Lost in Coney Island, From Abolition Park to Enchanted City

On the beach with Monica, Catherine and Samuel. 

Pic and story by Monica Hunken

"From isolation and loneliness to being surrounded by thousands of friends and comrades in the streets, from despair and panic to rushes of excitement and hope that we’re getting closer to a more just society, even while evil and death still chase us, grasping at our heels. These last few months have been extreme, illuminating and exhausting. On my birthday I finally went to the beach and communed with the water and my ancestors, and sure also some questionable trash floating by, it was Coney Island after all. You gotta embrace it all if you live in Brooklyn!

And late at night, after some firefly sightings, I glanced through your messages. Thank you all for reaching out, especially during these times. One of the greatest gifts of traveling for theater and teaching is the expansion of my community with brilliant wonderful people around the world. I have so much love for you all and gratitude that you have opened your hearts and shared your lives with me.

When I’m low, I think about my friends who fight hard, love big, make wild art, and care for one another. And it helps me rise back up.

Thank you and much love

- Mo."

Reading Samuel on the beach.

Photo by Catherine Talese

Occupy City Hall,

New York, New York,July, 2020©Stacy Lanyon — with Benjamin Heim Shepard.

Over morning coffee Caroline turned and asked, did I sleep well.

I just had the craziest night of my life, I reply.

Sometimes dreams are more real than waking ….

Recalling investigating a crime in Philly,

an adventure that takes me to Rome, back to the Liquid Sky of the East Village,

To Rome, where the restaurants are filled and Bruno looms in Compo di Fiori,

Back to Hong Kong where the world is changing… a monolith is coming.

To Broad City where Abbi and Ilana are stuck on a pickup truck, the driver watching porn on his way to an art gallery.

Back to City Hall Autonomous Zone, where Stacy and I talk about our friends from Occupy who left before the most recent uprising…they would have loved it, if only they made it, if they’d felt the magic again… she compares what we see here with what she saw in Seattle – more organic, more green out West, more organization in the East.

To Washington Square Park where Bill Cashman sees a

“gathering of 50 or so string players...They came together in solidarity, w/o a permit, to perform a heartwarming tribute to Elijah McClain, 23 year old black violin player who was murdered in police custody in Colorado….these vigils I saw in NYC also happened to bookend Pride & were both led by a queer black violinist…on the opposite side of that arch, cops in riot gear were indiscriminately throwing innocent, non-violent Pride March attendees to the ground. That image is still so fresh to me, it's still haunting that intersection for me. …. tonight was both a tribute & a display of protest music…..The reason to gather was tragic but it truly felt like it was a special gift to be present there tonight. Feeling grateful. My heart felt full. Full of both sorrow and empowerment. Thank you to @_yozart_ for the scene tonight. I teared up & felt a wave of chills rush over me. Hopefully it will help bring a greater mass awareness of the situation & help bring true #justiceforElijahMcClain”

On the other side of town,

a building is collapsing on Court, the old gym across from Marco Polo Restaurant.

Onlookers take in the scene.

Ambulances careen through the streets.

Neighbors wonder what exactly had happened.

Was a bad construction job?

A lot of violations.

What else was shaking beyond the surface?

What was changing, all the that’s solid melting, leaving rubble in and asbestos.

We didn’t need this says one.

Friends drop by.

On the roof, we can barely hear ourselves think, hovering helicopters looming above.

 Django Reinhart records,

“Brazil my Brazilian Brazil
Mulatto inzoneiro
I will sing you in my verses
Brazil, samba that gives
Bamboleio, which makes you swing

Jazz guitar fills the night.

Earlier in the day, Brian left a note from BigWrenchPiano…

Hello again! And thanks (again) in advance for taking the time to read this email and I hope that everyone is doing as best as possible in this tough year.

