The walls close in and I feel small, like a King of Hearts tumbling inward, watching his house of cards get demolished. 51 hearts should follow suit, but they cannot; the King of Hearts is detached from all the rest. He is the lone chasm destroying the house he built.
The King tries to find the rest, he needs to muster up his fallen troops. His house is in shambles, and there seems to be nothing he can do.
I'm the king of hearts, there has to be something I can do to rally my friends and family, the King thinks as he pours himself a drink.
Gin and tonic with a hint of lime, and he sits and ponders and wastes his time.
Like the diminishing ice cubes in his gin and tonic, so the King's hearts are losing hope, while he sits, waiting, wondering how he can rally them and rebuild their house.
The Queen of Hearts comes out of the rubble. She looks at him with sadness in her eyes, as he wallows in his misfortune cocktail.
The Jack of Diamonds sees the ruined house and wants to help. He shares his wealth with the King of Hearts. It's the least I can do, he says, gladly. He's worked hard to be where he is today, hoping one day to rise in rank and succeed the King of Diamonds, building his own house of cards. He feels he's almost there, just a few more months. But can he hold on, while supporting the King of Hearts?
And the King of Hearts doesn't know the Jack of Diamonds feels this way. He just sips away at his gin and tonic, wishing things were different, things were better. Hope is a far off dream. Hope is something in the belly of a whale, hundreds of miles out at sea, unlikely to ever be caught or wash up ashore. But it still exists.
The Jack of Diamonds understands that this swallowed, seaward, piece of whale indigestion still exists; whereas, the King of Hearts, who feels he has lost it all, is denying its existence.
Why wont Hope show itself, come out of the belly of the whale, and help the Jack of Diamonds rebuild the King of Hearts' house of cards?
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Sunrise, Sunset
Stress overwhelming, unusual for a gorgeous autumn Saturday, I had to get out of the house. I was feeling the easterly direction. So I hopped in the car, plugged in the iPod and Martin Sexton carried me "glory bound" to some northern fork solace. Passing through wine country, I wound up in the old whaling and seaport village of Greenport. I stopped by the Greenport Harbor Brewing Company, newly established in July 2009, for a round of tastes. Their beers are quite delicious and I bought a growler of the Harbor Ale, which I intended to drink amongst friends that night at a dinner party.
I walked down to the harbor, out on the dock, watching the ferry carry passengers over to Shelter Island as the sun slowly set over the water, looking inland.
I walked up to Front Street Station, a restaurant on Front Street where I enjoyed a pint of Greenport's pumpkin beer, Leaf Pile Ale, and a delicious cup of french onion soup. The Suffolk County fire instructor next to me said he fuckin hated the Yankees, but said they deserved the title and he'd give credit where credit's due.
I enjoy the quaintness of this out east sea town. It was a welcome distraction. My sour mood was immediately uplifted as I scaled the lengths of this island singing Martin Sexton in my Nissan Altima, and I was reminded of how easy it is to change one's mood in order to channel more positive energy, as the sun set in front of me, driving back west on the then-ironically-titled Sunrise Highway.
I walked down to the harbor, out on the dock, watching the ferry carry passengers over to Shelter Island as the sun slowly set over the water, looking inland.
I walked up to Front Street Station, a restaurant on Front Street where I enjoyed a pint of Greenport's pumpkin beer, Leaf Pile Ale, and a delicious cup of french onion soup. The Suffolk County fire instructor next to me said he fuckin hated the Yankees, but said they deserved the title and he'd give credit where credit's due.
I enjoy the quaintness of this out east sea town. It was a welcome distraction. My sour mood was immediately uplifted as I scaled the lengths of this island singing Martin Sexton in my Nissan Altima, and I was reminded of how easy it is to change one's mood in order to channel more positive energy, as the sun set in front of me, driving back west on the then-ironically-titled Sunrise Highway.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
A Call for Civility in This Moment
90% of poll voters on CNN.com say that society in general is becoming less civil. 9 out of 10 visitors to the website of "the most trusted name in news" think that we are going in an uncivilized direction in this country. That is telling.
This has been a strange time for news. Bob Dylan hit the nail on the head in the 60s, saying, "The times, they are a-changin'." That sentiment holds true 40 years later. Think about the rhetoric one year ago. Markets crashed because the Republican Presidential candidate said "the fundamentals of our economy were strong." The first major female Republican Vice-Presidential candidate called the Democratic Presidential candidate sexist for characterizing earmark spending, like any other lawmaker speaking colloquially would, as "putting lipstick on a pig." Shouts of "socialist" and "communist" plagued the first female Republican Vice-Presidential candidate's rallies, in reference to the first African-American major-party Presidential candidate. For a country enmeshed in many firsts, the rhetoric and name-calling was something rooted in past civil rights struggles of the 19th and 20th centuries.
When the African-American candidate, Barack Obama, got elected, elevated into the Oval Office by appealing to "the moment," he nor the country really understood how pivotal a moment it really was. The cycle of Republican followed by Democratic Presidents, years alternating between left or right-sided conversation guiding the country, had continued, adding another four years to the score. In the twenty years preceding, however, this process seemed to work. One ideology would be elected into power, with the minority effectively challenging and keeping the majority in check on the sidelines. Over the past 20 years or so, we've had an effective democracy in this sense. If the constituents disagreed with those in charge, they were demoted in the next election. Think George H.W. Bush, Al Gore, Tom Daschle, Ted Stevens, Norm Coleman, and the list goes on.
However, "the moment" began last year with the election of Barack Obama as President. This is a moment in time that has seemed to have changed the dynamic of the national conversation. In an election that seemed to bring the people back into the process--Barack Obama had street teams in every state, getting out the vote, which was a large part of his success--the people have since become relentless in their desire to stay in the process.
Twitter, the social network of sharing one's thoughts to the world in 140 characters or less, has become so ubiquitous that average Joe or "Sam" Wurzelbacher can find out what Miley Cyrus had for dinner last night. It is a way for average people to contribute to a national conversation, and it proved its worth in June when Iranians used twitter to break news to the world of the tyranny and injustice going on in the country that media outlets, symbols of democracy, were denied from covering.
Twitter has gotten more people talking, but has it been for the better? In government, there still needs to be a separation, a sense of respect between average citizens and our representatives. Yes, of course they are people too, but they are a dignified few who we millions believe should lead us through hard times, dealing with hard issues. The Twitterevolution in Iran set the tone for the summer, where Americans, becoming further stretched economically, took their frustrations out on the President's new health care plan.
In a society where everyone places their own voice on a pedestal for others to read and comment on, even journalists are losing their holier-than-thou lyrical luster. Everyone deserves the right to free speech; that is at the heart of democracy and these United States. But there has been a sense of egocentrism that has pervaded our society. Suddenly, constituents were haranguing their representatives, who voluntarily spent their summer breaks talking to them in the first place, about designing a society that would be better for all, where every person could have health coverage and where prices for insurance and the monetary cost of overall wellness would decrease.
However, once again, extremism took over rationalism. Instead of engaging in civil conversation, people across the country berated each other and their representatives in government who were trying to do the right thing. Media, social networks, and the click of a mouse and tap of a keyboard all contributed to the country's obsession with buzzwords like "death panels" and "public option." The wildfire of miscommunication began as quickly as one can type the acronym for "retweet." And our egocentrism has led our own people to ignore others as if they were sitting in the sandbox, one person plugging his ears, saying "nanny nanny poo poo" while the other is speaking.
Call it miscommunication or misunderstanding, whatever you call it, it is still lack of civility on the part of Americans. Instead of constructive criticism, we see Nazi swastikas, portraits of President Obama with a likening of Hitler, and elected officials hanging in effigy. Congressman Joe Wilson from South Carolina rudely interrupted the President's address to a joint-session of Congress in September, screaming "YOU LIE!" as the President outlined his ideas for reform. He is no better than the constituents that no doubt berated him, yet his outburst has given him over a million dollars towards his re-election campaign. In the same week, tennis player Serena Williams and rap artist Kanye West both contributed to Joe Wilson-style outbursts that were tweeted and retweeted, steering the national conversation to a more divisive tone of incivility.
President Obama's moment was intended to unite a country divided on war, poverty, climate, and social issues aplenty, but it seems the timing of his moment and society's reaction to it have enveloped his overall message.
Despite calls from some Democrats, including the President, to drop the issue regarding Joe Wilson's outburst, a resolution passed in Congress today, admonishing the lawmaker for embarrassing the House chambers and ignoring proper rules for decorum. During the resolution's arguments, I found part of Wilson's fellow South Carolinian Congressman James Clyburn's statement on the floor particularly interesting:
"This Hall is the most prominent classroom in this great country, and all of us are teachers. We are bound by duty and the offices we hold to conduct ourselves as such. Classroom teachers and school children across the country and around the world looking in on our proceedings should see proper decorum and hear civil discourse. Our teachers are expected to teach and our students to learn proper behavior. All of us are expected to give appropriate support and deference to the institutions that help us develop and maintain a civil and orderly society."
Whether you agree Joe Wilson should have received a formal repudiation or not, there is something beholden to all Americans in Rep. Clyburn's statement--that we should all give "support and deference to the institutions that help us develop and maintain a civil and orderly society." In this moment, if we don't have civility and order, the bedrock of this country could crumble, and 233 years of progress could fall out from underneath us.
And that's nothing to tweet about.
This has been a strange time for news. Bob Dylan hit the nail on the head in the 60s, saying, "The times, they are a-changin'." That sentiment holds true 40 years later. Think about the rhetoric one year ago. Markets crashed because the Republican Presidential candidate said "the fundamentals of our economy were strong." The first major female Republican Vice-Presidential candidate called the Democratic Presidential candidate sexist for characterizing earmark spending, like any other lawmaker speaking colloquially would, as "putting lipstick on a pig." Shouts of "socialist" and "communist" plagued the first female Republican Vice-Presidential candidate's rallies, in reference to the first African-American major-party Presidential candidate. For a country enmeshed in many firsts, the rhetoric and name-calling was something rooted in past civil rights struggles of the 19th and 20th centuries.
