’t want it either. But now I did. It made me feel good, it made me forget, and being wanted was being wanted and trust me I was not wanted before, not by me even. Okay, enough on that.
Like I said, we were together every night. When we first met, I said, under my breath (why did I say this?) that “this is my New York fantasy”. Of course, Khoury heard that, although I promptly denied saying it. But isn’t that the way it should be. You meet someone, you like them, and then you are together? It was that way with Matt. Why can’t it be simple? It’s not like the other person has to be perfect – God knows Khoury has his list of too quiet, too loud, aggressive, a boor, arrogant, cold, unrealistic, overly romantic, and almost a loser, I mean what had he done with his life up till then? – but they just have to be about as perfect as you. And happy, happy helps.
Because life with Khoury was so much better than life before Khoury. Call it the honeymoon period but that’s all we knew. It seemed like Matt and I had been brother and sister. Khoury said of the all the people he met, and he met everyone, I was the only one he ever considered marrying. Mostly, he just made me happy in a million little ways. I knew he was going to ask, and I was going to say yes.
We decided to go upstate for Memorial Day. Khoury had a boat, an inflatable boat, so we were going to put in as he called it. He knew a great little motel, not too expensive, right on the river, the Cottonwoods, and the guy who ran it, Jeff. Used to be one of those forlorn motels on the abandoned federal highway, but nothing’s abandoned in the Hudson Valley anymore and they built a hallway to cover all the exterior doors and redid the rooms in retro and ours had it’s own hot tub. 99 dollars a night. Yes Khoury earned more than me, and together we earned enough to be comfortable, to splurge, but that just wasn’t who we were. We’d rather save. There were going to be life changes. We had to prepare. Khoury was a planner.
Now I should have been the one with the doubts. Plus Khoury had a bad heart! His father hadn’t busted out of the 40’s, he could be next. Yes, I felt a little pop in my heart, a little pop of that memory, but I swallowed it. Oh, he said, I am too old, too slow, for someone as sexy as you. Maybe he just said this to get a rise out of me, it always
worked. Maybe he was afraid. I wasn’t, I’d been there before.
He asked in the hot tub! Of course I cried, but like I said, you can’t tell tears. The ring was wonderful, understated. It fit (how did he figure that out?). Should we start right now I said? Yes, but let’s go into the river first. It’s great once you’re all heated up. Trust me I was already heated, my nipples had never been that hard before, but off we went over the cold ground to the river, naked! Khoury slapping around half up already. We laughed as we jumped in. It wasn’t deep, but it was like a tub of cold concrete. I jumped up, and out but Khoury didn’t. He was still in, hunched over. NO! I jumped in and pulled him out. He wasn’t breathing. This cannot be happening!
It was. It did. I tried, Jeff tried, the paramedics tried. We went to the hospital to try. They jumped him up out of the surgery bed with the voltage. Nothing. I can’t tell you who was more numb, Khoury or me. I couldn’t envision this nor close my eyes and believe it wasn’t real. Wake me, please.
The tide was going down, and so I went until the floor was there. Hard and fast, flat. I dissolved. What was in my heart, that caustic mix of self-immolation spilled into all of me and then washed me out until I was as thin as a pool of water on an infinitely flat surface.
Despair is hard to encapsulate. To describe to share. Do you want some of this, I would have said but I could never have hated you that much. Rather then I was silent, numb. Now, looking back on it, I can let it out, I can share, I can vent, I can rage, but that’s not how it was. I wouldn’t let it out then. The sergeant on the grenade to save the troops. Because if it had spilled out, if I had gotten up off the floor, if homicide and blame and why has God abandoned me been part of me – but that’s not me. Silent me. Timeless me.
That was the worst of it, the endlessness of it all. This was not going to get better, this me. Time rolls on thinning out even that infinitely thin existence, that paper wisp by which I clung to life. Why was I the destroyer instead of the creator? Why was this, the blackest of black, the swelling of death in me, this eviscerating omnicity of my pain, why was this still better than my dreams? I must be strong now, and never sleep again, the risk is too great, and those imagined worlds of pain somehow worse than this unbearable collapse.
Without sleep, without reason, without promise, without leaving my shuttered apartment, what was left but delusional escape? My period, I’ll miss my period, we had been fooling around, why not? Why not me? The future can be different, or was that just a brief stab of light, a false retinal impression from skewering your lids too tight?
