Sound...and Another Cat

Just two more things:

This Friday, March 6th, at 7 p.m., "Resonance in Residence" will open at 3rd Ward. Asks 3rd Ward's Douglas York, "What happens when you put seven artists in a room and ask them to create a sculptural object focusing on sound? A collaborative installation combining 100 algorithmically-controlled, sound-generating motors and field recordings, of course!"

And...how could I talk about cats and not mention Devoe Street's very own Kittens Ablaze?*



*They're really making it! And their informal manager is a wonderful person.

Hiya Kitty

Mark Twain perhaps said it best, and I paraphrase: "Cats rule."*

And Williamsburg cats especially so. Here's a shameless plug for some new graffiti on Metropolitan and Lorimer and the two pesky critters that reside with me.







*"Of all God's creatures, there is only one that cannot be made slave of the leash. That one is the cat. If man could be crossed with the cat it would improve the man, but it would deteriorate the cat."

Insert Art Here

Courtesy Waterfront Preservation Alliance: "At last week's CB1 meeting, Councilmember Yassky's office announced a new public art initiative. The initiative is a response to the rather woeful lack of public art (and opportunities for public art) in a neighborhood of artists. Organized in conjunction with the Open Space Alliance, the North Brooklyn Public Art Coalition 'will be comprised of members of the local arts community, with a mission of scouting out ideal locations for public art in North Brooklyn, actively seeking out partnerships and funding for public art in this area, and keeping its members apprised of all public art opportunities.'"

For starters, someone can decorate the plywood on the corner of Withers and Union. Also, I would have expected a better display than simple black tags on the pure white fence and formerly yellowly festooned trailer on Lorimer and Metropolitan (see photo in 2/9 post). I also think that cranes (those that remain here) could be "ideal locations" for, perhaps, a project involving flowers and Play-Doh and photographs of people playing mandolins. I mean, how has no one thought of this?

Brooklyn Pickles, Melts, Bakes, Deglazes, Cures...and Lustily Devours

This article features Brooklyn Kitchen and other pioneering Brooklyn shops and cooks. I had a cracker company a few years ago and feel like now might be the time to launch some new food-inspired enterprise. Suggestions welcome.

Fashionably Late

Extremely last-minute notice, but do come out to The Glasslands tonight (on Kent between South 1st and 2nd) for night two of Williamsburg Fashion Week.



And for inspiration and love and happy feet, listen to songs off the new M. Ward, one of which is featured below. I just saw the man himself at The Apollo and, times before that, I saw him soundcheck on Letterman, an eternity ago, which is to say August 2006.

Bringin' It All Back Home

Love,
Rachel

Rundown

"He who's not busy being born is busy dying." -Bob Dylan

Life has been very, very full lately, much of it contained in North Brooklyn, some spilling into other parts of the city. Here's a fact sheet based on recent events, as well as a few cyclical things to put on the calendar (other than waking up, watching the moon wane, slipping underground...):

1. The tamales at Elote (Union near Grand) do not in fact contain chicken; the restaurant is offering a post-Friday the 13th special, which includes half off all bottles of wine (because love=corn-on-the-cob); and Eddie Vedder has a singer-songwriter soul.



2. The Union Pool Chili Takedown smells delicious even if you're not eating chili.

3. According to Mike at Soundfix (who also works at Royal Oak),the space as we know it will close in the next month or two, but they're trying to retain the liquor license for the next occupant. Hello CB1!

4. Melissa at Mousey Brown is wonderful.

5. Something is afoot on the corner of Metropolitan and Lorimer.





6. Campy decor and mango sushi kinda work if you're Kion (6th Street between A and B).

7. Poetry and tomatillos are alive and well on Troutman Street.

8. Poems + friends + injera + frozen yogurt = a lovely night.



(And check out SpeakEasy at Cornelia Street on 2/17, featuring the spectacular JM.)

9. Green card parties are a good idea, especially when guests are earnestly attempting to revive the spirit of 1973.



10. And the Fix Tape Exchange will not die. Folks will convene at a to-be-determined location next month (3/8) to swap mixes built around the theme "Television."

Lions and Tigers and Hipsters, Oh My

Soundfix is closing at the end of the month, but that doesn't mean there can't be one last mix tape/CD swap, this Sunday evening. The theme is Animals. Come frolic.

Under the BQE: Literally

212 in 11211 (did someone say phoenix?)

Engine 212 and other Brooklyn firehouses were closed in 2003 owing largely to shifting populations. These historic structures have met with various fates (even while returning populations beg the question of whether we might actually want firehouses to be firehouses again). 212 is on Wythe and North 8th Street and was awarded by the NYC Economic Development Corporation to People's Firehouse (which manages low-income housing in the neighborhood) and Neighbors Allied for Good Growth.

This Tuesday at 6:00 p.m., NAG will be raising awareness of Engine 212 at Union Pool (because nothing puts out fires like former pool supply stores).

And here's a little pre-party awareness: on Thanksgiving Day 1975, the City told the firefighters of Engine 212 that it was closing the firehouse down owing to (surprise!) a dire fiscal crisis. According to NAG, within hours, a crowd of 300 local residents gathered in front of the firehouse to prevent the City from removing its equipment. For the next 16 months, Williamsburg residents were at the firehouse around the clock, until the City agreed to keep it open. While Engine 212 finally closed in 2003 (sparking more protests), it is now (with our help) being converted into the Northside Town Hall Community and Cultural Center, complete with a street-level gallery for displaying local art and history. Thanks to the Waterfront Preservation Alliance, CB1, Council Member Yassky, and all the nameless engaged.