When the African-American candidate, Barack Obama, got elected, elevated into the Oval Office by appealing to "the moment," he nor the country really understood how pivotal a moment it really was. The cycle of Republican followed by Democratic Presidents, years alternating between left or right-sided conversation guiding the country, had continued, adding another four years to the score. In the twenty years preceding, however, this process seemed to work. One ideology would be elected into power, with the minority effectively challenging and keeping the majority in check on the sidelines. Over the past 20 years or so, we've had an effective democracy in this sense. If the constituents disagreed with those in charge, they were demoted in the next election. Think George H.W. Bush, Al Gore, Tom Daschle, Ted Stevens, Norm Coleman, and the list goes on.
However, "the moment" began last year with the election of Barack Obama as President. This is a moment in time that has seemed to have changed the dynamic of the national conversation. In an election that seemed to bring the people back into the process--Barack Obama had street teams in every state, getting out the vote, which was a large part of his success--the people have since become relentless in their desire to stay in the process.
Twitter, the social network of sharing one's thoughts to the world in 140 characters or less, has become so ubiquitous that average Joe or "Sam" Wurzelbacher can find out what Miley Cyrus had for dinner last night. It is a way for average people to contribute to a national conversation, and it proved its worth in June when Iranians used twitter to break news to the world of the tyranny and injustice going on in the country that media outlets, symbols of democracy, were denied from covering.
Twitter has gotten more people talking, but has it been for the better? In government, there still needs to be a separation, a sense of respect between average citizens and our representatives. Yes, of course they are people too, but they are a dignified few who we millions believe should lead us through hard times, dealing with hard issues. The Twitterevolution in Iran set the tone for the summer, where Americans, becoming further stretched economically, took their frustrations out on the President's new health care plan.
In a society where everyone places their own voice on a pedestal for others to read and comment on, even journalists are losing their holier-than-thou lyrical luster. Everyone deserves the right to free speech; that is at the heart of democracy and these United States. But there has been a sense of egocentrism that has pervaded our society. Suddenly, constituents were haranguing their representatives, who voluntarily spent their summer breaks talking to them in the first place, about designing a society that would be better for all, where every person could have health coverage and where prices for insurance and the monetary cost of overall wellness would decrease.
However, once again, extremism took over rationalism. Instead of engaging in civil conversation, people across the country berated each other and their representatives in government who were trying to do the right thing. Media, social networks, and the click of a mouse and tap of a keyboard all contributed to the country's obsession with buzzwords like "death panels" and "public option." The wildfire of miscommunication began as quickly as one can type the acronym for "retweet." And our egocentrism has led our own people to ignore others as if they were sitting in the sandbox, one person plugging his ears, saying "nanny nanny poo poo" while the other is speaking.
Call it miscommunication or misunderstanding, whatever you call it, it is still lack of civility on the part of Americans. Instead of constructive criticism, we see Nazi swastikas, portraits of President Obama with a likening of Hitler, and elected officials hanging in effigy. Congressman Joe Wilson from South Carolina rudely interrupted the President's address to a joint-session of Congress in September, screaming "YOU LIE!" as the President outlined his ideas for reform. He is no better than the constituents that no doubt berated him, yet his outburst has given him over a million dollars towards his re-election campaign. In the same week, tennis player Serena Williams and rap artist Kanye West both contributed to Joe Wilson-style outbursts that were tweeted and retweeted, steering the national conversation to a more divisive tone of incivility.
President Obama's moment was intended to unite a country divided on war, poverty, climate, and social issues aplenty, but it seems the timing of his moment and society's reaction to it have enveloped his overall message.
Despite calls from some Democrats, including the President, to drop the issue regarding Joe Wilson's outburst, a resolution passed in Congress today, admonishing the lawmaker for embarrassing the House chambers and ignoring proper rules for decorum. During the resolution's arguments, I found part of Wilson's fellow South Carolinian Congressman James Clyburn's statement on the floor particularly interesting:
"This Hall is the most prominent classroom in this great country, and all of us are teachers. We are bound by duty and the offices we hold to conduct ourselves as such. Classroom teachers and school children across the country and around the world looking in on our proceedings should see proper decorum and hear civil discourse. Our teachers are expected to teach and our students to learn proper behavior. All of us are expected to give appropriate support and deference to the institutions that help us develop and maintain a civil and orderly society."
Whether you agree Joe Wilson should have received a formal repudiation or not, there is something beholden to all Americans in Rep. Clyburn's statement--that we should all give "support and deference to the institutions that help us develop and maintain a civil and orderly society." In this moment, if we don't have civility and order, the bedrock of this country could crumble, and 233 years of progress could fall out from underneath us.
And that's nothing to tweet about.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Anticipation
Sitting here on the eve of my third year teaching, listening to Bruce Hornsby croon and Bela Fleck pluck the banjo, my anxiety and excitement are palpable. Every teacher knows the feeling; at least the good ones do. About 18 hours before that first bell rings, a pit forms in the stomach. It starts off about the size of a peach pit, when thoughts of the last summer day are still encompassing the mind's eye, but by dinnertime on that last night, the pit has grown to the size of a melon in anticipation for the 150 new faces to meet and entertain tomorrow.
Visions take shape of men and women in suits, shaking the hands of the young men and women who will enter the room 180 times for the next year, wherein they will experience--among other things like eating, entertaining, bad acting, singing, laughing, occasional crying, yelling, reading, and expounding--most of all, learning. Yes, this is the business of learning and for those critics who say teachers have it easy, with all the time off and all the cushioning that comes with the job, I ask them to experience the 24 hour anticipation that comes with each new year, knowing that what happens when that bell rings will shape the relationship with those 150 kids for the next year, and quite possibly for the rest of their lives. Now that's some heavy stuff.
Visions take shape of men and women in suits, shaking the hands of the young men and women who will enter the room 180 times for the next year, wherein they will experience--among other things like eating, entertaining, bad acting, singing, laughing, occasional crying, yelling, reading, and expounding--most of all, learning. Yes, this is the business of learning and for those critics who say teachers have it easy, with all the time off and all the cushioning that comes with the job, I ask them to experience the 24 hour anticipation that comes with each new year, knowing that what happens when that bell rings will shape the relationship with those 150 kids for the next year, and quite possibly for the rest of their lives. Now that's some heavy stuff.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Disappointment Abounds in the "Anti-Hamptons"
I have taken William Floyd Parkway south to Smith Point Beach on Fire Island my entire life. However, we would always stay on highways and the parkway, without really veering off course (save for a Carvel stop on the way home from the beach every now and then).
I have canoed down the Carmans River in Shirley and docked our boats at the Wertheim National Wildlife Refuge. But this is practically all I've known of this peninsular area of south-central Suffolk County.
Putting crime reports aside, a google search of either "Shirley" or "Mastic" will lead you to both towns' village exploration committees' websites. Apparently, community activists in both towns are pushing their respective councils to vote on creating villages of Smith Point and Mastic Beach that would hopefully strengthen the community and focus on its positive aspects, rather than the constant bad press the area receives. According to the website of the same name, the civic organizations in these areas are trying to make them into the "Anti-Hamptons." Well today, I set out to see if that was possible.
I started my foray into the neighborhood by driving down Smith Road in Shirley, which borders the National Wildlife Refuge. Driving through the residential neighborhood, I noticed ranches and two-story houses that were nothing to really speak of. Your average middle-class Long Island household. However, turning onto Carman View Drive, we started to get a sense of the households that are behind the push for the village. Many of these beautiful houses, colonials patriotically flying the American flag, had signs in the front yards proclaiming "We Support the SPVEC Effort." The beauty and expanse of these houses, however, did not expand past this one area of the neighborhood. On Golden Gate Drive, established in 1956, four homes were for sale, and the only houses that really stood out were ones directly on the riverfront.
We passed the Manor of St. George, a mansion that is the only remnant of the land purchased by Colonel William Smith from the Indians in 1691, which included the entire Shirley/Mastic peninsula and land all the way east to Southampton. This historic purchase, easily one of the first major settlements on Long Island, is now relegated to a small mansion hidden in the woods off of a dirt road behind Santatecla Restaurant in Shirley, and happened to be closed on Mondays during the summer. This was the first unfortunate, disappointing discovery of the day.
On to Shirley Beach at Smith's Landing on Grandview Drive, where there was one lifeguard on duty, who spent most of the time we were there fixing his umbrella, and three lifeguards in the recreation room just watching TV or listening to the radio. The beach is a mere 20 feet wide, by maybe 100 yards in length, and the part of the water (the Carmans River) that is bathable is maybe two feet deep. There were 3 kids in the water, 1 black and 2 white, while about a handful of parents/residents sat on the dirty sand and looked on. There was a nice playground, but the sparsity of this beach did not contribute to the allure I was searching for in the proposed Village of Smith Point. It is nice and scenic by the river, but otherwise, the attraction here was relatively minimal.
Shirley's business district mainly being the densely populated William Floyd Parkway, we decided to cross over and head into Mastic Beach, which has signs promoting their business district. Parked at the laundromat, we walked around the town's main street, Neighborhood Road, which doesn't seem to get much daily foot traffic and doesn't have much to offer those who would stop by, like we did. Passing the New York State historical sign documenting the establishment of the Mastic Beach Town Square on July 4th, 1976 "to celebrate the nations' bicentennial [Bicentennial Motto: Beautification-Thru-Historic Endevor] (sic)" and the Village Exploration Committee building (proclaiming "We Support Mastic Beach 'The Village'"), we entered the town of Mastic Beach. Walking past a Handy Pantry, Barbara's Kitchen advertising home cooking, and a barber shop, we went into the sole bar, LinsaTorr's Place.
LinsaTorr's is dark, quiet, and thankfully air-conditioned. There were two men sitting at the bar talking to the flowery-dressed bartender who laughed when I asked to use the restroom, which informed me via the writings on the wall, "Don't f*#@ with grandma." Interesting place. A Bud Light bottle was a surprisingly low $3.50 and we sat in relative silence, admiring the patriotic signs on the walls and listening to the Jagermeister machine powering up. After the old, bearded gentleman saw on the backwards clock (it counted clockwise from 12 to 1) that "it's 12 o'clock already," and the other man left to get food, it was us and the flowered bartender who kept circling the bar looking for something to do.