And then my period was late! I’m never late! I wanted to dance! I wanted to be me, the other me, of all those mes I was so tired of this me.
That lasted a day till I bled. July 4th. Funny, ha ha. I can’t say I was thinking, I’m not sure what you call in when you are in that state. You have something to do, and it’s not like you work out a plan, you merely grab and go. A greater consciousness is at work, your body the mere tool. For once I was free.
The tide was going to the east river, but now I was back to swimming. I sling the sack on my back and went to the Hudson, across the Hudson, on a water taxi. To under the Colgate clock. Next to the toxic waste dump, right at the marina. Symbolic sense, finally. The ticking clock of my life next to the pile of shit and the water, the graves of my love, my destination. Does it hurt to drown? More than to be me on the floor? This was the time to not swim, to let the tide do the work.
I made it to the end of the pier. Boats all over, heading out to the fireworks. I pulled Khoury’s inflatable boat from the sack. I’d done it once before, it wasn’t too hard. 10 minutes of sweat. Did I pause once or twice? Did I have to beat down once more the caustic spill of my brokenness? So. I can do it.
I was just about ready to put in when I heard the shouts and the shot. He was half-running towards me, this most beautiful man in a suit. With a champagne bottle.
You’re not putting that in, are you? It’s my boat, of course I am. Why don’t you come one my boat instead? He waved behind him to a solid 118 feet. I froze. Should I let his dissuade me? This was my opportunity now. To give it up would be mostly for forever. Or should I let him be the one? Or just, should I stay here a bit? I’m Raf Jacman, and that’s my boat. What’s your name. Katie Turner Starr. No, I know you, you have the financial column online, or you used to anyway, right? Sadly I shook my head yes. That settles it, he said. He thrust the bottle at me, took the boat over his shoulder, and the rest of the gear, and off we went.
Now what were the odds that he knew me? Or that I should be saved? What had I done to be here in the first place? Nothing, and so why now the rescue? I was half-expecting his boat to be the black widow, but it was the Evvy. Evinrude, he said. Son of the scion and his second wife, well she had the boat when he died and then we got married and then she died and now I have the boat, and well cheers.
I let my plan slide. If I jumped from the boat they would have fished me out anyway. And Raf, he was like a father to me, especially since we never could do it, this being in the days before Viagra and all. And then he proposed! How sweet!
I am not insane. I told Raf what was going to happen to him. He laughed. Every day he wakes up is a surprise to him, so he didn’t care. But I have to live with myself I said. In mere seconds I would have been afloat ready to find the swirls under the Narrows. There was going to be no tomorrow. And what, I am just supposed to add this on top? That you are the next? That your silver hair, your compassion, your carefree smiles, that this too, I shall undo? He laughed. What you need is an agent. I liked his me.
We got married at sea, and he was buried at sea. Didn’t even both to go into port. Why? No one was there, and I knew what was in his will, I wrote it. The crew knows what to do, Florida in the summer, Newfoundland in the winter. I figure we have enough for 50 cycles. They’re my boys now.
Yes, that’s my picture on the bow. How do I look? You see, on the one hand, nothing’s changed. I’m not getting married again, I’m not even going to so much as hold the hand of a man. Because I am the widow. The floor is still there under my feet, and the tide still swirls and the real question is to swim or not swim and sometimes it is black on black.
On the other hand, that’s a million dollar smile.
I wish Nairobi was a dream, that Matt in Nairobi was a dream. Not Matt was a dream, no, I love Matt. At times, I think he was the only one I really loved, certainly the only one I ever wanted to have children with. Him and I. To build that, in a little rolling shrieking bundle of joy, that would have made my life. It didn’t. So I wish Matt in Nairobi was a dream, because, if it was, everything would be different.
Matt wanted to go, he begged at his office to go. Kenya is civilized for Africa. It was going to hurt like hell to let him go. Three months, and maybe three more! We hadn’t even been married that long! My husband, my baby husband, off to do his part to change the world. We were raised to do good, in that old-fashioned Midwestern way, Matt and I, and that was part of the attraction, the trust, the us. That’s what had brought us to Washington, and that’s what took Matt to Nairobi.