What the Public Hearing Taught Me

On Wednesday night, J and I attended one in a series of eight public hearings on the MTA's proposed fare hikes and service reductions. Here's a snapshot of what you missed, and here are other random things yout too could have learned in the crowded and windowless splendor of the Mariott Hotel ballroom:
1. Gratitude for your work, upon seeing the jobs of "Public Hearing Staff" charged with looking helplessly on as protesters chanted and matching the names of people called up to speak with people in the audience armed with hard-to-see yellow slips of paper.
2. Vitamins can perhaps set off metal detectors.
3. David Yassky is a great straight-man to Simcha Felder's stand-up. Example: Yassky begins a dry, to-the-point speech. Felder, quite audibly: "Hey, that's what I said. Yassky is stealing my lines!"
4. Simcha Felder is wise and hilarious. Example of advice given to J and me by the man himself: "At the end of the day, you can't say the same thing over and over. You want to have one thing that they focus on. The cameras are what's important." Example of more hilarity: At 6:00 p.m. on the dot he swapped his yarmulka for a ball cap, stood up, and started clapping and chanting, "6:00 meeting! 6:00 meeting!"
5. Marty Markowitz is also hilarious. Example: "I hear they're cutting service to the G train. [Pause.] I didn't know that was possible."
6. People with disabilities should absolutely not bear the brunt of city transportation costs, by a proposed doubling of Access-A-Ride fares (potentially up to $10 for a round-trip public transportation ride). Proportionally, more people with disabilities turned out to this hearing than any other population. As one citizen speaker said, "If you were increasing fares and cutting services this much for any other minority in the city, there would be riots." Unlike other proposed budget-saving measures, thanks to Mayor Dinkins, Mayor Bloomberg must give written permission before Access-A-Ride hikes can be implemented. As one advocate, carrying a cardboard cutout of the Mayor, asked, "Where's Mike?"
7. George Patton really IS in Brooklyn! One citizen speaker invoked the General, saying, "When times were tough during the war, Patton gassed up the trucks and said, 'Let's go.' He shortened the war by six months, maybe more." While the shout-out was welcome, the parallel is murky. I think what he's trying to say is that creative solutions are never an impossibility.
7. Queens cares! John Liu spoke just after (perhaps future Brooklyn Borough President) Bill DiBlasio. While Liu represents Flushing, it makes sense that he showed up, as Chair of the Council's Transportation Committee. Or perhaps his train was out of service.
8. The MTA Board (and around 10 of them showed up, four of them saying they had ridden public transportation) probably aren't a horrible lot. Even though they did sit very, very far away from the crowd.
9. The elusive Mr. X and the Hasidic powerhouse Isaac Abraham (one of the many people running to fill the 33rd District's Council seat had Yassky been term-limited)...have exactly nothing to say to each other. (Said J, "Their small-talk was painful.")
10. The Williamsburg Courier, represented on Wednesday by Aaron C., absolutely knows that it needs to be online!

Stand Clear of the Closing Doors

When cramming myself onto the L tomorrow morning, as it makes its painstaking progress toward Manhattan, stopping under the river, pausing in the tunnels, inching its way across good old Manhattan, I'll console myself with the knowledge that, with a special computer program, some investment banking background, a good pair of running shoes, and a lot of free time, you can still make the MTA work for you.

We can't all be world record breakers. But we can all turn out to the next MTA public hearing, at the Marriot under the Brooklyn Bridge (not as cool, of course, as Le Jolie Under the BQE). The hearing is this Wednesday, 1/28, at 6 p.m. For a great rundown of the first of these eight public hearings, see Roving Storm's latest dispatches (which include a great mini-history of the MTA, a smart recap of the ongoing CB1/Yassky/Markowitz/Abate/Toro showdown regarding the Kent Avenue bike lanes, which reduce community parking (let's blame the DOT!), and a nice spotlighting of everyone's favorite New Yorker.



Meanwhile, the one and only Williamsburg Courier recently covered the public funeral for the Z train, complete with BBP Markowitz's own Bard-inspired eulogy: "Friends, New Yorkers, straphangers - I come to praise the Z train, not to bury it [sic]. Though the Z begins in Queens and ends in Manhattan, it is, like the J, Brooklyn to the core."



What else is Brooklyn to the core (or to all three corners)? The Broadway Triangle, 50 acres of East Williambsurg industrial land up for rezoning, and the topic of a town hall meeting tomorrow night, 1/27, at 7 p.m., in the P.S. 250 auditorium (108 Montrose, between Manhattan and Leonard).

And now, in honor of the Z...

Patton in Brooklyn Part II

"No good decision was ever made in a swivel chair." - George Patton

So come on out tonight and join the conversation, at a committee meeting to preserve community character in Williamsburg/Greenpoint; we'll be developing the North Brooklyn Story Project. The dialogue is brought to you by Neighbors Allied for Good Growth, and will be happenin' in their (swivel chair-free?) offices across from East River State Park* (101 Kent Avenue), at 7:00 p.m.

*The Park is seasonally closed, for a savings of $444.44 per day...a decision no doubt made from a comfy Albany swivel deluxe.

To Consecrate and Begin

I was on 37th Street and 8th Avenue in the greatest city in the world when Barack Obama became President of the United States. The blessing preceding his swearing in (despite the fact that it was delivered by Rick Warren, who concluded in a decidedly non-ecumenical way) included the preamble of the Sh'ma, stirring up thoughts of my own patchwork childhood, and the words Obama graced us with, he who is restoring us to the power of language, made me proud to be a part of these small and great communities. Out last night, it occurred to G and I that our entire time in NYC - almost eight years - has been defined by the Bush Administration. I feel like I've moved without moving...