I took the opportunity, after she got back from a smoke, to ask the bartender about the proposed village of Mastic Beach. Her response, unsurprisingly: "More government is just going to raise my taxes."
"I'm not for it. They're gonna raise my taxes," she repeated.
I asked how she thought it might benefit the town, having more money coming in for development.
"I don't know how." She became shy, somber all of a sudden, like I had given her a 50-question short-answer exam and she didn't know how to answer a single one. "I dunno," she continued. "I just don't want to have to follow their stupid rules like in Patchogue." Patchogue is a town-turned-village that is starting to come around, due to its influx of restaurants and bars, culture centers that bring a positive, younger clientele to the town. There is a blues-music scene that pairs well with a craft beer-drinking scene to whom the development-friendly mayor, Paul Pontieri, keeps catering.
We finished our beers, thanked the flowered bartender, who left us with one remaining thought on the subject: "It's not going to keep the garbage out of Mastic Beach." And she's probably right.
We drove over to the William Floyd Estate, where the signer of the Declaration of Independence once lived, which is now part of the National Parks Service and the Department of the Interior. However, disappointment greeted us once again with closed gates. I never expected a U.S. Government-run division of the NPS national historic landmark to be closed on a Monday afternoon, without any times posted for when it would actually be open. This only further contributed to our dilapidated and dysfunctional view of Mastic Beach so far that day.
Past stop signs with bullet holes in them to Oceanview Drive, lined with shacks, once summer cottages, looking out onto Forge River and the Great South Bay, we arrived at Osprey Park, where half of the dock was under construction, a Link Belt crane sitting in the water off the dock, next to a woman fishing. There was only one osprey nest in plain sight. The park was created as part of the 1996 Clean Air/Water Act, yet the water didn't look all that clean. The family of ducks out in the river was disrupted by a motor boat that drove right through them. Past an Indian man and two kids crabbing or searching for bait fish, a woman smoking at a picnic table (clean air?), a monarch butterfly, and the remnants of a playground, where Journey was playing on a hidden radio, we had seen nary an osprey and enough of this "park."
One right turn off of Mastic Road and you are on the Poospatuck Indian Reservation, population 271, the smallest reservation in the state of New York. Yet, Poospatuck must have the most per-capita smoke shops. The amount, for such a small area of side-streets, was uncanny. Shacks and huge stores. Trading Posts and sheds. All smoke shops. They were even attached to houses and mobile homes. It was incredible. The Poospatucks must have the most thriving business in all of Mastic.
Back on Mastic Road heading north, we stopped at Mike's Place Too just past the train tracks and next to the fire department, where we were drawn in by the Monday special: Buy one burger, get one free. This place was a real down-home American sports bar, with a fire-department border in the men's room, Giants and Yankees memorabilia everywhere, and a guy at the bar doing color commentary about this weekend's Yankees sweep over the Red Sox. My buffalo burger and fries were pretty good, but I definitely enjoyed the atmosphere, where mostly everyone sitting at the bar was a regular who knew the bartender, Nicole's, name and vice-versa. Definitely a place worth checking out in Mastic.
Scratch that...Mikes' Place Too is the only place worth checking out in Mastic, Mastic Beach, and Shirley, the poverty-plagued peninsula formed between the beautiful Carmens and Forge Rivers. My companion Brendan summed up the entire visit by saying, "It seems that there are a lot of community-oriented people here; their communities just suck."
I have canoed down the Carmans River in Shirley and docked our boats at the Wertheim National Wildlife Refuge. But this is practically all I've known of this peninsular area of south-central Suffolk County.
Putting crime reports aside, a google search of either "Shirley" or "Mastic" will lead you to both towns' village exploration committees' websites. Apparently, community activists in both towns are pushing their respective councils to vote on creating villages of Smith Point and Mastic Beach that would hopefully strengthen the community and focus on its positive aspects, rather than the constant bad press the area receives. According to the website of the same name, the civic organizations in these areas are trying to make them into the "Anti-Hamptons." Well today, I set out to see if that was possible.
I started my foray into the neighborhood by driving down Smith Road in Shirley, which borders the National Wildlife Refuge. Driving through the residential neighborhood, I noticed ranches and two-story houses that were nothing to really speak of. Your average middle-class Long Island household. However, turning onto Carman View Drive, we started to get a sense of the households that are behind the push for the village. Many of these beautiful houses, colonials patriotically flying the American flag, had signs in the front yards proclaiming "We Support the SPVEC Effort." The beauty and expanse of these houses, however, did not expand past this one area of the neighborhood. On Golden Gate Drive, established in 1956, four homes were for sale, and the only houses that really stood out were ones directly on the riverfront.
We passed the Manor of St. George, a mansion that is the only remnant of the land purchased by Colonel William Smith from the Indians in 1691, which included the entire Shirley/Mastic peninsula and land all the way east to Southampton. This historic purchase, easily one of the first major settlements on Long Island, is now relegated to a small mansion hidden in the woods off of a dirt road behind Santatecla Restaurant in Shirley, and happened to be closed on Mondays during the summer. This was the first unfortunate, disappointing discovery of the day.
On to Shirley Beach at Smith's Landing on Grandview Drive, where there was one lifeguard on duty, who spent most of the time we were there fixing his umbrella, and three lifeguards in the recreation room just watching TV or listening to the radio. The beach is a mere 20 feet wide, by maybe 100 yards in length, and the part of the water (the Carmans River) that is bathable is maybe two feet deep. There were 3 kids in the water, 1 black and 2 white, while about a handful of parents/residents sat on the dirty sand and looked on. There was a nice playground, but the sparsity of this beach did not contribute to the allure I was searching for in the proposed Village of Smith Point. It is nice and scenic by the river, but otherwise, the attraction here was relatively minimal.
Shirley's business district mainly being the densely populated William Floyd Parkway, we decided to cross over and head into Mastic Beach, which has signs promoting their business district. Parked at the laundromat, we walked around the town's main street, Neighborhood Road, which doesn't seem to get much daily foot traffic and doesn't have much to offer those who would stop by, like we did. Passing the New York State historical sign documenting the establishment of the Mastic Beach Town Square on July 4th, 1976 "to celebrate the nations' bicentennial [Bicentennial Motto: Beautification-Thru-Historic Endevor] (sic)" and the Village Exploration Committee building (proclaiming "We Support Mastic Beach 'The Village'"), we entered the town of Mastic Beach. Walking past a Handy Pantry, Barbara's Kitchen advertising home cooking, and a barber shop, we went into the sole bar, LinsaTorr's Place.
LinsaTorr's is dark, quiet, and thankfully air-conditioned. There were two men sitting at the bar talking to the flowery-dressed bartender who laughed when I asked to use the restroom, which informed me via the writings on the wall, "Don't f*#@ with grandma." Interesting place. A Bud Light bottle was a surprisingly low $3.50 and we sat in relative silence, admiring the patriotic signs on the walls and listening to the Jagermeister machine powering up. After the old, bearded gentleman saw on the backwards clock (it counted clockwise from 12 to 1) that "it's 12 o'clock already," and the other man left to get food, it was us and the flowered bartender who kept circling the bar looking for something to do.
I took the opportunity, after she got back from a smoke, to ask the bartender about the proposed village of Mastic Beach. Her response, unsurprisingly: "More government is just going to raise my taxes."
"I'm not for it. They're gonna raise my taxes," she repeated.
I asked how she thought it might benefit the town, having more money coming in for development.
"I don't know how." She became shy, somber all of a sudden, like I had given her a 50-question short-answer exam and she didn't know how to answer a single one. "I dunno," she continued. "I just don't want to have to follow their stupid rules like in Patchogue." Patchogue is a town-turned-village that is starting to come around, due to its influx of restaurants and bars, culture centers that bring a positive, younger clientele to the town. There is a blues-music scene that pairs well with a craft beer-drinking scene to whom the development-friendly mayor, Paul Pontieri, keeps catering.
We finished our beers, thanked the flowered bartender, who left us with one remaining thought on the subject: "It's not going to keep the garbage out of Mastic Beach." And she's probably right.
We drove over to the William Floyd Estate, where the signer of the Declaration of Independence once lived, which is now part of the National Parks Service and the Department of the Interior. However, disappointment greeted us once again with closed gates. I never expected a U.S. Government-run division of the NPS national historic landmark to be closed on a Monday afternoon, without any times posted for when it would actually be open. This only further contributed to our dilapidated and dysfunctional view of Mastic Beach so far that day.
Past stop signs with bullet holes in them to Oceanview Drive, lined with shacks, once summer cottages, looking out onto Forge River and the Great South Bay, we arrived at Osprey Park, where half of the dock was under construction, a Link Belt crane sitting in the water off the dock, next to a woman fishing. There was only one osprey nest in plain sight. The park was created as part of the 1996 Clean Air/Water Act, yet the water didn't look all that clean. The family of ducks out in the river was disrupted by a motor boat that drove right through them. Past an Indian man and two kids crabbing or searching for bait fish, a woman smoking at a picnic table (clean air?), a monarch butterfly, and the remnants of a playground, where Journey was playing on a hidden radio, we had seen nary an osprey and enough of this "park."
One right turn off of Mastic Road and you are on the Poospatuck Indian Reservation, population 271, the smallest reservation in the state of New York. Yet, Poospatuck must have the most per-capita smoke shops. The amount, for such a small area of side-streets, was uncanny. Shacks and huge stores. Trading Posts and sheds. All smoke shops. They were even attached to houses and mobile homes. It was incredible. The Poospatucks must have the most thriving business in all of Mastic.
Back on Mastic Road heading north, we stopped at Mike's Place Too just past the train tracks and next to the fire department, where we were drawn in by the Monday special: Buy one burger, get one free. This place was a real down-home American sports bar, with a fire-department border in the men's room, Giants and Yankees memorabilia everywhere, and a guy at the bar doing color commentary about this weekend's Yankees sweep over the Red Sox. My buffalo burger and fries were pretty good, but I definitely enjoyed the atmosphere, where mostly everyone sitting at the bar was a regular who knew the bartender, Nicole's, name and vice-versa. Definitely a place worth checking out in Mastic.