When it happens, it’s like a car accident. This can’t really be happening AND WHY IS IT TAKING SO LONG TO HAPPEN? A phone call. Turn on the TV. Why hasn’t he called? Where was he when the bomb went off? He wasn’t there, I know he wasn’t there, but he could have been there, so I don’t know he wasn’t there but I don’t know that he’s dead, I know he isn’t dead, have I ever been wrong before I have been wrong before but I’ve been right before too, right about Matt, about us, of course he hasn’t called, it’s chaos and since when did the phones ever work there (ha ha) and that was before but look at all the smoke and fire and glass except they would say if a westerner was dead – it’s not fair that’s just how it is unless he was right there when it went off and that’s where he’s supposed to be oh my god help!
That was the worst day of my life. What can your mom say, or Matt’s boss Larry? No one knows anything beyond their thoughts and prayers and silly little hopes, you know. When the phone rang I knew it was him. I didn’t stop crying, but you can’t tell tears just by looking at them.
He was two blocks away when it went off. Just dumb luck – like the night back in school when we both needed to read the same reserve book. Was it fate? Of course, the world that is is, and we just swim in it, facing the current, presenting the illusion of the fight, because when you turn your back that’s when you get swept away, lose your bearings, slam into the concrete wall.
None of us were prepared for what happened next. The Nairobi office closed, of course, and the staff flew back home. On the plane, Matt was reading a book and the next minute he felt a little dizzy, his fingers tingled, and then his heart stopped. You want a miracle? The pilot had a defibrillator on board, and he knew how to use it. How do you say thank you to that?
Would you be nervous if you were me? Would you wonder if those simple dreams of living and growing and being together were going to happen? Yes you would. For a while it seemed we cried every night, we were just so happy to be together. And that first night, I said I want a child right there and then, but Matt said let’s stick to our plan, nothing’s changed. A year is not going to matter. He’s here now, and he’s not going to die. All he has to do is take his medication. You have to protect your career, he said, we’re in this together, it’s not just about me.
July 4th. We had a fight, we never fight. But why did he want to go overseas again? Why did he tell me now, on this boat in this stupid filthy river? Yeah, I’m pissed. This is a decision that is ours together. No, I don’t want you to go. Why? Gee, I don’t know, what happened the last time? I love you, I know you love me, but why take the risk. Even the office doesn’t want you to go. I know it will make you a better person, but it won’t make me a better person and I don’t want to be alone for three months and Yes I need some air and I’m going up top.
I felt it, and I had to grab the rail with both hands just to stay up. I felt it, and I’ll always feel it. I’ll never forgive myself, never. The slightest thought of it brings it back stewing steaming in the cauldron of my heart. That surge in your bottom of the heart pain. There has to be some medical term besides a broken heart. A snapping too, just then, at the instant. And I heard him inside of me, calling for me, calling for help, calling for hope, for life, for anything “KATIE SAVE ME” he shouted inside of me. Why wasn’t I there? Why did I have to stomp off? Why did I trigger this? Why didn’t I die instead?
I ran and ran and ran and pushed and pushed and pushed – where’s my angel? – no no no and finally there he was, it couldn’t have been more than seconds and I smothered him, let my love bring him back and then they were there with the defibrillator –
That moment I cannot escape. In a flash it’s all back, part of me now forever, but I can’t dwell there and stay on the deck like I did for so long. Moving on is more important, now. Not then, though. It was everything. Every little thought. Every suggestion, every moment of the sun, or not sun. We had that conversation 10,000 times, 10,000 times we hugged we kissed, we conceived, we lived forever. Only once-
After that it just didn’t matter. I’m not a crier, but there was no point. Mom came, I love her, but what can she do? She can’t bring back Matt. Oh and everyone else - only the floor seemed true. Because I had hit the floor and I couldn’t get up. I wasn’t planning on being on the floor, I didn’t expect it, really, but until Matt comes back or it’s clear he never left for the first time –
I laugh at those little girls who need constant approval from the outside to have any little smidge of self-worth. Have a spine! So it’s not like, oh Matt is gone now I am nothing. It was Matt is gone, and really, I just don’t want to be here.
I stopped swimming and the current swept me away. I left DC, I was never one for haunted houses. New York is the place to go to get lost. New York doesn’t hide it, either. You are alone, and New York let’s you know that you are alone. You walk the streets, there’s no one, no one you know. No looks of sorrowed pity, of there but the grace of god. No one calls you, and surprisingly, no where to go really. In New York there is no joy because there is no joy.
When the settlement money was gone – and what a joke that was – I took a job. Not a bad job, in my field, a public/private service job to help the less fortunate. But 65k in New York isn’t much. I took another job, a writing gig, on the side. Stay busy. time is bad is time to dwell and that’s Matt except he is not here. So move on. Move on to being alone, move on to my all black exterior and interior. Move on to this best of all possible worlds, thank you God.