"So let us mark this day with remembrance, of who we are and how far we have traveled. In the year of America’s birth, in the coldest of months, a small band of patriots huddled by dying campfires on the shores of an icy river. The capital was abandoned. The enemy was advancing. The snow was stained with blood. At a moment when the outcome of our revolution was most in doubt, the father of our nation ordered these words be read to the people:

'Let it be told to the future world...that in the depth of winter, when nothing but hope and virtue could survive...that the city and the country, alarmed at one common danger, came forth to meet [it].'

America. In the face of our common dangers, in this winter of our hardship, let us remember these timeless words. With hope and virtue, let us brave once more the icy currents, and endure what storms may come. Let it be said by our children’s children that when we were tested we refused to let this journey end, that we did not turn back nor did we falter; and with eyes fixed on the horizon and God’s grace upon us, we carried forth that great gift of freedom and delivered it safely to future generations."

Winter Three More Ways

-----



-----

Radio War
by Iron & Wine

Did the wine make her dream
Of the far distant spring
Or a bed full of hens
Or the ghost of a friend

All the while that she wept
She had a gun by her bed
And a letter he wrote
From a dry, foundered boat

And the train track will take
All the wounded ones home
And I’ll be alone
Fare thee well Sara Jones

Now we lie on the floor
While the radio war
Finds its way through the air
Of the dead market square

And the beast never seen
Licks its red talons clean
Sara curses the cold
"No more snow, no more snow, no more snow"

This is Limbo

Spend some time here.

The artist is the same as Know Hope, who, thanks to Williamsburg is Dead, we know is showing at Ad Hoc Art (take the L to Morgan). Here's a photo of a Know Hope piece on the Bethlehem Barrier:



Know Hope is the same as Adam Yekutieli, a 19-year-old based in Tel Aviv.

Sometimes he puts up worked pieces of cardboard that can be easily removed by the viewer. On the wall behind the cardboard, he writes things.

“I let you borrow my heart for a while, let others borrow it as well.”

"Please (pretty please) help these stutters become an echo."

"Take this scar and help me mend it into the biggest map the world's ever seen."

Out to Pilgrimage

It's true, America.

I've got half an eye on The Real Housewives of Orange County (free admission to a zoo of stupidity that scarily informs more American values than we perhaps care to note), and most of my attention on an Esquire article by the wonderful Tom Junod, who has another great piece in the current edition ("As soon as America was attacked, Americans were told that what was really attacked was their freedom; in retrospect, however, it seems clear that the terrorists were aiming at the target that was most vulnerable and exposed - our economy. Our freedom, after all, was not in their power to destroy: it was in ours.")

Earlier today, first running at the gym and then studying Hebrew at a café, I joined with surrounding strangers to catch coverage of Obama's train ride to Washington. (He echoed Lincoln's 12-day journey from Illinois to Washington in 1861. History is the greatest, saddest poem: Lincoln returned to Illinois by train in 1865.)

Advertisements at this moment are invoking the Old West to sell the New West, selling pregnancy tests, selling diets, and selling re-runs of the Golden Globes. Meanwhile, there's a tenuous ceasefire in Gaza; American banks look after number one (that is, not Americans: "We’re not going to change our business model or our credit policies to accommodate the needs of the public."); and seas continue rising (on this day in history: "The earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.")

It's true, America, and sometimes I can only think of Ginsberg and what he would say and what he said:

"Toward what city
will I travel? What wild houses
do I go to occupy?
What vagrant rooms and streets
and lights in the long night
urge my expectation? What genius
of sensation in ancient
halls? what jazz beyond jazz
in future blue saloons?
what love in the cafés of God?

I thought, five years ago
sitting in my apartment,
my eyes were opened for an hour
seeing in dreadful ecstasy
the motionless buildings
of New York rotting
under the tides of Heaven.

There is a god
dying in America
already created
in the imagination of men
made palpable
for adoration:
there is an inner
anterior image
of divinity
beckoning me out
to pilgrimage.

O future, unimaginable God."

Winter Three Ways

It was cold last night, and D and I supped at Lodge, which was warm and friendly as a mug of cocoa with friend-shaped marshmallows. (The spot, on Grand and Havemeyer, shares owners with Urban Rustic.) The daily printed vegetarian card had several nice options, including house-made seitan, which only suffered from a bit too much oil in the accompanying greens. D's supper (viva la France!) was a classic salmon with spinach and lentils. The waiter was rad (a California boy lost in the faux Adirondaks?) and D did his Paula Dean impersonation toward the end of the evening, which was, with laughter, better than dessert.

-----

Down Low
by A.R. Ammons

Snowstorms high-traveling,
furry clouds blur over
our zero air:
wind steams (or
smokes) fine snow
off the eaves, settled ghosts
trailing up and away:
the pheasant, too cold to
peck, stands on one foot
like a stiff weed.

-----

Patton in Brooklyn Part 1

"If you are going to win any battle, you have to do one thing. You have to make the mind run the body. Never let the body tell the mind what to do - the body is never tired if the mind is not tired."

Someday I'll write an essay about everything General George Patton has meant to me since I was a kid carrying around a wooden rubber-band gun in lieu of an ivory-handled revolver. Suffice it to say now that it has something to do with his belief in history and poetry and G-d, and a lot to do with his determination to meet his destiny each day and transform himself into what the world needed him to be. His life is a constant inspiration.