Scratch that...Mikes' Place Too is the only place worth checking out in Mastic, Mastic Beach, and Shirley, the poverty-plagued peninsula formed between the beautiful Carmens and Forge Rivers. My companion Brendan summed up the entire visit by saying, "It seems that there are a lot of community-oriented people here; their communities just suck."
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Bellport, Brookhaven, and Yaphank - friendly LI hamlets and villages
East on Route 27, Sunrise Highway. Pass Hospital Road, don't confuse it for Station Road. If you confuse Hospital for Station, you can get off at Route 101 (Patchogue-Yaphank Road), heading south past Brookhaven Hospital and Best Bargain Books into East Patchogue, where you can hop onto South Country Road heading east. After a few miles, the speed limit changes to 30 mph and there are American flags hanging on the telephone posts, and you know you're in a village, the village of Bellport. Pass the intersection of South Country and Station Road, though, and you have missed the village of Bellport.
Four corners of the village of Bellport, each containing one restaurant and a few shoppes, this town is easy to miss but also easy to like and appreciate for its distinct welcoming community. Founded by Captains Thomas and John Bell in the 1800s, this would-be seaport is now a quiet, cozy community for full-time residents and affluent Manhattanites, seeking to escape the bustling city for laid-back Long Island living.
It's possible to walk the village of Bellport in about 10 minutes, peering into the windows of the village's Natural Pharmacy, on which there is a sign written "No cell phones please - Unless Really Really Really Important" with s smiley face, and reading the menus of the four major restaurants: Avino's Italian Table, Meritage, The Bellport Restuarant, and Porter's on the Lane. We had settled on Porter's, for its "Winesday" specials (more to come on that later), but wanted to breathe in what Bellport had to offer first.
On the northeast corner of Station Road and South Country, there is a store with tons of beach balls in the window. No store name, no awning, just a sign on the door that says "OPEN." Upon entering, we were greeted by random paintings, T-shirts, surfboards, marine paraphernalia, and a man in a tight-fitted beige dress shirt and beard. Quinn, a 20-year old college student at Pratt Institute in Brooklyn, is the "old soul" type, the new-age liberal art student who wants to celebrate the diverse culture of Bellport and Long Island by opening a community showcase, the Halftone Corner Store Cooperative. Everything in the store, which is run by Quinn and two of his friends, all Bellport residents, is made for or designed by local artists/residents. They screen documentaries nightly and have jazz bands perform on the weekends. This showcase represents the art-elitist side that Bellport harbors, yet it is presented in a way that would grab everyman off the street and accustom him to new culture in a way that is hardly overbearing. Quinn was kind enough to give his recommendations and knowledge of Bellport, and I found him to be genuinely interested in us and our true survey of culture in Bellport.
Leaving Quinn's store, we rounded down S. Country past the quaint Bellport Restaurant, and back around towards Porters on the Lane. The acoustic-guitar-playing entertainment on break, we decided to take a seat in the dining room of the nautical-themed eatery. Our server, Courtney, super-model tanned and beautifully blonde, informed us that the Winesday special and the hummus plate were only available at the bar, a strange way of running specials, I thought. After ordering a bottle of Relax Riesling, we decided to order the hummus anyway, a scrumptious crab cake with vegetables baked into it and an avocado sauce base, with an order of the graham cracker-breaded fried calamari, which was tremendous. The food was impressive, the staff was generous and helpful, and the owner John was affable in his inquiry into our dining experience at his delightful new restaurant (only opening in 2008).
John co-owns Carla Marla's ice cream shoppe across the street with his wife, Jenni. The size of a shack, with curbside "dog parking" in front, Carla Marla's is quite possibly the last mom and pop ice cream shoppe standing on a Long Island taken over by Carvels, Ralph's, and Rita's. My two-scoop cone of Butterfinger Blast and my companion Kerri's cup of Piece of Cake were delicious saccharine treats, satiating our walk down Bellport Lane towards the bay. At the end of the road lined with old Victorians and fish captains' houses, past the cannon commemorating all veterans, is the Bellport Bay Yacht Club. The bay water is cloudy, but not a deterrent to families coming in off of their boats, washing them off with a hose once ashore. Joining us on the dock were a man with a red polo and his two dogs, families in polo shirts enjoying the nighttime at the yacht club, grandma and grandpa crabbing with their handful of grandchildren, a man talking to a woman on a bike about his 55 Ford, and the bugs gnawing on us as the docks creaked and day turned into night. As we were leaving, the yacht club warden was interrogating a woman who had just pulled up in her station wagon with a sticker from 2005. She was being aggressively told that she needed a new one. We walked past them towards the ferry station, which takes a Bellport guest for $15 to the exclusive Bellport Beach on Fire Island, which is not accessible by car.
As we walked past Porters heading towards the car, Courtney on the front porch saw us and asked us what we thought of the bay. Admiring her congeniality and friendliness, we answered that the bay was beautiful, with which she agreed, and she wished us well as we departed, completely taken aback by the friendliness this small Long Island village had to offer us tonight.
Further on down South Country Road in Brookhaven is Painters Restaurant and Bar. The entire high-ceiling venue is filled with paintings on the walls, murals depicting headless men and women, unknown portraits of men, landscapes and abstracts. The frog-in-throat bartender informed us, as if my sweat glands hadn't already picked up on the fact, that the air conditioning was broken, as were their taps (which was a disappointing blow, since they had the elusive Delirium Tremens on its pink elephant tap). Dripping sweat, we sat at the bar through one bottled drink, observing the paintings and the company of an old man reading a magazine drinking red wine, and two men eating each other's pasta, being recognized by the woman at the other end of the bar. Painters is an interesting bar, and I would have liked to stay for open mic night, but I could not take the heat, so back to the road we went.
Hopping on Montauk Highway for a minute, then a stint on Horseblock Road in Brookhaven, and quickly off to Rocky Point-Yaphank Road, we passed Lower Lake and turned onto Main Street in Yaphank, where we found the Black Rock Tavern. A quick digression about the Main Street of Yaphank: picture a T-intersection with a refurbished 1950s-era Shell station on the left-hand corner. Maybe a storefront on your right. That's it. Small post office and one Washington Mutual later, and you are out of downtown Yaphank, a town sequestered in the geographical center of Long Island, which was first settled in 1726, and which is now very proud of its historical heritage. The Black Rock Tavern plays into the heritage of this country more than the tiny town that inhabits it, with license plates on the walls from all different states (Montana and South Dakota right in front of us and spurring conversation amidst our dollar beers), baseballs bordering the walls, with artifacts like a mitt and boxing punching bag everywhere you look. The downfall with this old western-style tavern was the beat-bumping dance music that was flowing nonstop from the jukebox and which drove most of the customers from the place. Definitely a different style Long Island bar worth checking out, however. I have hiked the trails around Yaphank before, some part of the Paumanok Path, and the lakes and rivers that surround the town are beautiful, so knowing about the Black Rock Tavern will be helpful for a respite or day trip out to eastern Brookhaven Town, where the amount of small villages and friendly inhabitants is more numerous than previously thought.
Four corners of the village of Bellport, each containing one restaurant and a few shoppes, this town is easy to miss but also easy to like and appreciate for its distinct welcoming community. Founded by Captains Thomas and John Bell in the 1800s, this would-be seaport is now a quiet, cozy community for full-time residents and affluent Manhattanites, seeking to escape the bustling city for laid-back Long Island living.
It's possible to walk the village of Bellport in about 10 minutes, peering into the windows of the village's Natural Pharmacy, on which there is a sign written "No cell phones please - Unless Really Really Really Important" with s smiley face, and reading the menus of the four major restaurants: Avino's Italian Table, Meritage, The Bellport Restuarant, and Porter's on the Lane. We had settled on Porter's, for its "Winesday" specials (more to come on that later), but wanted to breathe in what Bellport had to offer first.
On the northeast corner of Station Road and South Country, there is a store with tons of beach balls in the window. No store name, no awning, just a sign on the door that says "OPEN." Upon entering, we were greeted by random paintings, T-shirts, surfboards, marine paraphernalia, and a man in a tight-fitted beige dress shirt and beard. Quinn, a 20-year old college student at Pratt Institute in Brooklyn, is the "old soul" type, the new-age liberal art student who wants to celebrate the diverse culture of Bellport and Long Island by opening a community showcase, the Halftone Corner Store Cooperative. Everything in the store, which is run by Quinn and two of his friends, all Bellport residents, is made for or designed by local artists/residents. They screen documentaries nightly and have jazz bands perform on the weekends. This showcase represents the art-elitist side that Bellport harbors, yet it is presented in a way that would grab everyman off the street and accustom him to new culture in a way that is hardly overbearing. Quinn was kind enough to give his recommendations and knowledge of Bellport, and I found him to be genuinely interested in us and our true survey of culture in Bellport.
Leaving Quinn's store, we rounded down S. Country past the quaint Bellport Restaurant, and back around towards Porters on the Lane. The acoustic-guitar-playing entertainment on break, we decided to take a seat in the dining room of the nautical-themed eatery. Our server, Courtney, super-model tanned and beautifully blonde, informed us that the Winesday special and the hummus plate were only available at the bar, a strange way of running specials, I thought. After ordering a bottle of Relax Riesling, we decided to order the hummus anyway, a scrumptious crab cake with vegetables baked into it and an avocado sauce base, with an order of the graham cracker-breaded fried calamari, which was tremendous. The food was impressive, the staff was generous and helpful, and the owner John was affable in his inquiry into our dining experience at his delightful new restaurant (only opening in 2008).