New York is there for you when you need a slap in the face. Yes, you will meet some people at work, but all the men seem gay, all the women, somehow different. A few polite demurrals from social obligations and everyone gets the hint. Don’t ask don’t tell. And the rest of New York? The ones you see at the deli and Spin City, at the DMV and the MTA? These people do not talk to you, why would they? No one cares. Does it hurt? Yeah, it hurts, it’s supposed to hurt. Time will desensitize, that’s the best you can hope for. Death would be welcomed, but there are many forms of suicide.
Sometimes you splurge. That once a month surge of hope. You get dressed up, you put on make-up. You go to dance class or go eat sushi alone. Mostly you just go home and sigh at the end, because you are not a hedonist and this just isn’t reason enough. Still, you are surprised when it happens. He was just there talking to me, so easy so natural, like maybe we had met before, and it makes you smile, beam even. Your body does have a mind of it’s own, oh, yes of course I want it, him, my Khoury. He says let’s go see a movie and it’s a surprise to hear yes.
Khoury is over the next night. I give him the grand tour of my now cleaned squalor. Boys are curious, and even older boy are still boys, still curious, and Khoury saw all the pictures and the plaques and the memorabilia. He even snooped around a bit on his own. So I gave him the big test “Did you notice?”. He failed. That should have been it, the end, but somehow it endeared me to him even more. We never were apart again after that night.
Don’t jump on me here. Life wasn’t all that pleasant. His me and my me were very different, and can anyone sit there and say his me wasn’t the better me? In his me, I wasn’t a widow, I wasn’t crying myself to sleep every night, I had never vowed not to have sex again, or laugh again, or live again. He didn’t send flowers and he didn’t apologize for being insensitive and every now and then he introduced me to the kids in the hood as the widow. And he wanted sex.
Matt, I realized for the first time, didn’t want it that much, that often, or that anything. Once a week was what I thought was normal, or was it that I didn’t want it either. But now I did. It made me feel good, it made me forget, and being wanted was being wanted and trust me I was not wanted before, not by me even. Okay, enough on that.
Like I said, we were together every night. When we first met, I said, under my breath (why did I say this?) that “this is my New York fantasy”. Of course, Khoury heard that, although I promptly denied saying it. But isn’t that the way it should be. You meet someone, you like them, and then you are together? It was that way with Matt. Why can’t it be simple? It’s not like the other person has to be perfect – God knows Khoury has his list of too quiet, too loud, aggressive, a boor, arrogant, cold, unrealistic, overly romantic, and almost a loser, I mean what had he done with his life up till then? – but they just have to be about as perfect as you. And happy, happy helps.
Because life with Khoury was so much better than life before Khoury. Call it the honeymoon period but that’s all we knew. It seemed like Matt and I had been brother and sister. Khoury said of the all the people he met, and he met everyone, I was the only one he ever considered marrying. Mostly, he just made me happy in a million little ways. I knew he was going to ask, and I was going to say yes.
We decided to go upstate for Memorial Day. Khoury had a boat, an inflatable boat, so we were going to put in as he called it. He knew a great little motel, not too expensive, right on the river, the Cottonwoods, and the guy who ran it, Jeff. Used to be one of those forlorn motels on the abandoned federal highway, but nothing’s abandoned in the Hudson Valley anymore and they built a hallway to cover all the exterior doors and redid the rooms in retro and ours had it’s own hot tub. 99 dollars a night. Yes Khoury earned more than me, and together we earned enough to be comfortable, to splurge, but that just wasn’t who we were. We’d rather save. There were going to be life changes. We had to prepare. Khoury was a planner.
Now I should have been the one with the doubts. Plus Khoury had a bad heart! His father hadn’t busted out of the 40’s, he could be next. Yes, I felt a little pop in my heart, a little pop of that memory, but I swallowed it. Oh, he said, I am too old, too slow, for someone as sexy as you. Maybe he just said this to get a rise out of me, it always
worked. Maybe he was afraid. I wasn’t, I’d been there before.