This new series will include thoughts on the man, whose thoughts on the BQE one can only imagine (travesty of design, marvel of will?), pieces of his talks and writings, and general courage in the face of war or, in today's case, January.

Moviehouse at 3rd Ward

Three bands are sharing their professional music videos, then performing live tonight at 3rd Ward, which, while it sounds like a bar, is in fact a collective space where artists can make art, anyone can take classes, and the public is invited from time to time for events like Moviehouse. I like to think of it as the essence of hipsterdom, without the bitter aftertaste.

Poem Interlude

Snowing

I hope you are in the city
for then the snow is falling
and space is the feeling
of your warm hand in my mind.

If you are here, then
I don’t need to tell you
it’s collecting on bricks,
catching the headlights
of cabs, and giving
momentary proof
to our passing.

If you are here, brightness
lingers and blue shadows
hold the world close.

Spores Galore

New at the McCarren Park farmers' market: mushrooms!

Madura Farms just began offering at least seven types of mushroom at the market, costing around $6-$8 for 1/2-lb. The mushrooms are grown in "mushroom houses" (heh) near Goshen, about 66 miles from North Brooklyn. Madura Farms also sells produce at the Union Square and Tompkins Square markets. I chatted with two proprietors today, who explained that the mushrooms are grown organically but not certified organic, and yet they're cleaner and better than nearly any other mushroom because conditions must be pristine in order to successfully cultivate mushrooms indoors. Also, these mushrooms are super-fresh, just harvested this morning. I'm going to make oyster and cremini soup.



Also, if you want your apartment to smell like a forest, they're chippering trees near the market, and there's a heap of spicy tree bits by the track.

The Winter Greens

A much better alternative to the winter blues are the winter greens, in the form of a share of the Garden of Eve's cold-weather produce. Heading over to the park now to pick up more than 20 lbs. of vegetables, eggs, apples, yogurt, and grain. Vegetables will include carrots, leeks, kale, cabbage, daikon, beets, squash, kohrabi, potatoes, and sweet potatoes (okay, so it's really the winter greens and browns and purples and oranges). Makes me wish I had a root cellar. I do have a freezer full of compost scraps, though, so the next step is to head in to the Union Square Greenmarket drop-off location. It's nice to think about how, in these cold months, peels and parings are creating heat and food for spring.

Finally, for the sake of randomness and love, and on the heels of a killer conversation about earnestness in Williamsburg and singer-songwriters, here's a little video homage that (aside from the weird gold light at the end) does in 2:28 what I've been attempting for nine months:

Untitled

Bohemia Calling

I'm sitting in hand-chopped fingerless gloves in my freezing apartment, thinking that there's never enough time for poetry, and when there is, there's never enough good poetry (Wilde said, "All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling," and I can't help but hope sometimes to stop feeling long enough to write some things down).

Are there still bohemians out there? There's a lot of posturing, but I don't think the two options have to be adulthood or fake bohemianism (read: Urban Outfitters). What did the beats, niks, merry pranksters, dandies, goths, hipsters, hippies, indies, punks, diggers, and others have in common? Well...maybe nothing. But I think it has to start with some passion (passion before fashion, yo), a dash of social commitment, and one or two or more people willing to live their slight little lives in a slightly different way.

Actually, as I think about it, it's all relative: to be a Left Bank bohemian in the early 20th century meant working your ass off to live somewhere in the thick of it, making art or songs or dance or plays. Today, one just has to make a little more to do the same thing. The link is the tension...finding time in the midst of insanity to make things.

But snapping out of my reverie, here are some thoughts from the estimable Driggs on the Williamsburg art scene these days:

And here's a way to let your feet do the talking, tomorrow:



Unless you just want to hunker down and channel Warhol, which could also be good: “I had a lot of dates but I decided to stay home and dye my eyebrows.”

Untitled (Day 11)

Inside Jack the Pelican Presents, on Driggs and North 10th.


Leonard Cohen in Spain.

Poem Interlude

The Vow

“I’ll swing on my rings,
setting it all to notes,
setting it all to flame.
I’ll juggle it all, as if
the planets weren’t
suspended of their own
accord, as if the stars
were cool enough to hold.
(And if I need more hands,
will you lend me yours?)
Once aloft, I swear to
stay put, my elliptical
orbit like a pulse, like a
promise – to hold sky and
sound above all else.”

The Voice that Rises at the End of a Question

Dying continues in Israel and Gaza.

"Hamas called on Palestinians in the West Bank and in East Jerusalem to mark Friday as a 'day of wrath' by holding marches after noon prayers."

“'There is no humanitarian crisis' in Gaza, [Tzipi Livni, Israel's Foreign Minister,] said, 'and therefore there is no need for a humanitarian truce.'

"Israeli human rights groups have issued an urgent appeal to Ehud Barak, the Defense Minister, demanding that Israel restore fuel supplies to Gaza to ensure the proper functioning of hospitals, water wells and other vital humanitarian institutions."

How does one stir up wrath after praying? How is it not a humanitarian crisis when rockets and bombs launched by people are killing hundreds of people? (Livni, to be fair, has long advocated for peace and was a key figure in the movement to have the pullout from Gaza ratified by the Knesset.) How do we reconcile the fact that bombings to weaken Hamas are in fact weakening the Palestinian Authority and moderates who might be the best forgers of peace? There aren't clear answers, but there's a sadness in the air, to which perhaps the best humanitarian response is a poem:

Look: Thoughts and Dreams
by Yehuda Amichai

Look: thoughts and dreams are weaving over us
their warp and woof, their wide camouglage-net,
and the reconnaissance planes and God
will never know
what we really want
and where we are going.