John co-owns Carla Marla's ice cream shoppe across the street with his wife, Jenni. The size of a shack, with curbside "dog parking" in front, Carla Marla's is quite possibly the last mom and pop ice cream shoppe standing on a Long Island taken over by Carvels, Ralph's, and Rita's. My two-scoop cone of Butterfinger Blast and my companion Kerri's cup of Piece of Cake were delicious saccharine treats, satiating our walk down Bellport Lane towards the bay. At the end of the road lined with old Victorians and fish captains' houses, past the cannon commemorating all veterans, is the Bellport Bay Yacht Club. The bay water is cloudy, but not a deterrent to families coming in off of their boats, washing them off with a hose once ashore. Joining us on the dock were a man with a red polo and his two dogs, families in polo shirts enjoying the nighttime at the yacht club, grandma and grandpa crabbing with their handful of grandchildren, a man talking to a woman on a bike about his 55 Ford, and the bugs gnawing on us as the docks creaked and day turned into night. As we were leaving, the yacht club warden was interrogating a woman who had just pulled up in her station wagon with a sticker from 2005. She was being aggressively told that she needed a new one. We walked past them towards the ferry station, which takes a Bellport guest for $15 to the exclusive Bellport Beach on Fire Island, which is not accessible by car.
As we walked past Porters heading towards the car, Courtney on the front porch saw us and asked us what we thought of the bay. Admiring her congeniality and friendliness, we answered that the bay was beautiful, with which she agreed, and she wished us well as we departed, completely taken aback by the friendliness this small Long Island village had to offer us tonight.
Further on down South Country Road in Brookhaven is Painters Restaurant and Bar. The entire high-ceiling venue is filled with paintings on the walls, murals depicting headless men and women, unknown portraits of men, landscapes and abstracts. The frog-in-throat bartender informed us, as if my sweat glands hadn't already picked up on the fact, that the air conditioning was broken, as were their taps (which was a disappointing blow, since they had the elusive Delirium Tremens on its pink elephant tap). Dripping sweat, we sat at the bar through one bottled drink, observing the paintings and the company of an old man reading a magazine drinking red wine, and two men eating each other's pasta, being recognized by the woman at the other end of the bar. Painters is an interesting bar, and I would have liked to stay for open mic night, but I could not take the heat, so back to the road we went.
Hopping on Montauk Highway for a minute, then a stint on Horseblock Road in Brookhaven, and quickly off to Rocky Point-Yaphank Road, we passed Lower Lake and turned onto Main Street in Yaphank, where we found the Black Rock Tavern. A quick digression about the Main Street of Yaphank: picture a T-intersection with a refurbished 1950s-era Shell station on the left-hand corner. Maybe a storefront on your right. That's it. Small post office and one Washington Mutual later, and you are out of downtown Yaphank, a town sequestered in the geographical center of Long Island, which was first settled in 1726, and which is now very proud of its historical heritage. The Black Rock Tavern plays into the heritage of this country more than the tiny town that inhabits it, with license plates on the walls from all different states (Montana and South Dakota right in front of us and spurring conversation amidst our dollar beers), baseballs bordering the walls, with artifacts like a mitt and boxing punching bag everywhere you look. The downfall with this old western-style tavern was the beat-bumping dance music that was flowing nonstop from the jukebox and which drove most of the customers from the place. Definitely a different style Long Island bar worth checking out, however. I have hiked the trails around Yaphank before, some part of the Paumanok Path, and the lakes and rivers that surround the town are beautiful, so knowing about the Black Rock Tavern will be helpful for a respite or day trip out to eastern Brookhaven Town, where the amount of small villages and friendly inhabitants is more numerous than previously thought.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Somewhere Only We Know: Searching For the Sun in Stony Brook
Driving west along 25A in Stony Brook, or maybe it was Village of the Head of the Harbor at this point, a glance to my right and I am struck by this beautiful, voluminous orange orb receding into my horizon. I try not to veer off the road, but try even harder to follow the sinking sun. If I could drive through all of the towering trees and mansions instead of meandering down the 25 miles-per-hour no-parking-allowed Head of the Harbor road, I'd have spotted my sun in no time. However, I cannot find a place that would truly put me on par with the horizon to view my spontaneously desired sunset.
After fuel from Cool Beanz in St. James and a couple of inspirational words from William Least Heat-Moon, I could not let my desire for the horizon simply fade with the setting sun. I set back out on 25A heading east this time into Stony Brook Village and drive to the marina at the harbor in hopes of viewing the orb disappear into the horizon. My sun, however, is gone, but its remnants remain in the hues of orange, purple, and grey that streak the darkening blue sky. Other than the bugs--gnats, a suitable monosyllabic moniker for an insect not worthy of anything more--and the birds cacophonously croaking their hymns across the channel at their sanctuary, I am joined by some other sunset seekers:
-An Asian woman and her daughter, both wearing different shades of purple, taking a dip in the harbor water cordoned off for those wanting a late night swim.
-A bald man in jeans and red polo shirt sitting contemplatively on the sand apparently not minding getting his socks dirty to get a view of the natural sunset with me, the Asian woman, her daughter, and the birds in the distance.
-A couple perched atop the lifeguard stand, who presumably belong to the car in the parking lot with the Ward Melville High School 2009 sticker. I wonder if they are going to college, where, and if they will try to stick it out for their freshman year.
Trying to avoid the bugs (unsuccessfully, of course), I move closer to the water where I observe in the distance a small vessel, a dinghy or small power boat, coming into the harbor with the last minutes of daylight fresh on its tail. The boat is called Master Craft and clearly they do not need the light of the setting sun to master what they do.
Do any of us need light to be masters of our crafts, I wonder? I never sit fully in the dark; I do not think it possible to be productive in the dark. Light, therefore, is of utmost importance, and I set out to find what happens in Stony Brook when the light of daytime slips away into the night.
Instead of taking notes in my phone while I am walking the half mile or so into town, I decide to stop and write in the first few pages of the book I am currently reading by the aforementioned William Least Heat-Moon, Blue Highways. Still at the marina, I pass:
-An Asian man reading, possibly studying, while looking out onto the harbor.
-A balding man by himself fishing.
-A man in a red shirt with his daughter and son, also fishing.
I pass the Stony Brook Yacht Club, and the old-fashioned lampposts leading up to it, which are lit up and have an eagle on top of them. Gnats pestering me still, I pass by the Three Village Inn and its country cottages, towards the moon, which looks almost full. I guess I missed out on the full moon last night, I wonder as I head into the Village Center of Stony Brook, which could be the Village Center of Jackson Hole, Wyoming or Bozeman, Montana for its remoteness and sparsity. It is not yet 8:30 and everything seems closed. An American flag stands next to a garbage can that reads "I like to see a man proud of the place in which he lives" - Abraham Lincoln. This garbage can quotation and American flag juxtaposition resonates with me.
I wonder where a person goes for a drink in the village of Stony Brook at 8:30 on Monday night. There is a barren answer of "nowhere", as I wonder to myself, looking at the flags in the dark store windows. The restaurant Pentimento is closed on Monday, evidenced by the lone person inside painting the walls, surrounded other than his hallspace in complete darkness.
Wandering this village is strange with nothing and no one around. I notice in one of the store windows that Conor, a 3rd grader at a nearby elementary school, drew a picture representing the Stony Brook Fire Department's 100th anniversary. I pass by the fire department, erected of course in 1909, which is dormant as well. Coming to the end of the Village Center, I decide to head back to my car.
On the way back, past the chairs set up for a wedding at the Three Village Inn, I see the sandy-socked, red-shirted bald man walking with the purplish Asian woman and her purplish child holding a beach ball. He was as quiet as I on the beach, having no interaction with them while we were both sitting on the beach, observing the horizon. I would have never guessed them to be together. What was he thinking about? Was he wondering why I was pounding at my small keyboard, looking at him, his wife, and daughter?
As I get back to my car, I see Master Craft still waiting to dock and the man and his kids arguing about what they didn't catch that night at the Stony Brook harbor marina. I need to talk to someone here to find out what it's really like.
In search of a bar, I make my way back to 25A and to Stony Brook's The Bench Bar & Grill (nee The Park Bench), where I drink my Blue Point RastafaRye alongside a dozen guys watching the Mets-Braves game and a girl playing Kings of Leon on the jukebox.
I like the feel of this place, The Bench. It's dark and reminds me of an old-school joint, lots of signs and knick-knacks on the walls to stare at and read when you're tired of observing the guys watching the Mets lose. I am inclined to taste the bartender-recommended beer, Long Ireland, which is a delicious dark beer with sweet vanilla flavor hiding behind caramel-coated hops. I find out that it's brewed by the guys sitting next to me, Greg and Dan, who travel from Bridgeport, Connecticut, on the ferry everyday to promote their craft brewing company gem. I talk to Greg and Dan about the light effect on beer, how in a few years craft beers will be seen in cans because light coming in through the bottles slowly makes the beer lose its flavor, in a sense, "skunking" the beer. I learn here in The Bench that light is not always such a positive thing; however, I suppose my following the light of the sun tonight led me to this realization.
On my way home from Stony Brook, driving south on Nicolls Road, it's a beautiful night for the windows down, progressive rock radio of WEHM turned on, blasting "Laid" by James and "Great Gig in the Sky" by Pink Floyd, and I think that nighttime and darkness are alright sometimes. As I pull into my driveway, the song "Somewhere Only We Know" by Keane comes onto the station, and, listening to the lyrics, I determine my goal for the next month: I will find out the ins and outs of the place I live, Suffolk County, Long Island, someplace only I know.
I walked across an empty land
I knew the pathway like the back of my hand
I felt the earth beneath my feet
Sat by the river and it made me complete
Oh simple thing where have you gone
I'm getting old and I need something to rely on
So tell me when you're gonna let me in
I'm getting tired and I need somewhere to begin
After fuel from Cool Beanz in St. James and a couple of inspirational words from William Least Heat-Moon, I could not let my desire for the horizon simply fade with the setting sun. I set back out on 25A heading east this time into Stony Brook Village and drive to the marina at the harbor in hopes of viewing the orb disappear into the horizon. My sun, however, is gone, but its remnants remain in the hues of orange, purple, and grey that streak the darkening blue sky. Other than the bugs--gnats, a suitable monosyllabic moniker for an insect not worthy of anything more--and the birds cacophonously croaking their hymns across the channel at their sanctuary, I am joined by some other sunset seekers:
-An Asian woman and her daughter, both wearing different shades of purple, taking a dip in the harbor water cordoned off for those wanting a late night swim.