He asked in the hot tub! Of course I cried, but like I said, you can’t tell tears. The ring was wonderful, understated. It fit (how did he figure that out?). Should we start right now I said? Yes, but let’s go into the river first. It’s great once you’re all heated up. Trust me I was already heated, my nipples had never been that hard before, but off we went over the cold ground to the river, naked! Khoury slapping around half up already. We laughed as we jumped in. It wasn’t deep, but it was like a tub of cold concrete. I jumped up, and out but Khoury didn’t. He was still in, hunched over. NO! I jumped in and pulled him out. He wasn’t breathing. This cannot be happening!
It was. It did. I tried, Jeff tried, the paramedics tried. We went to the hospital to try. They jumped him up out of the surgery bed with the voltage. Nothing. I can’t tell you who was more numb, Khoury or me. I couldn’t envision this nor close my eyes and believe it wasn’t real. Wake me, please.
The tide was going down, and so I went until the floor was there. Hard and fast, flat. I dissolved. What was in my heart, that caustic mix of self-immolation spilled into all of me and then washed me out until I was as thin as a pool of water on an infinitely flat surface.
Despair is hard to encapsulate. To describe to share. Do you want some of this, I would have said but I could never have hated you that much. Rather then I was silent, numb. Now, looking back on it, I can let it out, I can share, I can vent, I can rage, but that’s not how it was. I wouldn’t let it out then. The sergeant on the grenade to save the troops. Because if it had spilled out, if I had gotten up off the floor, if homicide and blame and why has God abandoned me been part of me – but that’s not me. Silent me. Timeless me.
That was the worst of it, the endlessness of it all. This was not going to get better, this me. Time rolls on thinning out even that infinitely thin existence, that paper wisp by which I clung to life. Why was I the destroyer instead of the creator? Why was this, the blackest of black, the swelling of death in me, this eviscerating omnicity of my pain, why was this still better than my dreams? I must be strong now, and never sleep again, the risk is too great, and those imagined worlds of pain somehow worse than this unbearable collapse.
Without sleep, without reason, without promise, without leaving my shuttered apartment, what was left but delusional escape? My period, I’ll miss my period, we had been fooling around, why not? Why not me? The future can be different, or was that just a brief stab of light, a false retinal impression from skewering your lids too tight?
And then my period was late! I’m never late! I wanted to dance! I wanted to be me, the other me, of all those mes I was so tired of this me.
That lasted a day till I bled. July 4th. Funny, ha ha. I can’t say I was thinking, I’m not sure what you call in when you are in that state. You have something to do, and it’s not like you work out a plan, you merely grab and go. A greater consciousness is at work, your body the mere tool. For once I was free.
The tide was going to the east river, but now I was back to swimming. I sling the sack on my back and went to the Hudson, across the Hudson, on a water taxi. To under the Colgate clock. Next to the toxic waste dump, right at the marina. Symbolic sense, finally. The ticking clock of my life next to the pile of shit and the water, the graves of my love, my destination. Does it hurt to drown? More than to be me on the floor? This was the time to not swim, to let the tide do the work.
I made it to the end of the pier. Boats all over, heading out to the fireworks. I pulled Khoury’s inflatable boat from the sack. I’d done it once before, it wasn’t too hard. 10 minutes of sweat. Did I pause once or twice? Did I have to beat down once more the caustic spill of my brokenness? So. I can do it.
I was just about ready to put in when I heard the shouts and the shot. He was half-running towards me, this most beautiful man in a suit. With a champagne bottle.
You’re not putting that in, are you? It’s my boat, of course I am. Why don’t you come one my boat instead? He waved behind him to a solid 118 feet. I froze. Should I let his dissuade me? This was my opportunity now. To give it up would be mostly for forever. Or should I let him be the one? Or just, should I stay here a bit? I’m Raf Jacman, and that’s my boat. What’s your name. Katie Turner Starr. No, I know you, you have the financial column online, or you used to anyway, right? Sadly I shook my head yes. That settles it, he said. He thrust the bottle at me, took the boat over his shoulder, and the rest of the gear, and off we went.
Now what were the odds that he knew me? Or that I should be saved? What had I done to be here in the first place? Nothing, and so why now the rescue? I was half-expecting his boat to be the black widow, but it was the Evvy. Evinrude, he said. Son of the scion and his second wife, well she had the boat when he died and then we got married and then she died and now I have the boat, and well cheers.
I let my plan slide. If I jumped from the boat they would have fished me out anyway. And Raf, he was like a father to me, especially since we never could do it, this being in the days before Viagra and all. And then he proposed! How sweet!