Only the voice that rises at the end of a question
still rises above the world and hangs there,
even it it was made by
mortar shells, like a ripped flag,
like a mutilated cloud.

Look, we too are going
in the reverse-flower-way:
to begin with a calyx exulting toward the light,
to descend with the stem growing more and more solemn,
to arrive at the closed earth and to wait there for awhile,
and to end as a root, in the darkness, in the deep womb.

Happiness and Koi

A gang of us began New Year's here at 37 (sushi and thumbrint cookies kinda do go together!), then moved on to Joseph's friends' tiki loft to end all tiki lofts, up the road in Greenpoint (hurrah for the G dance). With a koi pond, DJs galore, plants creeping ceiling-ward, a lovely and hazardous wall of candles, and dance dance dancing, the once industrial space offered up everything one could want for a holiday that cruelly lures people to do better while ensuring that they wake up feeling ill.


(Photo not mine.)

To 2008

This year has been exactly what it needs to be, and I am so grateful for everything it contained, like a great sea or like a suitcase packed for an unknown destination. The song at the end of this New Year post, by Neutral Milk Hotel, was released in 1998, 10 years ago. I was about to come to New York City by train, my first time here since 1990, for a one-day trip with my grandparents when I was 11. That week in 1998, I visited an old pen-pal but mostly wandered the city, staying at the Gershwin Hotel and seeing Art, Les Mis, and Madame Butterly at the Met. I wandered through Central Park in the surprising snow and went to the other Met to find the Chagalls. I was 18.

I wouldn't be telling you all of this were it not for the past year, which launched this blog, new friendships, new roles at work, airplanes to India and Ireland and Scotland, a journey to Alabama, steps toward 495 miles of running, new poetry, a new President, explorations of Jewish and artistic and neighborhood communities...and something that happens to be on my mind today, which loops in the Metropolitan Opera and the Metropolitan Museum of Art, along with snow and walking and community...blue lights and yams and me turned inside-out. This song is my heart on my sleeve:

"And in my dreams you're alive and you're crying,
As your mouth moves in mine, soft and sweet,
Rings of flowers round your eyes and
I’ll love you for the rest of your life (when you’re ready)."

Life as Prayer

I've returned to Brooklyn by by way of O'Hare, Midway, Albany, and (two days later) forested, still snowy Phoenecia. I feel like I've been away for weeks, only to get off the train tonight and run into T. We tried out Kenny's Trattoria (7 Withers, just west of Union), the new casual Italian spot opened by...Kenny (who formerly owned the well reviewed Brick Oven Gallery). The spiraled gnocchi were pretty good, like an adult version of macaroni and cheese. The ravioli of the day were a little strange, the "pasta" resembling wonton wrappers. The salads are fresh and big enough to share.

It's good to be home. There's a lot going on in the world, as usual, with the Hamas-Israel conflict taking center stage. I don't pretend to understand the full weight of politics and religious history bringing itself to bear on this poor holy region. Hamas wants to destroy Israel and instigates in words, propaganda, and the murder of students; Israel responds in such a way as to kill hundreds of innocent people. Where does it end? I pray for an end that preserves the most lives and the most capacity for wonder, kindness, and understanding, which seem like light, airy things now but which are of fundamental importance. Back in Brooklyn, with the little daily pleasures of cats and the BQE like a stream and strange ravioli, I pray for an ever-expanding sense of wonder.

"To pray is to regain a sense of the mystery that animates all beings, the divine margin in all attainments. Prayer is our humble answer to the inconceivable surprise of living. It is all we can offer in return for the mystery by which we live. Who is worthy to be present at the constant unfolding of time? Amidst the meditation of mountains, the humility of flowers - wiser than all alphabets - clouds that die constantly for the sake of his glory, we are hating, hunting, hurting. Suddenly we feel ashamed of our clashes and complaints in the face of the tacit glory of nature. It is so embarrassing to live! How strange we are in the world, and how presumptuous our doings! Only one response can maintain us: gratefulness for witnessing the wonder, for the gift of our unearned right to serve, to adore, and to fulfill. It is gratefulness which makes the soul great." Abraham Joshua Heschel

To Be

I tripped on some ice on Leonard Street tonight and actually seemed to bang my knee back into place. These little brushes with mortality remind me of the bliss of days.



At the end of a 1973 lecture, Bernstein said, "I'm no longer quite sure what the question is, but I do know that the answer is Yes."

Lights

Happy Chanukah! It just sounds nicer than Happy Day of Resting on the 25th, which is Chanukah's direct translation. While in different months (Kislev and December), the 25th marks the celebration of the beginning of Chanukah and of Christmas, just another one of the the many religious "coincidences" layered through history like geological strata and necessarily connected (for instance, Chanukah is not mentioned in the Tenakh, or Jewish Scriptures, but it is referenced in John 10:22-3: "Now it was the Feast of Dedication in Jerusalem, and it was winter, and Jesus walked in the temple, in Solomon's porch.") The story of Chanukah is, for me, a story of goodness and justice prevailing against tremendous odds - but also a story of language prevailing. "And thy word broke their sword..."