-A bald man in jeans and red polo shirt sitting contemplatively on the sand apparently not minding getting his socks dirty to get a view of the natural sunset with me, the Asian woman, her daughter, and the birds in the distance.
-A couple perched atop the lifeguard stand, who presumably belong to the car in the parking lot with the Ward Melville High School 2009 sticker. I wonder if they are going to college, where, and if they will try to stick it out for their freshman year.
Trying to avoid the bugs (unsuccessfully, of course), I move closer to the water where I observe in the distance a small vessel, a dinghy or small power boat, coming into the harbor with the last minutes of daylight fresh on its tail. The boat is called Master Craft and clearly they do not need the light of the setting sun to master what they do.
Do any of us need light to be masters of our crafts, I wonder? I never sit fully in the dark; I do not think it possible to be productive in the dark. Light, therefore, is of utmost importance, and I set out to find what happens in Stony Brook when the light of daytime slips away into the night.
Instead of taking notes in my phone while I am walking the half mile or so into town, I decide to stop and write in the first few pages of the book I am currently reading by the aforementioned William Least Heat-Moon, Blue Highways. Still at the marina, I pass:
-An Asian man reading, possibly studying, while looking out onto the harbor.
-A balding man by himself fishing.
-A man in a red shirt with his daughter and son, also fishing.
I pass the Stony Brook Yacht Club, and the old-fashioned lampposts leading up to it, which are lit up and have an eagle on top of them. Gnats pestering me still, I pass by the Three Village Inn and its country cottages, towards the moon, which looks almost full. I guess I missed out on the full moon last night, I wonder as I head into the Village Center of Stony Brook, which could be the Village Center of Jackson Hole, Wyoming or Bozeman, Montana for its remoteness and sparsity. It is not yet 8:30 and everything seems closed. An American flag stands next to a garbage can that reads "I like to see a man proud of the place in which he lives" - Abraham Lincoln. This garbage can quotation and American flag juxtaposition resonates with me.
I wonder where a person goes for a drink in the village of Stony Brook at 8:30 on Monday night. There is a barren answer of "nowhere", as I wonder to myself, looking at the flags in the dark store windows. The restaurant Pentimento is closed on Monday, evidenced by the lone person inside painting the walls, surrounded other than his hallspace in complete darkness.
Wandering this village is strange with nothing and no one around. I notice in one of the store windows that Conor, a 3rd grader at a nearby elementary school, drew a picture representing the Stony Brook Fire Department's 100th anniversary. I pass by the fire department, erected of course in 1909, which is dormant as well. Coming to the end of the Village Center, I decide to head back to my car.
On the way back, past the chairs set up for a wedding at the Three Village Inn, I see the sandy-socked, red-shirted bald man walking with the purplish Asian woman and her purplish child holding a beach ball. He was as quiet as I on the beach, having no interaction with them while we were both sitting on the beach, observing the horizon. I would have never guessed them to be together. What was he thinking about? Was he wondering why I was pounding at my small keyboard, looking at him, his wife, and daughter?
As I get back to my car, I see Master Craft still waiting to dock and the man and his kids arguing about what they didn't catch that night at the Stony Brook harbor marina. I need to talk to someone here to find out what it's really like.
In search of a bar, I make my way back to 25A and to Stony Brook's The Bench Bar & Grill (nee The Park Bench), where I drink my Blue Point RastafaRye alongside a dozen guys watching the Mets-Braves game and a girl playing Kings of Leon on the jukebox.
I like the feel of this place, The Bench. It's dark and reminds me of an old-school joint, lots of signs and knick-knacks on the walls to stare at and read when you're tired of observing the guys watching the Mets lose. I am inclined to taste the bartender-recommended beer, Long Ireland, which is a delicious dark beer with sweet vanilla flavor hiding behind caramel-coated hops. I find out that it's brewed by the guys sitting next to me, Greg and Dan, who travel from Bridgeport, Connecticut, on the ferry everyday to promote their craft brewing company gem. I talk to Greg and Dan about the light effect on beer, how in a few years craft beers will be seen in cans because light coming in through the bottles slowly makes the beer lose its flavor, in a sense, "skunking" the beer. I learn here in The Bench that light is not always such a positive thing; however, I suppose my following the light of the sun tonight led me to this realization.
On my way home from Stony Brook, driving south on Nicolls Road, it's a beautiful night for the windows down, progressive rock radio of WEHM turned on, blasting "Laid" by James and "Great Gig in the Sky" by Pink Floyd, and I think that nighttime and darkness are alright sometimes. As I pull into my driveway, the song "Somewhere Only We Know" by Keane comes onto the station, and, listening to the lyrics, I determine my goal for the next month: I will find out the ins and outs of the place I live, Suffolk County, Long Island, someplace only I know.
I walked across an empty land
I knew the pathway like the back of my hand
I felt the earth beneath my feet
Sat by the river and it made me complete
Oh simple thing where have you gone
I'm getting old and I need something to rely on
So tell me when you're gonna let me in
I'm getting tired and I need somewhere to begin
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
The essence of man
The essence of man is in his drive along a dark highway on a summer night, windows down, 68 degree air blowing in from the Atlantic. The hues of the night's crimsonly orange sunset remain in the mind's rearview mirror. Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.
The essence of man is in his trip to a Fire Island beach at nighttime, the grains of sand prickling against his feet like cool velvet lining the skin of the coast. The ebb-and-flow sound of the waves coming onto the shore soothes man into a lullabied trance, the stars and the moon become lasting images before eyes are shut.
The essence of man is in his trip to a Fire Island beach at nighttime, the grains of sand prickling against his feet like cool velvet lining the skin of the coast. The ebb-and-flow sound of the waves coming onto the shore soothes man into a lullabied trance, the stars and the moon become lasting images before eyes are shut.
"Burning Bright"
Burning bright,
Coming from an easterly direction
I alone preside o’er everyone and
Everything with a dignity that is
Surpassing, like my shine over the moon’s,
That which is oft reserved for heads of state.
I, my young friend, am the head of this world,
Overseer of all evil and good.
Blink, and I am gone, only the imprint
Of me, reddish and glowing, still remains.
I cause living beings to grow taller
But in the same I willingly witness
When they are chopped down,
Mercilessly turned
Into a tall house or lonely coffin.
I illuminate the most clouded mind
Of the patient, whose cancer-ridden skin
My beams of light unfortunately caused,
The price I pay by fading in the eve.
But arise new day! Only the blind man
Cannot see me, though he can feel my rays
Billowing down on top of his bare head
Like the protecting shroud of darkness that
Follows loyally in my sleepless wake.
Awake! Poor scribe, Seek the light which you speak!
I am summoning you through your window.
The daylight it burns, and, though I see you,
You have yet to join me in
Burning bright.
Coming from an easterly direction
I alone preside o’er everyone and
Everything with a dignity that is
Surpassing, like my shine over the moon’s,
That which is oft reserved for heads of state.
I, my young friend, am the head of this world,
Overseer of all evil and good.
Blink, and I am gone, only the imprint
Of me, reddish and glowing, still remains.
I cause living beings to grow taller
But in the same I willingly witness
When they are chopped down,
Mercilessly turned
Into a tall house or lonely coffin.
I illuminate the most clouded mind
Of the patient, whose cancer-ridden skin
My beams of light unfortunately caused,
The price I pay by fading in the eve.
But arise new day! Only the blind man
Cannot see me, though he can feel my rays
Billowing down on top of his bare head
Like the protecting shroud of darkness that
Follows loyally in my sleepless wake.
Awake! Poor scribe, Seek the light which you speak!
I am summoning you through your window.
The daylight it burns, and, though I see you,
You have yet to join me in
Burning bright.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
The Fall of the Pasta
Cheese, sizzling,
Combines with its aroma
Sauce, wafting
Into my family’s eight
Nostrils, flaring.
Ziti: my mind, reeling
Back to last July
Second day, crying
About the empty chair
That left us longing
For more time
With she we loved.
So we drank beer
And ate where she lived
The ziti that fell from the pan
Into the oven, pre-heated
By Aunt Eileen, grieving,
Trying still to keep us pleased.
The ziti tray falling
Gave us the laughter we needed.
Combines with its aroma
Sauce, wafting
Into my family’s eight
Nostrils, flaring.
Ziti: my mind, reeling
Back to last July
Second day, crying
About the empty chair
That left us longing
For more time
With she we loved.
So we drank beer
And ate where she lived
The ziti that fell from the pan
Into the oven, pre-heated
By Aunt Eileen, grieving,
Trying still to keep us pleased.
The ziti tray falling
Gave us the laughter we needed.
"Terra Firma Latte"
Two rings the shade of cardboard
Encircle each other and form a circumference
That brings people together.
The mocha circle is a footprint
Left by a stranger or a friend
On a coaster, a table, anything with a surface.
The latte drips down the sides of the cup
Like an IV pumping through the veins
Of a patient on life support.
The caffeine attacks the bloodstream
As a bolt of lightning strikes a tree
Standing on its tippy-toes.
The black man with a suit on
Likes his coffee light and sweet
With nonfat milk and an ice cube.
The white woman with the mop and the broom
Likes her Columbian-brewed coffee black
With no sugar. No milk. Bare and bitter.
The beans are ground
The brewing coffee drips
The aroma like a zephyr blows through the building.
And two rings the shade of earth
Surround each other in a binding halo
That brings people together.
Encircle each other and form a circumference
That brings people together.
The mocha circle is a footprint
Left by a stranger or a friend
On a coaster, a table, anything with a surface.
The latte drips down the sides of the cup
Like an IV pumping through the veins
Of a patient on life support.
The caffeine attacks the bloodstream
As a bolt of lightning strikes a tree
Standing on its tippy-toes.
The black man with a suit on
Likes his coffee light and sweet
With nonfat milk and an ice cube.
The white woman with the mop and the broom
Likes her Columbian-brewed coffee black
With no sugar. No milk. Bare and bitter.
The beans are ground
The brewing coffee drips
The aroma like a zephyr blows through the building.