I am not insane. I told Raf what was going to happen to him. He laughed. Every day he wakes up is a surprise to him, so he didn’t care. But I have to live with myself I said. In mere seconds I would have been afloat ready to find the swirls under the Narrows. There was going to be no tomorrow. And what, I am just supposed to add this on top? That you are the next? That your silver hair, your compassion, your carefree smiles, that this too, I shall undo? He laughed. What you need is an agent. I liked his me.
We got married at sea, and he was buried at sea. Didn’t even both to go into port. Why? No one was there, and I knew what was in his will, I wrote it. The crew knows what to do, Florida in the summer, Newfoundland in the winter. I figure we have enough for 50 cycles. They’re my boys now.
Yes, that’s my picture on the bow. How do I look? You see, on the one hand, nothing’s changed. I’m not getting married again, I’m not even going to so much as hold the hand of a man. Because I am the widow. The floor is still there under my feet, and the tide still swirls and the real question is to swim or not swim and sometimes it is black on black.
On the other hand, that’s a million dollar smile.
Friday, March 31, 2006
Start of a Short Story
This is the start of a short story.
I’m not going to sit here and say that I, Katie Turner Starr Khoury Keifer, would have done it differently. The world doesn’t work that way. You close your eyes asleep and when the dream erupts, are you telling me that you have control over that dream? If you do, just stop right now. Because when we say we wish it were all a dream we mean we might wake up and find that world gone. No one dreams pleasant dreams, no one I know. Maybe I only know myself, maybe every dream I’ve ever had has been a nightmare.
I wish Nairobi was a dream, that Matt in Nairobi was a dream. Not Matt was a dream, no, I love Matt. At times, I think he was the only one I really loved, certainly the only one I ever wanted to have children with. Him and I. To build that, in a little rolling shrieking bundle of joy, that would have made my life. It didn’t. So I wish Matt in Nairobi was a dream, because, if it was, everything would be different.
Matt wanted to go, he begged at his office to go. Kenya is civilized for Africa. It was going to hurt like hell to let him go. Three months, and maybe three more! We hadn’t even been married that long! My husband, my baby husband, off to do his part to change the world. We were raised to do good, in that old-fashioned Midwestern way, Matt and I, and that was part of the attraction, the trust, the us. That’s what had brought us to Washington, and that’s what took Matt to Nairobi.
When it happens, it’s like a car accident. This can’t really be happening AND WHY IS IT TAKING SO LONG TO HAPPEN? A phone call. Turn on the TV. Why hasn’t he called? Where was he when the bomb went off? He wasn’t there, I know he wasn’t there, but he could have been there, so I don’t know he wasn’t there but I don’t know that he’s dead, I know he isn’t dead, have I ever been wrong before I have been wrong before but I’ve been right before too, right about Matt, about us, of course he hasn’t called, it’s chaos and since when did the phones ever work there (ha ha) and that was before but look at all the smoke and fire and glass except they would say if a westerner was dead – it’s not fair that’s just how it is unless he was right there when it went off and that’s where he’s supposed to be oh my god help!
That was the worst day of my life. What can your mom say, or Matt’s boss Larry? No one knows anything beyond their thoughts and prayers and silly little hopes, you know. When the phone rang I knew it was him. I didn’t stop crying, but you can’t tell tears just by looking at them.
He was two blocks away when it went off. Just dumb luck – like the night back in school when we both needed to read the same reserve book. Was it fate? Of course, the world that is is, and we just swim in it, facing the current, presenting the illusion of the fight, because when you turn your back that’s when you get swept away, lose your bearings, slam into the concrete wall.
I’m not going to sit here and say that I, Katie Turner Starr Khoury Keifer, would have done it differently. The world doesn’t work that way. You close your eyes asleep and when the dream erupts, are you telling me that you have control over that dream? If you do, just stop right now. Because when we say we wish it were all a dream we mean we might wake up and find that world gone. No one dreams pleasant dreams, no one I know. Maybe I only know myself, maybe every dream I’ve ever had has been a nightmare.
I wish Nairobi was a dream, that Matt in Nairobi was a dream. Not Matt was a dream, no, I love Matt. At times, I think he was the only one I really loved, certainly the only one I ever wanted to have children with. Him and I. To build that, in a little rolling shrieking bundle of joy, that would have made my life. It didn’t. So I wish Matt in Nairobi was a dream, because, if it was, everything would be different.
