From the East Village to Principles of GI, Five Arrests, Two Book Groups, and a Trip Around the Globe, Looking Back at December, Looking Back at 2025
Band on the run, we ran to Berlin in January of 2025, careening to Budapest for inauguration day, and back to Berlin, a few days in Munich, and back to New Yorkers. Countless conversations with Berliners disgusted with Elon Musk's swastika salute followed. That disgust would follow us throughout the news of the year. The Jan 6th insurrectionists pardoned, the whole world shaking its head. It was the beginning of a long strange year, that took me through arrests at the the Tesla Takedown and Trump Tower over inhumane treatment of detainees in a detention camp in El Salvador; “Free the CECOT detainees” we screamed, down to DC repeatedly, to try to save PEPFAR and Medicaid, opposing the ‘Big Beautiful Bill.’ Back to New York for another arrest as Trump spoke at the UN in September. Spring would take us from Los Angeles to San Francisco to New Orleans, back to Los Angels. Baby C and I whirled from New York to Munich to Bangkok, to Ko Pha Ngah, back to Bangkok to Tokyo back to New York. A few weeks home, and then Summer from New York to Berlin, to Helsinki to Brussels to Berlin to Croatia to Paris and back. Fall brought wonderful classes, book talks, travel out to the Left Coast and back.
Day by day, we greeted friends and said goodbye.
Public and private, Stella at Rays and Virginia in Princeton, Aunt Anne in St Simons, and Thomas, in DC, Diane K, David Lynch, too many to count.
The novels many, Norwegian Wood and Wind up Bird Chronicle, my favorites. Nadja, a dream that I could not put down, Rexroth’s Autobiographical Novel. Dad’s old copy. Just making it through the book was a challenge. On the way to the beach, it fell out of my bag, down in the street, stayed through the rain, lost, recovered the next day on a neighbor’s stoop, drenched, dried out over the next next week, still revealing Dad’s markup from our years together in Chicago, offering notes on a distinct theology of activism and poetry that I can see resonated with Dad.
It was the tenth year of our activist informed reading group, looking at the hard lessons of history, and the emancipatory possibilities of the imagination, whirling through time, book talks in Berlin discussing Navalny at Bijons, book after book with my reading crew, month after month:
The Patriot - Memoirs of Alexei Navalny (Feb 2)
Pilgrim At Tinker Creek(1974) by Annie Dillard -
March - Norwegian Wood
The Passion According to GH by Brazilian author Clarice Lispector
Satanic Verses - Rushdie - August
Survival is a Promise: The Eternal Life of Audre Lorde - September
October Joanie's pick: William Faulkner, As I lay Dying meet at CJ's, October 5th at 2/230pm.
NOvember For Nora's pick: The Baron in the Trees meet at Nora's on November 2,
Jane Austin Book Club - Julie's on December 14, Sunday
The adventures with reading with this group grow by the year. A few highlights, tears as we shared discussing suicide in Norwegian Wood the night before we flew to Thailand, swimming pool skinny dipping discussion of Satanic Verses at Joni’s. I’ve always opposed the idea that book group become a sort of support group, but there are times when it's inevitable that we have reactions to texts, mirrors of ourselves reflecting on our lives.
Other highlights, a poetry reading at Abby’s Bar, Ray standing to share his poems from his new collection, chatting with Ron, sharing gumbo, Jamie’s smile as we were getting arrested protesting Trump at the UN, Ryan’s act up t shirt.
Adding to the inquiry, the history, Ken Knabb’s styles of revolt, visions of community, an online reading group of classic movement texts on anarchism and surrealism, with monthly readings I was able to take part in, when I could, with a few of the following texts:
Emma Goldman, Living My Life (abridged)
Victor Serge, Memoirs of a Revolutionary
Victor Serge, A Blaze in a Desert: Selected Poems
George Orwell, Homage to Catalonia
Kenneth Rexroth, An Autobiographical Novel
André Breton, Nadja
George Orwell, Down and Out in Paris and London
Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer
Anaïs Nin, Henry and June
They accompanied Between books and stories, Judson strolls East to Village Works and Tompkins and Rays and MoRUS, community abounded here.
Rise and resist actions and silent vigils,
PSC Meetings,
On drives to see Mom,
Book talks across the country Friendship and Fighting,
poetry events in the gardens and pubs,
music at Barbes and Sonny’s in Red Hook, my world spun.
Road trips with the kids, tours around the world with Baby C, lunches with mom, still hanging on through the years, the days were abundant.
Writing days on the couch, took me through a draft of part three of the friendship book series, Travels in a Conflicted World as well as a few projects, I’ll keep to myself for now. Suffice to say, the stories and oral histories of travel and social movements, play and ideas, they continue to pour forth. I’m not sure the sentences I’m writing are any good. But it's a way to make sense of things, or at the least, to draft a few notes on the history of the present, in shorthand, one post after another.