And two rings the shade of earth
Surround each other in a binding halo
That brings people together.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
"Un just"
Running through my hometown, rustling trees swaying in the wind, sun beaming down from above, dripping sweat, I passed a sight unseen to the common eye. An older man, gray beard and long white hair tied in a braid, wearing hiking shorts, a white collared shirt, top buttons unbuttoned, tan socks sticking up above his hiking boots, carrying a walking stick in the same hand as his dog leash--beautiful black German shepherd on his right side, following his every command--holding an empty Coors Light can in his other hand.
And I thought to myself, "Who is this vagabond man, roaming the streets of Farmingville like a wayfaring pilgrim in search of something more?"
To your eyes or mine, this man and his canine may stand out, and questions inevitably arise--'Is that his beer can, or is he helping to keep our streets clean?' "Is he homeless and walking all day long in search of shelter, or is he retired and just a nature-lover, enjoying the day just as I am?'
And I thought that my critical eye--and the many eyes that incorrectly judge this man everyday--is an American injustice, resembling e.e. cummings' poem of a similar name. "In just spring when the world is mud-luscious the little lame balloonman whistles far and wee," cummings writes. His balloonman is similar to my wayfaring pilgrim, unjustly stereotyped as being an eyesore in a springtime teeming with sunshine, treeswaying, and cool zephyrs rolling us towards nighttime and a seemingly endless summer of starblasted open skies and unending felicity.
.
.
.
Who am I kidding?
I'd want to walk around all day, absorbing it all...in just the same way as my wayfaring pilgrim and his canine companion--to do otherwise would be unjust.
And I thought to myself, "Who is this vagabond man, roaming the streets of Farmingville like a wayfaring pilgrim in search of something more?"
To your eyes or mine, this man and his canine may stand out, and questions inevitably arise--'Is that his beer can, or is he helping to keep our streets clean?' "Is he homeless and walking all day long in search of shelter, or is he retired and just a nature-lover, enjoying the day just as I am?'
And I thought that my critical eye--and the many eyes that incorrectly judge this man everyday--is an American injustice, resembling e.e. cummings' poem of a similar name. "In just spring when the world is mud-luscious the little lame balloonman whistles far and wee," cummings writes. His balloonman is similar to my wayfaring pilgrim, unjustly stereotyped as being an eyesore in a springtime teeming with sunshine, treeswaying, and cool zephyrs rolling us towards nighttime and a seemingly endless summer of starblasted open skies and unending felicity.
.
.
.
Who am I kidding?
I'd want to walk around all day, absorbing it all...in just the same way as my wayfaring pilgrim and his canine companion--to do otherwise would be unjust.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Remember Two Songs
Driving through Wyoming, glorious mountains to my west; Lake Yellowstone to my east, straddling the Continental Divide, tuning into this station and that, some country here, some soft rock there, my sleeping passengers oblivious to it all. I first heard Chris Stills “When the Pain Dies Down,” a beautiful opus by a relatively unknown soulster, when the windows were down and I was winding through the Grand Tetons National Park headed towards Jackson Hole. The landscape was all blue and green, tremendously breathtaking and titanically overwhelming. I think about the formation of these monstrous creatures and how man is absorbed by their shadows. We are but a tiny sapling sprouting from the dirt floor, shaded from the towering edifices in the distance that were there way before our seeds had ever been thought about being planted.
Freshman year, walking through the Stonehenge campus at Albany--if cement could personify dying, it would happen on this campus--listening to “Float On,” the first song I had ever heard from Modest Mouse, I was not worried. I knew that things would get better and I would leave that place that constricted me, and like a balloon being held down by an anchor, one day the anchor would be released from the balloon’s string and “we’d all float on.” Alright?
Freshman year, walking through the Stonehenge campus at Albany--if cement could personify dying, it would happen on this campus--listening to “Float On,” the first song I had ever heard from Modest Mouse, I was not worried. I knew that things would get better and I would leave that place that constricted me, and like a balloon being held down by an anchor, one day the anchor would be released from the balloon’s string and “we’d all float on.” Alright?
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Prufrock's Pears
Sometimes when the heavens, the clouds, and the stars pour fourth from their luminous eyes myriad tear drops, little boys on earth become crestfallen and yearn for a time of sunny days and cool breezes.
And on nights like these, with tears falling from the skies, I rejoice in the succulent flavor of the second pear I've ever tasted in my life. And I question myself, Do I dare eat a pear? as if I am J. Alfred Prufrock in search of a peach and some eternal happiness.
What is a pear?
What is a tear?
That which grows from some other grower.
That which is produced by some other producer.
That which is created by some other creator.
I can create a tear by thinking of something despondent.
Yet pears, when they are created, are something ripe, new, delicious, nourishing.
I want to create something enriching. I want to be able to produce something ripe, something new, something delicious, something nourishing.
I want to create something that will enrich others, like the grown pear to crestfallen boys on nights when the sky is crying and the ground is reaching up, catching the fallen tears, the wind blowing in between, consistently asking the sky, Why?
And on nights like these, with tears falling from the skies, I rejoice in the succulent flavor of the second pear I've ever tasted in my life. And I question myself, Do I dare eat a pear? as if I am J. Alfred Prufrock in search of a peach and some eternal happiness.
What is a pear?
What is a tear?
That which grows from some other grower.
That which is produced by some other producer.
That which is created by some other creator.
I can create a tear by thinking of something despondent.
Yet pears, when they are created, are something ripe, new, delicious, nourishing.
I want to create something enriching. I want to be able to produce something ripe, something new, something delicious, something nourishing.
I want to create something that will enrich others, like the grown pear to crestfallen boys on nights when the sky is crying and the ground is reaching up, catching the fallen tears, the wind blowing in between, consistently asking the sky, Why?
Monday, April 13, 2009
The Well's Drying Up
Light a match. The smell of sulfur permeates my nostrils. Add to a wick; create a flame. Blow the burning match out.
Lately, this has been the extent of my creativity. I want to create something. Fire is lovely, but goes away. I want to create something everlasting. I have been focusing on particular things lately, looking at them as having been created by something or someone. It is an interesting way to view something, as if through a magnifying glass or seeing the world in a deep shadow. But my creativity has been stagnant; it has been searching for something more.
Before I found a tick burrowed on my leg this evening, before I drank a beer at Southampton Publick House, before I hung posters in the Hamptons promoting a Martin Sexton concert, I went hiking today. I started in Riverhead, where I left off last time and went to Flanders, feet crunching away at the dead pine needles that cover the mossy ground. Each step is a direction, each movement a wave of air, each exhale a breath of triumph and pain; yet, in this 8-mile journey, I kept searching for something more. My outward journey is always accompanied by an inward one, one that follows no path, that no compass can easily find. Yet, I am constantly attempting to find this inward journey through outward action.
I don't know where to go next on my journey.
I just finished reading No Exit by Sartre. "Hell is other people," he writes. If hell is other people, then heaven must be myself. Yet, I am unsure how to reach heaven within myself. i also read another Sartre quote, that "Life begins on the other side of despair." Is it possible for despair to envelop a person's whole being, so that life is kicked down into the bottom of the well, constantly searching for a way out? Eventually the well will dry up and life will never get out.
I need some stimulus that will fuel my creativity, send me on the path consumed with knowledge of my journey, and how I can achieve heaven and happiness in this life so that I am not anymore grasping for air at the bottom of the well.
Lately, this has been the extent of my creativity. I want to create something. Fire is lovely, but goes away. I want to create something everlasting. I have been focusing on particular things lately, looking at them as having been created by something or someone. It is an interesting way to view something, as if through a magnifying glass or seeing the world in a deep shadow. But my creativity has been stagnant; it has been searching for something more.
Before I found a tick burrowed on my leg this evening, before I drank a beer at Southampton Publick House, before I hung posters in the Hamptons promoting a Martin Sexton concert, I went hiking today. I started in Riverhead, where I left off last time and went to Flanders, feet crunching away at the dead pine needles that cover the mossy ground. Each step is a direction, each movement a wave of air, each exhale a breath of triumph and pain; yet, in this 8-mile journey, I kept searching for something more. My outward journey is always accompanied by an inward one, one that follows no path, that no compass can easily find. Yet, I am constantly attempting to find this inward journey through outward action.
I don't know where to go next on my journey.
I just finished reading No Exit by Sartre. "Hell is other people," he writes. If hell is other people, then heaven must be myself. Yet, I am unsure how to reach heaven within myself. i also read another Sartre quote, that "Life begins on the other side of despair." Is it possible for despair to envelop a person's whole being, so that life is kicked down into the bottom of the well, constantly searching for a way out? Eventually the well will dry up and life will never get out.
I need some stimulus that will fuel my creativity, send me on the path consumed with knowledge of my journey, and how I can achieve heaven and happiness in this life so that I am not anymore grasping for air at the bottom of the well.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Happiness Is...
The predicate of this sentence is a tricky one to define. The Beatles said it was a warm gun. An NPR study says it's contagious. Some believe it is handcraft dollhouse miniatures for the collector.
I don't know if I fit into any of these definitions, but I've been trying for some time to define happiness on my own. This definition quest has been a journey to find happiness, one which I undertake each and every day of my life.
I recently finished a class for my graduate degree entitled Seeking Happiness: A Philosophical Journey. We read works professing ways towards happiness, written by philosophers Lao Tsu, Buddha, Epictetus, Al-Ghazzali, and the contemporary author Derrick Bell. I learned a wealth of information on the topic, and I can give you a general idea of what type of happiness I am necessarily seeking, but I cannot tell you when and if I have found it.
I summed up my quest for happiness and my overall definition of myself (as I think they should be one in the same) in the following meandering way:
I like to think I am defined by the small things that make up my life. The movies I watch, the songs I listen to, the books I read, the quotes I love. I can assign titles to myself--English teacher, Graduate student, ardent Delaware Blue Hens fan--but those titles don't mean much to define me as a person. They are too broad. There are thousands of English teachers, Grad students, and Blue Hens fans out there, of which I am only one. My intricacies make up my personality. I am a thinker. I am a philosopher. I am a teacher and a student. I am a person who cares, sometimes too much. But I am also a person who will never stop searching to find out who I am. I will constantly be in a quest for happiness, to fulfill Socrates' doctrine that "The really important thing is not to live, but to live well." If I can be myself and figure out how to live well in the process, I have succeeded.