The goodness for which the Macabees fought was the living language of the Torah, which King Antiochus IV and many others mocked and defiled. And the present meaning of Torah and Judaism for me can be articulated as dialogue, which is a way to community, which is a way to peace. Language, at its best, leads to dialogue, and dialogue, with or without question marks, is a constant questioning, not only of another but also of the self. Any reminder to revive a dialogue is, for me, a blessing. This Chanukah, wonderfully also the first day of winter, when the Holly*, a letter in the Celtic Ogham alphabet of trees, feels its fullest strength, has been a particularly special one for me, as it finds me, Under the BQE, rekindling a connection to a piece of my childhood, my mother's memories (and lack of memories), my father's nurturing, and a great tradition that I am entering and re-entering with great wonder and dedication.



*"In the Ogham, it was stated that the Holly was 'best in the fight,' since it helped balance both the positive and negative aspects of the self, thus revealing a new direction. It was believed to restore lost energy, bestowing the strength needed to continue toward a resolution. Despite its prickly leaves (which afford protection to the tree during winter), the Holly offered empathy and understanding within its branches and was often associated with goodwill and love. For this reason, it was frequently planted near homes for protection and to ward off evil, psychic attacks, and demons."

A Snow Falls in Brooklyn

Vision: Share Yours!

Below is the vision and photo I shared with the Obama transition team. It seemed extra necessary given the recent appointment of Tom Vilsack as Secretary of Agriculture.

"At the end of WWII, 20 million home gardens were producing enough fruits and vegetables to feed 40 percent of the American people. My vision is for Americans to relaunch a "victory garden" movement, fueled by the sun and by the actions of President Obama and other leaders. The President will have a unique opportunity to model behaviors that demonstrate a respect for land and for local food. My vision sees a country in which agribusiness is limited, in turn reducing our dependence on petroleum, increasing our homeland security, and improving American health. What we eat says more about ourselves and our country than many of us realize, and turning some of our lawns into gardens, reclaiming empty lots for gardens, and otherwise reconnecting with our small-scale agrarian past is a necessary step toward rebuilding American community and promoting ourselves as responsible tenants of the earth to the rest of the world."

Vorspiel

"This sweet little word: and..."

Brooklyn Talks

Participation, in my opinon, is the key to democracy, and dialogue is the key to peace. To add further perspective to my recent Vito Lopez mention that was not taken kindly by one anonymous commenter, Brooklyn has been, for at least 130 years, a place of democratic dynamism - which can be, if we so choose, the road to greater understanding. Keep the comments coming.

From PostSecret

To which someone responded, "I wish for one day everyone would say exactly what someone else needed to hear."

To which I respond, I wish for one day the two would match.

"Sense, Heart, Feet and Hands Will be in Accord..."

Happy Birthday, Nostradamus!

Here are some opportunities to find your own alignments in the coming days, right here in North Brooklyn:

There was a march at McGorlick Park today, sponosred by Parsons Students for Greenpoint, to generate awareness around the Greenpoint Oil Spill, the result of longterm leakage from tanks and pipelines that has put between 17 and 30 million gallons of oil in the ground. The spill was three times greater than the Exxon Valdez spill, but many people know nothing about it.

J and I attended a meeting of the New Kings County Democrats yesterday, which is representing for people who feel that the Kings County Democrats machine (aka (what some would call) the Vito Lopez for Vito Lopez machine) doesn't meet their needs these days. Thanks to NKD outreach and mobilization, around 50 of the 400 or so members of the Brooklyn County Committee are of the New branch. Around 40 people turned up at Sound Fix late yesterday afternoon to lay the groundwork for local and national action under an Obama administration. While long-term plans were discussed, some immediate projects were developed, too, including a food drive for local hungry people. Stay tuned.

If you haven't yet, please add your John Hancock to a petition to keep East River State Park open through the winter.

Finally, if you're interested in contributing thoughts to the North Brooklyn Story Project, please do.

Doom and gloom aside! The world is always beginning...

Portland, Pourtland, Portlande

The Winter 2009 issue of the Portland Review is out, in which two of my poems appear. First the publication's description, then the irony:

"The Portland Review has been publishing superb short prose, poetry and art since 1956. Contributors range from the celebrated to the unknown. Editors at The Review comb through thousands of submissions annually to produce a journal of exceptional quality. Our mission to promote new authors while maintaining STRICT EDITORIAL STANDARDS* allows us to bring our readers fresh and innovative works from Oregon and around the world with every issue."

*My name is spelled three different ways in the course of the issue. In fact, the sheer number of errors made me laugh. And sigh.
But the Times can't even get Sulzberger right...and there might just be a poem hidden in the letters.

Construction A Go-Go?

Just when I thought the recession had silenced the developers, I awoke this morning to the rhythmic, earth-shaking percussion* of pylons being sunk. So someone is still bank-financed and owing debt,** independently rich, or just throwing caution to the wind and building, building, building, come hell or high...rises.

*

Still, many lots are empty (or in limbo).*** What can we do with them? Since moving here almost two years ago (before the corner factory was razed****), I've harbored fantasies of guerilla gardening. Mightn't the spaces also become bonafide parks or community gathering spaces?

Not according to New Yorker editor Nick Paumgarten, who recently asked a similar question: "What will become of the pits?" According to Paumgarten's research, "Vacant space tends to remain vacant, in anticipation of an upswing. Tax policy, intertia, and the eternal belief that things will get better again usually trump civic dreams of pocket parks or stickball fields."

Thankfully, I think things ARE better, just as they are, with the pace of development slowed - at least - and the opportunity for bulb grenades and plywood tags on every corner...

**A Philadelphia developer had this to say about his reasons for continuing development despite the housing market crash: "We get bank financing for the site improvements. The bank needs to be repaid, and so we're committed to keeping things moving."