Matt wanted to go, he begged at his office to go. Kenya is civilized for Africa. It was going to hurt like hell to let him go. Three months, and maybe three more! We hadn’t even been married that long! My husband, my baby husband, off to do his part to change the world. We were raised to do good, in that old-fashioned Midwestern way, Matt and I, and that was part of the attraction, the trust, the us. That’s what had brought us to Washington, and that’s what took Matt to Nairobi.
When it happens, it’s like a car accident. This can’t really be happening AND WHY IS IT TAKING SO LONG TO HAPPEN? A phone call. Turn on the TV. Why hasn’t he called? Where was he when the bomb went off? He wasn’t there, I know he wasn’t there, but he could have been there, so I don’t know he wasn’t there but I don’t know that he’s dead, I know he isn’t dead, have I ever been wrong before I have been wrong before but I’ve been right before too, right about Matt, about us, of course he hasn’t called, it’s chaos and since when did the phones ever work there (ha ha) and that was before but look at all the smoke and fire and glass except they would say if a westerner was dead – it’s not fair that’s just how it is unless he was right there when it went off and that’s where he’s supposed to be oh my god help!
That was the worst day of my life. What can your mom say, or Matt’s boss Larry? No one knows anything beyond their thoughts and prayers and silly little hopes, you know. When the phone rang I knew it was him. I didn’t stop crying, but you can’t tell tears just by looking at them.
He was two blocks away when it went off. Just dumb luck – like the night back in school when we both needed to read the same reserve book. Was it fate? Of course, the world that is is, and we just swim in it, facing the current, presenting the illusion of the fight, because when you turn your back that’s when you get swept away, lose your bearings, slam into the concrete wall.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Remy Says I'm Crazy
Remy keeps saying I'm crazy. Always under the same circumstances. We're typically involved in a long conversation, or a deep narrative thread is going on. Then I reach a conclusion, that to me that is organic, logically dictated by the constructs of the issues at hand, obvious, although sometimes at the edges of the limits of what might be acceptable. These are the points where Remy says I am crazy.
Now, Remy ought to know better. He has a wide constellation of talents himself, including the ability to generate constructs that have many parallel threads, or many slight divergent yet becoming convergent threads. This can be seen in his films, in his social skills, in his global perceptions of issues.
His comments, which he downplays, to me reflect a typically American anti-intellectualism, which, when coming from the intellectuals themselves, yes, is cause for notice.
I once had a teacher who, when asked directly, what his first instinctual reaction to anything he hadn't seen before was "It's bullshit." He was a hack, and he wasn't going to change the world.
(ha, intellectualism isn't even in the blogger dictionary)
Now, Remy ought to know better. He has a wide constellation of talents himself, including the ability to generate constructs that have many parallel threads, or many slight divergent yet becoming convergent threads. This can be seen in his films, in his social skills, in his global perceptions of issues.
His comments, which he downplays, to me reflect a typically American anti-intellectualism, which, when coming from the intellectuals themselves, yes, is cause for notice.
I once had a teacher who, when asked directly, what his first instinctual reaction to anything he hadn't seen before was "It's bullshit." He was a hack, and he wasn't going to change the world.
(ha, intellectualism isn't even in the blogger dictionary)
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Jury of His Peers
I am now serving jury duty. Serving is exactly right. Three days in jail eerily similar. And a jury of his peers? The guy on trial is a mook. Probably did not finish high school. Does not know how to draw. Yet, the prospective jurors are 85% white. 4 out of 18 were attorneys. Where oh where are the 51% of this island that is black latino asian and other?
My friend Remy suggests that because they don't pay taxes, because they are not registered to vote, they are not on the juror list. Remedy this. Because Mr Mook does not pay taxes, and he did not vote, and I'm guessing, he will never vote again.
And civil trial? You have one corporation suing another, both via paid representatives. I should forego my employment to sit on this jury? (and yes, a day matters, as 9-11 taught us how close we live to the margins of our incomes in New York). You want me for civil, I'm 750 a day. Take it out of the 33%
My friend Remy suggests that because they don't pay taxes, because they are not registered to vote, they are not on the juror list. Remedy this. Because Mr Mook does not pay taxes, and he did not vote, and I'm guessing, he will never vote again.
And civil trial? You have one corporation suing another, both via paid representatives. I should forego my employment to sit on this jury? (and yes, a day matters, as 9-11 taught us how close we live to the margins of our incomes in New York). You want me for civil, I'm 750 a day. Take it out of the 33%
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