Books and stories, activism and yoga, worship and greetings, the connections were many, walking to class, to the studio, to a demo.
Some of the greatest pleasures were in reading, Wind Up Bird Chronicle flying from Japan to New York, Sunday mornings with Henry and June, tracing the Anais Nin’s anatomy of a love triangle:
“Do not seek the because - in love there is no because, no reason, no explanation, no solutions,” writes Nin. “There are two ways to reach me: by way of kisses or by way of the imagination. But there is a hierarchy: the kisses alone don't work.”
The imagination is always hotter, the devotion one another, to a collective wanderlust, many.
I gave the teenager a copy of the Baron on the Trees, Calvino’s 1957 anti fascist novel of personal freedom and trees. It's one of their top three novels of the year, they told me, the other two being Nightwood, another subversive story of lost love, and Too Loud a Solitude, a short novel by Czech author Bohumil Hrabal about Haňťa, a man who works as a paper compactor in a Prague police state, secretly rescuing and hoarding banned books in his home, which becomes filled with them. A tragic love with a gypsy, appearing and disappearing, found and lost in war, runs throughout this story, one of the great reading experiences of the year.
Sitting in bed reading, trying to make sense of things continues to be the greatest of pleasures. Even there, surprises abound. Sometimes the status quo embracing NY Times gives me something to pay attention to beyond the obituaries (although they are usually far more interesting than the front pages). Michelle Goldberg wrote this weekend:
“As 2025 limps toward its end, there are reasons to be hopeful.
That’s because of millions of people throughout the country who have refused to surrender to this administration’s bullying. When Trump began his second term, conventional wisdom held that the resistance was moribund. If that was ever true, it’s certainly not anymore. This year has seen some of the largest street protests in American history. Amanda Litman, a founder of Run for Something, a group that trains young progressives to seek local office, told me that since the 2024 election, it has seen more sign-ups than in all of Trump’s first four years. …. I no longer think that Trump is going to pull an Orban and fundamentally consolidate authoritarian control of this country the way that it looked like he was going to do in March or April,” said Bassin, referring to Prime Minister Viktor Orban of Hungary. If Bassin is right, it will be because a critical mass of Americans refused to be either cowed or complicit.”
“Don’t obey in advance.”
“Your silence won’t protect you.”
These antifascist slogans from Timothy Snyder and Audre Lorde served as mantras of sorts for this period.
The last weeks of December, the connections were many, a few dispatches along the way, as the year wound down:
December 17th
Met Caitlin after the last policy class, exchanging books, chatting about Smokers Roadhouse, Looking for Small Animals, "leaning my bicycle against a tree..."
Out to Barbes, We're talking about water quality, not gay men... says Greg. It's all about Otters, says Emily. Unfulfillment... a pause in the wreckage, meeting friends as the Slavic Soul Party plays, Spinal Tap now and forever.
Corinne Carey posted:
“After ten and a half years of work, I am taking a moment today to reflect on what it means for New York to finally adopt the Medical Aid in Dying Act. It is impossible to capture the magnitude of this milestone in a single post, but I am profoundly proud of the coalition of advocates, clinicians, lawmakers, families, and—most of all—people living with terminal illnesses who made this day possible.This has been the hardest work of my life, and also the greatest privilege. Walking alongside advocates who faced the end of their lives with clarity, courage, and love has changed me forever. Their voices shaped this law. Their stories gave it purpose. And their insistence that New Yorkers deserve compassion at the end of life is what carried us forward on days when the politics felt insurmountable. My joy today is real—but it is also tempered by the memory of the 29 advocates we lost along the way. They didn’t live to see the peace of mind, relief, and dignity this law will now provide. Their absence is felt deeply, and it is their legacy that I carry with me as we move into the implementation phase.
I believe with all my heart that this law will bring comfort not only to those who choose this option, but to every New Yorker navigating serious illness. Medical aid in dying improves conversations, strengthens palliative care, and gives families the freedom to focus on love rather than fear. Knowing that this option exists brings a kind of peace that is itself transformative. Today is the culmination of more than a decade of relentless effort—but it is not a victory lap. It is a moment of gratitude, humility, and resolve. I am honored to have done this work, and even more honored by the people who trusted me with their stories and their hopes. Their courage brought us here. Their memory will guide us forward.”
December 18th,
I posted a note after my last class:
Here we are before the final exam for trauma informed practice. One of the most cohesive, supportive classes I've taught at #citytech. I learn from them, from us, moving together. Alex repping for Rob at Bijon's, dancing away at Sunny's Bar Red Hook, before meeting the teenager's bus back from Boston in Chinatown.
December 18th
Rebecca Solnit posted:
This resonated. Some of us tried to warn the voters and some told us we were overreacting, and here we are, and even our warnings were not more dramatic than what's happening. (It also reads like a man processing what it's like being dismissed and called hysterical and not believed, which for a lot of women is a pretty familiar experience).