***Click "lots" to read a great article that mentions the empty lot at Withers and Union and shares the thoughts of neighborhood advocate Phil DePaolo, who defines "Planner’s Blight" as "when speculative development is allowed to spiral out of control because city officials zone without a policy for responsible growth."

****

I Too Lived

"I too lived, Brooklyn of ample hills was mine,
I too walk'd the streets of Manhattan island, and bathed in the waters around it,
I too felt the curious abrupt questionings stir within me,
In the day among crowds of people sometimes they came upon me,
In my walks home late at night or as I lay in my bed they came upon me,
I too had been struck from the float forever held in solution,
I too had receiv'd identity by my body,
That I was I knew was of my body, and what I should be I knew I should be of my body. - Walt Whitman, "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry," 1881.

Self Call

Under the BQE is now on Robert Lanham's taste-making FREEwilliamsburg site. (And self call is is just an all-around great little term. Thanks to Janos and the whole Dartmouth gang.)

And No Trampling

Put your money where you...home is.

Some ideas for Brooklyn holiday giving that would make Mr. Markowitz proud:
*A hammer from Crest Hardware.
*Brooklyn-made copper pots from Brooklyn Kitchen.
*Dog bones and cat toys from PS9.
*Drawings, photographs, snowglobes, and other artwork from The Front Room gallery's Fuse Works project.
*Chili peppers, dried and strung, from the Saturday farmers' market in McCarren Park.
*A wine cork trivet from RePlayGround.
*A gift certificate to Bamonte's.
*Mismatched teacups from Junk.
*A subscription to cheese from Bedford Cheese Shop.
*A book of poems from Spoonbill and Sugartown Booksellers.
*Tickets to Brick theater projects.
*Pomade or brushes from Mousey Brown or Beehive Salons.
*Pinoli tarts or pannetone from Settepani.
*A training session with Kwesi Morris of Tribal Fitness (workouts in McCarren Park).
*An elderflower gimlet at Hotel Delmano.
*Girl Talk's Feed the Animals or Belle & Sebastian's BBC Sessions from Sound Fix.
*Homemade photographs in Salvation Army found frames.
*A cup of Mexican hot chocolate from Beaner Bar.
*Bike gear from B's Bikes.
*A screen printing or jewelry design class at 3rd Ward.

North Brooklyn Story Project

The NBSP is born? At NAG's organizing meeting tonight, we were a group devoted to "Improving our Quality of Life and Preserving Community Character." Nine people now believe in the North Brooklyn Story Project! (Excellently, Keith Wagstaff of Williamsburg is Dead was in my group, along with Gregor, Cheryl, Ward, Irene, Stephanie, and my pals Daniel and Terrence.) Anyway, each organizing team (the others are committed to preserving affordable housing, expanding open space, and improving transportation) had an hour or so to build consensus around a short-term and long-term project, to be pursued in subsequent meetings and presented at the next NAG organizing gathering in February. It's program development, baby. And the story project is the long-term way to galvanize people across the community to work toward all kinds of common good. (Our short-term project is to map garbage can locations and make calls to 311 and petitions to City Council for better receptacle allocation, coupled perhaps with some litter education.)



Speaking of common good, if you haven't yet, write an e-letter to Governor Patterson to keep East River State Park open all winter. Assemblyman Joseph Lentol is doing his part - won't you?

PETA Underground

Protecting animals to the end. One of the things that has been most frustrating about PETA over the years, and about eco-movements in general, is the accompanying eco-righteousness. I am more inclined to like a PETA (and any activist movement (or NON-activist movement, as this article argues) that takes its cause seriously...but remembers how to laugh (even if it be very, very darkly).

I'll be cremated or donated to science. But if I had a coffin, I would like graffiti on it please. Piece me up.

You Know You've Made It (Lost It?) When

the Real World comes to your town. If the new-old recession, crime, and hipster bingo aren't reality enough, check out real people playing real people in Brooklyn at The Paley Center (52nd Street between 5th and 6th Aves), this Friday at 6:30 p.m.

Community, Yo

If you live in Williamsburg, Greenpoint, or a combination of the two, come out to the Neighbors Allied for Good Growth community organizing extravaganza tomorrow night at 7 p.m., at the Holy Ghost Church Hall Basement (160 North 5th Street between Bedford and Driggs). The last meeting was October 2nd and now, post-elections, W/G is ready to hit the ground running (in green, garbage-free parks!) or perhaps riding the (fast and uncrowded) L. The meeting will result in the formation of four committees to take over the world in the following ways:

1. By preserving affordable housing options for residents;
2. By improving open space and access to the waterfront;
3. By offering safe and quick transportation options for the neighborhood; and
4. By improving quality of life and preserving community character.

Ultimately, the neighborhood's walls say it best:



Represent.

Words for No Words

“When they were saying they had to leave, that an employee got killed, people were yelling, ‘I’ve been on line since yesterday morning,’ ” Ms. Cribbs told The Associated Press. “They kept shopping.”

Mumbai beseiged; Jos, Nigeria, rioting; and the word enough inanely and tragically forgotten just outside the city. Black Friday earned its name, even while joy persisted elsewhere. Sometimes only poetry will do life justice. The following is part of a project of sorts with a lawyer/artist friend whom I admire very much and who provides me with photographs for poeming.



Burning Bush

“Draw not nigh hither: put off thy shoes from off thy feet, for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground.” – Exodus 3:5

How can we tell,
these days of perpetual
calamity and joy,
the origin of the voice?

Not one moment less
joyful than the next,
not one less full of hell.
Everything is clamoring.