The shop at 264 Hoyt St in Brooklyn is back open, of course with mask and disinfectant. We've got pianos, we've got guitars, we've got music! We're excited to present our third live-stream gig TONIGHT at 7:30pm eastern time. …we have two of our favorite Canadian jazz musicians--Cat Toren on piano with Michael Blake on tenor saxophone, … if you're nearby the shop, stop by around 7:30 to actually hear the music live from Hoyt Street--we'll have the doors open! But please wear a mask and respect social distancing…In the meantime, support live music and listen to as many live streams as you can as musicians need your help! Stay safe, stay strong New York City.”

All over the street people drop by.

Music in the street once again, piano and saxophone.

We read War and Peace,

Tolstoy’s stories of being lost in the fog.

Masks on and off, people live their lives.

Instead of seeing my brother in real time, I watch him hike through the woods of Sweden with his family, dream about being there.

Its spiking, its receding.

Seth David Tobocman writes on

July 4 at 9:25 AM

“Doctors have noticed no spike in COVID cases due to Black Lives Matter protests, where most people were wearing masks, but they have noticed spikes in relation to the hasty reopening of several red states, where people resist wearing masks.

There are 3 possible explanations:
1) God loves BLM protesters more than God loves Republicans.
2) The doctors are lying. The medical establishment is controlled by BLM.

3) Masks work.”

The teenager read about the pagan anarchists and the goddess of the city.

These are the forces Christopher Scot Thompson sees:

“In the wooden bricks and beams, in bricks, in cobblestones,

I see your face and feel your watching eyes.

And when the alleys moan,

With wind I hear your cries,

You dance in every shaking sign,

And drink when gutters spill with wine.”

Samuel Delany recalls the motion of light in the water…

“…a clash that begins our reading of the postmodern…”

Students march the president’s mansion in Ditmas.

  “...these barriers must come down” says one prof in front of a locked gate.

A mass reminding her that cutting health insurance during a pandemic is not leadership.

It’s getting hotter and hotter.

How long to get there?

The sun boiling.

On we ride

Down Ocean

Across the oldest bike lane in the US.

Meandering through the dilapidated route,

Roots uprooting the pavement,

Bikes flying to Brighton Beach,

Into the water I walk

In a daze…

Forgetting everything.

Who I am, where are my keys…

Flying to the ocean floor

Swimming up against the rocks.

Greeting the seagulls

Old friends.

Greeting the sky.

No keys.

It’s all lost.

I can’t get home.

Greg recalls losing his wallet in Greece.

We all lose ourselves.

For the next few days, I’m lost in Coney Island.

To and from.

Back on the Subway for the first time in months.

Trying to find keys and clues.

Back and forth.

Lost in the dark,

Lost in  my life,

Lost in time,

At City Hall,

In space.

Finally a lock re opens.

Finding my ride, even if I’m sometimes lost in my life.

To Princeton,

Back on the road

With Catherine and Samuel.

She remembers swimming with JK, the shapeshifter.

Wondering about the motion of light in water.

Looking at the seagulls and Russian supermodels.

Monica says Hi.

Catherine swims.

Riding all day.

To and from the water.

Back to Cobble Hill.

The sun going down.

Making our way through this enchanted city.

…. a place where poetry grows of chance encounters among strangers conjuring an alchemy of ideas, where we imagine other worlds; rituals invoke spirits, the dead dance with the living, and the faeries lead us into a blurry world in between.  Here pieces of green find inspiration in the cracks in the sidewalk, crawling up from unknown worlds, eternal returns of the repressed. Cycling through these streets, one occasionally stumbles upon urbanist flaneur Kevin Dann, disappearing and reappearing on chance occasions; his Enchanted New York rightfully reminds us “New York City since the American Revolution has been a place where, at each step of its prodigious biography, both witting and unwitting actors have engaged in magic, often with enormous historical consequences rippling out far beyond Manhattan’s shores.” 

On we ride, through a secret history of a distinct urban space informed by witches and dreams, faerie magic and a creative clash between a new colossus and Moloch. 

At a time of plague, when the poor are sleeping in the streets, and a cavalcade of bodies are marching for something better, we reimagine the city, even when we’re lost in Coney Island. 

 

And a few screenshots.