I am content with my definition (note the word choice), but I'd like to include here a quote from a fellow classmate, Lisa Caselles, who had a very unique and inspiring definition of happiness, one that I think if I lived by, I'd live a life of happiness.
"Mostly, I will remember that happiness is a choice and that I have the power to choose to be happy. I will practice gratitude and solitude and ground myself in that which is important and forget that which is not." - Lisa Caselles
I don't know if I fit into any of these definitions, but I've been trying for some time to define happiness on my own. This definition quest has been a journey to find happiness, one which I undertake each and every day of my life.
I recently finished a class for my graduate degree entitled Seeking Happiness: A Philosophical Journey. We read works professing ways towards happiness, written by philosophers Lao Tsu, Buddha, Epictetus, Al-Ghazzali, and the contemporary author Derrick Bell. I learned a wealth of information on the topic, and I can give you a general idea of what type of happiness I am necessarily seeking, but I cannot tell you when and if I have found it.
I summed up my quest for happiness and my overall definition of myself (as I think they should be one in the same) in the following meandering way:
I like to think I am defined by the small things that make up my life. The movies I watch, the songs I listen to, the books I read, the quotes I love. I can assign titles to myself--English teacher, Graduate student, ardent Delaware Blue Hens fan--but those titles don't mean much to define me as a person. They are too broad. There are thousands of English teachers, Grad students, and Blue Hens fans out there, of which I am only one. My intricacies make up my personality. I am a thinker. I am a philosopher. I am a teacher and a student. I am a person who cares, sometimes too much. But I am also a person who will never stop searching to find out who I am. I will constantly be in a quest for happiness, to fulfill Socrates' doctrine that "The really important thing is not to live, but to live well." If I can be myself and figure out how to live well in the process, I have succeeded.
I am content with my definition (note the word choice), but I'd like to include here a quote from a fellow classmate, Lisa Caselles, who had a very unique and inspiring definition of happiness, one that I think if I lived by, I'd live a life of happiness.
"Mostly, I will remember that happiness is a choice and that I have the power to choose to be happy. I will practice gratitude and solitude and ground myself in that which is important and forget that which is not." - Lisa Caselles
Saturday, March 14, 2009
sitting on the floor, meditating
sitting on the floor legs crossed breathing in and out the airs of the fumigated scented candle in and out of my lungs I feel awake I feel illuminated I breathe. I say in and out I am the master of myself I am the master of myself I am in control in and out I breathe. my hand up and out I stretch down towards the candle relax my diaphragm I breathe. in and out. a realization I need to go on a spirit journey in and out. I breathe. the scent billows up into my nostrils I take a long breath pause let it linger feel the asphyxiation then release in and out. I am the master of the situation on a pillow on the floor the light of the candle illuminating the shaded figures of my room. are you out there? I am calling to my soul. I feel in and out with every breath that I need to make my soul happy, so I call out, are you there? I need to make you happy and the response is the flickering of the candlelight and it wavers and I squint to see it straight but it flutters and it is just ebb and flow and I don’t know if it’s there. my soul. and is it happy? it flickers. in and out I breathe. in and hold it, and out, and so is my light.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
"Paradox" Looks Awfully Like "Paradise"
Sometimes i feel like saying Eff the world of everlasting misery, of giving and taking, of ebbing and flowing; To hell with the world of hot and cold, of light and dark, of night and day; Abolish the globe of noise and silence, of forwards and backwards, of screams and whispers; Relinquish your hopes of high and low, of rich and poor, of young and old; Eat your share of salt and sugar, of bagels and lox, of chocolate and vanilla ice cream; Drink your sorrows of beer and wine, of gin and tonic, of rum and coke; Immerse yourself in good news and bad news, in rock and roll, in the world's ups and downs.
This world is a seeming contradiction.
This world is a seeming contradiction.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Response to "The Icy Pall"
It's a blizzard outside. It's March 2nd, and there are eight inches of snow piling up outside my window. The frost is adorning all the windows on cars and houses. The temperature is below freezing and everywhere I go, I feel cold. But this time, during this storm, there is a warmth inside me that melts the snow that surrounds me, that defrosts the frost on the windows. Because I have a warm feeling, and I have had this feeling ever since the last icy pall that overtook my veins in January. She is a beautiful defroster, a lovely ice melter, a luminous snow plow.
So this time, during this blizzard, the cold temperatures are not freezing my insides as much, and my blood is not frozen, all because my heart is pumping even more vigorously with this feeling of warmth contained inside me, the feeling of warmth that she has given me during this cold winter.
So this time, during this blizzard, the cold temperatures are not freezing my insides as much, and my blood is not frozen, all because my heart is pumping even more vigorously with this feeling of warmth contained inside me, the feeling of warmth that she has given me during this cold winter.
The Fallen Ziti, written in Summer 08
The air in the house was gloomy. The downstairs was full of family members who traveled in from New York, Connecticut, Maryland, California, Philadelphia, and all around northern New Jersey, all because the upstairs was now empty. I had had my moment, my time to reflect on the loss, the absence upstairs, as everyone who came into the house that day had. But we needed a way to get our minds off the subject, at least for the time being.
Aunt Eileen and Uncle Armand's house is small, since they shared it with my grandparents, who lived upstairs. When they have the family over, the rooms come alive with conversation, mostly involving laughter, but sometimes involving tears. Beer and wine flow through the house, but combined with the company surrounding us, this small house turns into the best bar or party you've ever been to. But those who are grieving are not typically in party mode. And we weren't. But laughter, in this case, proved to be the best and only medicine.
Hanging out in the kitchen with my cousins, we yelled at Aunt Eileen--who was sweating already--for putting more food in the oven. We had been full of appetizers and delicious catered food that generous friends had dropped off when they heard the news. But, ziti tray in hand, making a bee-line for the hot oven, Aunt Eileen insisted. She pulled the oven open, the hot air steaming out, smacking against all of our faces and BAM! all of a sudden, the tray was overturned and ziti was everywhere, sizzling on the door and floor of the hot stove.
Aunt Eileen let out a shrill wolf-like howl that sounded like a cross between a dying cat or a horse in labor. I pushed the sweating cat-horse hybrid out of the way and immediately went to work, as if I held a doctorate in the art of oven-cleaning. My cousins were now my assistants, I their leader, shouting out orders of "Spatula! Paper Towel! Water! Oven Cleaning Spray!!"
I attacked the oven with such force because I knew that this was the last thing Aunt Eileen--and all of my family--needed, and hell, oven-cleaning could be fun--Why not! I'd never done it before.
My head immersed in the steaming hot bowels of this ancient anti-diluvian oven whose self-cleaner just so happened to be broken, I scraped the ziti, took out the racks, and gave the oven the best scrubbing it had ever had. Aunt Eileen, as well as her sisters and my cousins, were now laughing at my beet red, sweating, ziti-scented face.
My ziti-covered oven-cleaning grief-relieving mission had been successful, and for that reason I am completely grateful that the ziti fell the night after the sorrowful day I will never forget.
Aunt Eileen and Uncle Armand's house is small, since they shared it with my grandparents, who lived upstairs. When they have the family over, the rooms come alive with conversation, mostly involving laughter, but sometimes involving tears. Beer and wine flow through the house, but combined with the company surrounding us, this small house turns into the best bar or party you've ever been to. But those who are grieving are not typically in party mode. And we weren't. But laughter, in this case, proved to be the best and only medicine.
Hanging out in the kitchen with my cousins, we yelled at Aunt Eileen--who was sweating already--for putting more food in the oven. We had been full of appetizers and delicious catered food that generous friends had dropped off when they heard the news. But, ziti tray in hand, making a bee-line for the hot oven, Aunt Eileen insisted. She pulled the oven open, the hot air steaming out, smacking against all of our faces and BAM! all of a sudden, the tray was overturned and ziti was everywhere, sizzling on the door and floor of the hot stove.
Aunt Eileen let out a shrill wolf-like howl that sounded like a cross between a dying cat or a horse in labor. I pushed the sweating cat-horse hybrid out of the way and immediately went to work, as if I held a doctorate in the art of oven-cleaning. My cousins were now my assistants, I their leader, shouting out orders of "Spatula! Paper Towel! Water! Oven Cleaning Spray!!"
I attacked the oven with such force because I knew that this was the last thing Aunt Eileen--and all of my family--needed, and hell, oven-cleaning could be fun--Why not! I'd never done it before.
My head immersed in the steaming hot bowels of this ancient anti-diluvian oven whose self-cleaner just so happened to be broken, I scraped the ziti, took out the racks, and gave the oven the best scrubbing it had ever had. Aunt Eileen, as well as her sisters and my cousins, were now laughing at my beet red, sweating, ziti-scented face.
My ziti-covered oven-cleaning grief-relieving mission had been successful, and for that reason I am completely grateful that the ziti fell the night after the sorrowful day I will never forget.
Monday, January 12, 2009
The Icy Pall
There is a feeling I sometimes get; it is a feeling common to cold, icy wintry nights, where the ice fills my heart, flowing through my veins with a brittle chill. I have been getting this feeling more often lately. It is a feeling as if my heart were hollow, void of something, intense longing plaguing each laborious beat, each arduous ebb and flow.
I see this ice everywhere I go, and there is a thawing feeling growing inside of me that is suppressed by my constant encounters with the unyielding rime.
Yet, I cannot pinpoint my feeling's frosty origin. At what point did my temperature turn to freezing? Did my blood begin to freeze?
I just hope this icy pall will soon defrost, that my cold thoughts will once again be even-tempered and the chill will turn into unending warmth of body and mind.
I see this ice everywhere I go, and there is a thawing feeling growing inside of me that is suppressed by my constant encounters with the unyielding rime.
Yet, I cannot pinpoint my feeling's frosty origin. At what point did my temperature turn to freezing? Did my blood begin to freeze?
I just hope this icy pall will soon defrost, that my cold thoughts will once again be even-tempered and the chill will turn into unending warmth of body and mind.
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