It was easier to hear
the angels then, but
difficulty has always been
the larger part of grace.

Out my own window,
there’s a sycamore,
a century-old restaurant,
and red fire escapes.

Here, too, amidst clouds
and chords, still more
unnamable things burn
and are not consumed.

Post-Thanksgiving

Waking early (though about to sleep again), I set to thinking about the fact that I've now lived eight Novembers in New York, and I've been here for all the Thanksgivings, except for in 2001, when I went back to Illinois. 2002 was the first and only time I've seen the Macy's Parade, and yesterday was my favorite gathering yet, not to be beaten for company (more here), mellowness, and thoughtful, lovely food.











I'm also reminded of a passage in Gatsby that contrasts east coast parties to their counters in the Midwest: "They were here - They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West where an evening was hurried from phase to phase toward its close in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of a the moment itself." I'm grateful for the perpetual overcoming, which process brings me closer and closer to home in its truest sense.



Last night, we all trooped up to the roof before people headed into the night, and turning my eyes into a 360-degree panoramic camera, I was amazed afresh by the dark of South Brooklyn, the bright necklace of the Williamsburg Bridge, the grand cutout of the Orthodox dome, a turkey-colored and majestic Empire State, and the several spires marching off into Greenpoint and points further east.

Thanksgiving

Okay...I do have plans. In fact, this is going to be the most local of all local Thanksgivings, in that I don't have to set foot out of my building. T and I are cooking for half a dozen NYC denizens ("over the river and Under the BQE..."), and the food is all from local farms. The coffee I'm about to go buy, however, is not. But Michael Pollan loves corn chips...so there.

Thanksgiving Eve

I'm boiling sweet potatoes to make sweet potato custards and thought I'd drop by and say hello. The radiator has just begun whistling, the night is clear and cold (temperature being one thing that I want below average), the cats have climbed into a paper bag, and the sky remains open over Withers Street (for now... - thanks, recession!). This has been an amazing year of growth and artistic abundance, and I just wanted to send a little love out into the ether.

Hallelujah II

Unbelievably great news. May the BQE crumble and the ailanthus speak a leafy reclamation through the beautiful skeletons of automobiles.

I wish the country knew that it's going to be alright. The effects of economic collapse are being felt everywhere - Sunac prices have gone up considerably, I realized tonight (this, a rapid realization of the Pollan prophecy that Americans will no longer reliably spend just nine percent of their budgets on food), and I thought of the millions of people far less lucky than me - but, just as our strengths have been our weaknesses until now, our weaknesses will also be our strengths. We've done it before, and we can do it again...

Plug: The Cheese Stands Alone

Come ring in Thanksgiving week with cheese loving local cats...or...you know what I mean.

Auld Lang Kellogg's

Gone is the old Kellogg's Diner, arrived is the new. For surreal experiences, stopping by for an omelette might take the cake: walk into what was once a bright, coffee-clinking greasy spoon, and find...of course!...a lobster tank, come-hither lights, and a full bar behind the pie and cake display case. Tiffany and I (she's in the press again!) stopped by Sunday, after a fun, theatrical clothing swap at The Brick. Seeking only some coffee and a crumb or two of something sweet (that's all girls eat: crumbs), we of course would meet Courtney (Harlem bartender) and Tad (South 5th waiter), with whom we talked about the local Thanksgiving concept (no, Pathmark is not local), compulsive journaling, the South Williamsburg "mob," working on a cruise ship, and visiting "cats" (i.e. dating in the 21st century). Sanka,* a hazelnut cappuccino, crumbs, a - what the! - bottle of wine, and a couple of nips of whiskey? $13.75. Discovering new folks, facts, and recipes for sweet potato pudding? Priceless.

*If I were starting a new blog, I would call it Why I Love Sanka. Because I do.

Anthony and the Milk Bottle

It's good to be home. After running at the track today, and bumping into a couple of my old Italian neighbors (we of course talked about the weather), I picked up some produce and milk at the farmers' market. A quart of Ronnybrook Farm milk cost me $1.25, as buyers get $1 off the price for each glass bottle they return. Starting to feel ridiculous in short running shorts, as the wind finally began to pick up and banish these global warming temps, I walked, milk under arm and vegetables over shoulder, to Settepani for coffee. After a quick chat there, I was heading home, when a man outside the Lorimer Market (good for prepared salads, sandwiches, cold cuts, and the like) stopped me to talk about my bottle of milk. Anthony (it's a safe bet that Brooklyn-Italian guys you meet in the neighborhood respond to Anthony or Pete) didn't know much about the farmers' market, but he was intrigued by the glass bottle; he was looking for glass because it keeps longer and doesn't get punctured in transport. When I told him about the deposit system, whereby you get the $1 back for every glass bottle returned, he got even more excited. I suggested that the shop might start up a program like those that stores do to get people to bring back old soda and beer bottles, and also that each time people returned the bottles they'd be coming into the shop again, which is good for business. At one point, Anthony actually took the bottle and disappeared for a few minutes to show it to Jerry, his brother-in-law and the owner (Brooklyn-Italians are also all related). The long and short of it is that I told them more about the farmers' market, including its hours (6 a.m. to 3 p.m. every Saturday) and said I'd hook them up with a Ronnybrook contact. I also confirmed that there would be great local demand for the product, that they might consider carrying other Ronnybook items, and that other local proprietors (like Sunac) are already doing so. The mission I've been articulating for myself for awhile (and that is fast picking up speed) is to re/create and re/integrate local food networks, and today was a serendipitous example of the increasing interest in and potential fruits of such endeavors.