Toby Bucket writes:
They weren’t time travelers but saw what was coming clearly enough. They called Trump’s movement fascist from the very start, and often predicted specific milestones of our democratic decline well in advance. They were convinced they were right—and often beside themselves with worry. Accordingly, they did everything they could to get others to listen.
But not enough people did, and many attacked them—even as events proved them right, again and again. As late as February 2025, respected legal commentator Noah Feldman was casually asserting our constitutional system was “working fine” and Jon Stewart was scolding people who used the word “fascist,” claiming all they had done “over the last ten years is cry wolf.”
...The first thing to say about fascism’s Cassandras is they’re usually women. Not all women are Cassandras (most aren’t), but most Cassandras are women. My sense is that Black Americans, of either gender, are likelier than whites to be Cassandras, and trans and nonbinary people are heavily overrepresented within the group.
Cassandras live across America; from coast to coast, in urban, suburban, and rural areas, in red, blue, and purple states. The assumption that Trump Derangement Syndrome, to use the right’s mocking phrase, is a malady peculiar to big, blue coastal cities could not be further from the truth. I met Cassandras from Brooklyn, but I also talked with many in smaller towns and cities across the South. A very, very common trait—even for big blue city Cassandras—is having lived in a heavily Republican, deeply conservative area for a long period of time....
All the Cassandras, in their own way, would lay out these elements—he says it, he means it, the base will back it. They didn’t condescend at all, but clearly felt they were reviewing fairly obvious facts about the world.
And looking back, it was all obvious. The mythical Cassandra hardly needed divine gifts to sense that the enemy army vanishing and leaving behind a giant horse statue was—to paraphrase the ancient Greek sources—“a bit sus.” Her modern counterparts were not uncovering some carefully concealed secret, but simply using their eyes, ears, and basic reasoning.
So why did so many fight them so hard?
Americans associate, often subconsciously, our two main political tribes with gender stereotypes. Conservatism is presented and understood as male, liberalism as female. Republicans are the “Daddy Party,” Democrats the “Mommy Party.” This affects how we hear the claims made by either side, and how seriously we take them....
Anti-alarmists invariably conflate talking in a calm tone with being rational. Any expression of fear or anger from Cassandras is proof they’re not to be taken seriously.
December 19th
Toasting the end of the year with friends at Sophies,
Old stories and new stories, recalling Chuck and Brad and David and company, wondering what happened, in between union meetings, what our world will look like, where we'll be, where we went, stories about visiting Yugoslavia in 1974, the year the Constitution aimed for ethnic equality through federalism and minority rights but paradoxically fostered divisions....we saw explode...chatting away at the end of a long year at Sophie's on E 5th Street in the East Village.
December 21th
Walking through the old city and the new, looking at the cold, the bright sun, a few birds, an overdose, the things we said that we shouldn't or should, strolling with the teenager, saying hi to Shannon and Mom.
December 22
"I'm thinking about being," said the woman, standing to speak at the Quaker meeting. The question in Shakespeare's play. Belittle, behoove, behave, beseach. A full solstice Sunday, looking about, reading with mom, saying hi to Fly at MoRUS, biking to meeting the musicians at HONK, at 192 Allen, marching through the ghosts of the lower east side, watching the shadows, past the New York City Marble Cemetery, over to AC's house, where she led a solstice ritual, and we talked about the Haitian Revolution, and Toussaint Louverture, the formerly enslaved man who led the revolt against French rule, becoming Governor-General, telling stories with poets and lesbian avengers into the night, of the shortest day of the year, as rev Billy preaches, and they lit bonfires throughout the gardens of the lower east side.
December 23
I read Kate’s epic posts about New Alternatives for LGBT Youth.
I think about Regina, born on this day, 89 years ago, the families missing someone now, the kids without parents, that hollow feeling we all get, looking at the cold, at the streets, the friends elsewhere, solitary winter here, reminding us…
December 25
Welcoming the saints, greeting the kids, back from LA and Boston, sharing stories from far and wide, talking with Dana about ibogaine, as one does on XMas morning. Miss you Joey.
Later in Princeton,
Shannon welcomed us for a reunion with the college kid. Greetings world.
December 26
RIP Stella, one of the east village legends, making a coffee for me one final time, wearing a faaabulous hat, two weeks ago. RIP.
Says @EVGrieve:
Stella Soltowska, a regular presence at Ray’s Candy Store on Avenue A for nearly 50 years, passed away over the holidays. She was 80.
Sources say she suffered a heart attack at her home in Queens.
Stella, a longtime friend of owner Ray Alvarez, had worked at Ray’s Candy Store since 1977.
More details at evgrieve.com
She will be missed
As the year winds down, dreams grip me, a broken glass, lost receipt, a zine in the mail of sascha's, Kate's story, mom's story and mine, through our Xmas journeys, breakfast together, reading the Magician's Nephew, thinking about our journey, reading it together in the 1970's, about the other world, that we thought about then, thinking about it now, a half century later, roles reversed. We head out ahead of the storm, wondering about history, dreams, other worlds, running to Dreamworld: Surrealism at 100 in Philadelphia ... Walking through a hundred years of the movement, talking with the kid about Andre and Miro, Max E and Psychic TV, thinking about our frailty, our lives in flux, our wild inner worlds...
Snow fills the night. We talked about our 'perfect nonsense...' that Gogol understood.
"The imaginary is what tends to become real."
André Breton
December 27th
Sitting listening to the wind, watching the snow swirling, reading Kate Crane's gorgeous memoir of her father's disappearance. I recall her first drafts, telling me about the book twenty years ago. Congrats Kate Crane. Wow.
Sarah Schulman wrote:
WHAT MAMDANI MEANS TO ME: The forward thinking people of New York City united- not to return to the dysfunctional and unjust system before Trump- but rather to embrace a vision of the world WE WANT TO LIVE IN.
And a special shout-out to one of New York's great grassroots leaders- Beth Miller of Jewish Voice for Peace Action- who organized 2,500 Jewish volunteers for Mamdani - they knocked on 80,000 doors. So proud to see her on the mayoral inauguration committee.
He won't be able to do everything, but I do expect him to stand up to ICE and that is the first place where we all can unite with our mayor.
December 28th
Woke up with the snow, back to the paperbacks, the stories, and found our way to the International Center for Photography for a lush morning of black and white works. First Graciela Iturbide: Serious Play, the first ever retrospective of Iturbide’s work in New York City, exploring her travels throughout Mexico. And then Sergio Larrain: Wanderings, an exhibition of prints from his series Vagabond Children (1957), London (1958–59), and Valparaíso (1952–62). And through the snow, by Al's old place on Ave A, saying bye to Stella at Ray's, stopping for soup at Hanoi House, back to Village Works, past Peter Hujar' old Studio, down to Dashwood Books, mostly zines, photography books, located at 33 Bond... back home ...by the fire on a quiet snowy Saturday…
EV Grieve posted:
In case you missed it over the holidays, the neighborhood is remembering Stella Soltowska of Ray’s Candy Store at 113 Avenue A.
Stella, who worked at Ray’s for nearly 50 years, passed away over the holidays. She was 80.
There is a small memorial outside the shop, and staff say that leaving something modest that reminds you of Stella is a kind gesture — and one that helps Ray see just how deeply appreciated she was by the community.
Many EVG readers have asked how they can help. Friends say the best way is to stop by and support the store with a purchase. Ray needs the business, and staying busy helps.
When we stopped by today, he was in better spirits ... talking about Stella and greeting visitors and longtime friends as they came through.
Meanwhile, Ray’s, a 24/7 business, has reduced its hours for now to 3 p.m. to 4 a.m., though these are subject to change.
The consensus is that Stella was one of those people who made the East Village feel like home, and that feeling doesn’t go away.
December 28th
Woke up thinking about dead poets, reading Thomas' obit in the Times. And biked through the snow. Leafing through the bulletin at Judson:
" For now we see only a reflection, as in a mirror, but then we will see face to face. Now I know only in part; then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known." From Corinthians 13: 12. I found myself thinking about Stella from Ray's, now on the other side of the diner in the sky, and Mom, still on this side. About Bob, who made book announcements and Doris, whose tree and cards we helped put away for years and years. 'Here's to the village ghosts,' I said to the congregation. 'You could say spirits,' said Tequilla. It is a New York crowd full of editors and journalists. But what's a better way to put it, ghosts or spirits? I'm not sure. Back to Brooklyn, past Elizabeth Street Garden, still standing, a win for the people. Back home, Al talked about Albert Brooks, whose Dad died after he nodded off after his last stand up routine. "Is there a doctor in the house," said Milton Berle, sitting by him. “Is there a doctor in the house?” Everyone thought it was a joke. But he was dead. It was one of those kinds of days. So we took the G up to the L to Meserole in WBurg for some skateboarding...And back back home for Annie Hall. Shelly and Alvie dated, before he got back together with Annie: 'Sex with you is a Kafkaesque experience...' Shelly tells Alvie, as he's getting feeling back in his jaw. 'I mean that as a compliment.'
December 29th.
Biked to Principles of GI, on 9th Street, looking at the city and the world. This isn't new, says the graffiti on the wall. We've been here before. We'll take it through together. Met a new friend, and dreamed away the day.
December 30
Thought about brothers and friends, appreciative of my bros, my comrades near and far, the kids and peops, meeting me at Barnes every Tuesday.
