A suitcase in Berlin, a first month back lost in New York blog
Some days I felt lost in Berlin.
These days I feel more lost in NYC.
But I guess everyone is to some extent, striving, hoping to make rent, trying to navigate this big complicated, hard working archipelago, between Governor’s and Staten Islands, Manhattan and Brooklyn and the farm uptown.
I felt it reading George Sand’s novel of revolutionary France, Mauprat:
"She discovered that a great deal of the suffering in this world is due not so much to original sin, but to a kind of original stupidity, an unimaginative, stubborn stupidity."
I sensed it reading newspaper reports bemoaning lines of migrants and asylum seekers sleeping on the streets outside the Roosevelt Hotel, now a migrant processing center for the city. Entering the city, those on the streets encountered a space, where demarcations are only becoming more prominent, lines between insiders and outsiders, rich and poor, public and private, the divides increasingly prescient, particularly since the “fiscal crisis” years of the 1970’s, when the New York hit a fiscal wall. We’ve been reeling and recovering from the policy fallout ever since.
I felt it in the air on the way to holy Brooklyn, on the plane, flying across the world, from Berlin to Reykjavik airport, layovers missed, luggage lost. Seems like you've been traveling for a day, said max, feeling like Odysseus trying to come back to Penelope. Hopefully you won't turn up in disguise and slaughter folks, he suggested, offering me a beer. Finally home with my traveling buddy Shannon, bags lost, body and soul intact.
Back home, I picked up an old book, J. M. Coetzee in Waiting for the Barbarians, left unfished on the bookshelf.
"This is the scene I'd dreamed of. Like much else nowadays I leave it feeling stupid, like a man who lost his way long ago but presses on along a road that may lead nowhere..." wrote J. M. Coetzee.
I couldn’t stop thinking about being in Durban a few months prior, before stops in Tangiers and Tbilisi, Madrid and Brussels, in between our year-long sojourn to Berlin. Old pictures remind me of the journey.
Back in town, I tried to catch up on old projects.
I posted a note for everyone about the movie that was finally ready for viewing.
“Hello Friends,” I wrote,
“We are back from Berlin. Slowly getting our feet on the ground, getting ready for classes this week, our first in the classroom in over a year.
I'm reminded of Marlene Dietrich's song, "I still have a suitcase in Berlin."
A year later, we still literally have a suitcase lost in the airport in Berlin.
We showed a short from this in our show , Trees, Truth, Trust in Berlin. Stories about fights for public space are everyone, particularly in Berlin, where the forces of displacement we've seen for decades are slowly hitting there. With this in mind, we thought we might as well have a screening of the whole thing on our arrival. Please join us on September 9th at 730 PM for The Clash, a screening. Over a dozen years in the making, the Clash is a story about public space in New York, with contests over green space, biking, occupying, sustaining, and Black Lives in public space. Join us for a New York screening at Village Works, on 12 Saint Marks Place New York, NY, between Second and Third Avenues. September 9th.
The film resonated in Berlin where increasingly public space is contested. “Thousands attend Berlin protest rave against A100 motorway expansion,” declared Resident Advisor after the first weekend in September. ://about blank, Else and Club OST all hosted st ages. It went on: “...around 7,000 Berliners took to the streets to protest against the A100 motorway extension. Held between the neighbourhoods of Treptower Park and Ostkreuz on Saturday, September 2nd, the protest saw a mix of Berlin ravers, industry people and climate activists dance, drink and wave home-made signs with slogans like "culture instead of concrete," "no highway to hell" and "culture instead of concrete." The potentially affected clubs—including ://about blank, Else and Club OST—all hosted stages with DJs like Amperia, Nina Berg, Sylvie Maziarz and Skankstasy…. The protest rave was organised collaboratively by the BI A100 citizens' group, Berlin Club Commission and a handful of clubs that are at risk of closure. In a statement from earlier in the year, the Club Commission stressed that at least 21 cultural institutions are at risk from the A100 motorway extension. The 16th construction phases of the A100, which is currently under construction, will cost around €700 million. Experts believe the 17th phase could cost more than €1 billion.”
And in London, while they have access to public space, the right to protest is curtailed.
I couldn’t stop thinking about that last weekend in Berlin, closing the art show, trying to get the cats home, lost in ://about blank, the strange scenes in clubland, losing all my filters, as the sun came up, feeling a part of something abundant, beyond consciousness, dancing with countless others, all night long.
Digible Planets, who pioneered a distinct, jazz infused, funky, pop like verion of hip hop, was playing as I arrived in Brooklyn, the Modly Peaches the night before, different beats and sounds.
In between unpacking those bags that did arrive, we drove to Philadelphia, PA for a show with the teenager. While New York celebrated hip Hop's half-century of majestic raw and telling beats reminding it takes a nation of millions to hold us back, Kimya brought a group of Gen Zers into a conversation about wounds and hopes for a world in which everyone has access... don’t forget who you are, her aunt implored, before she shuffled off...With an eye toward redemption, she laughs at her potty mouthed lyrics, vascilating between the surreal and the sorrowful. Her anti-folk sensibility seems to channel something between Syd Barrett and Odetta, Pete Seegar and Karen Carpenter.
After the big Moldy Peaches show the Thursday before, Kimya was in a more subdued mood for the set. The fans were quiet, many weeping as she played.
I loved so many of the songs. “Tree Hugger” stood out:
"The flower said, "I wish I was a tree"
The tree said, "I wish I could be
A different kind of tree"
The cat wished that it was a bee
The turtle wished that it could fly
Really high into the sky
Over rooftops and then dive
Deep into the sea
And in the sea there is a fish
A fish that has a secret wish…”
“Thanks again Philly!” said Kimya finishing the all ages show old in an church. “That was a spiritual experience.I love you.”
Coke and Doritos in hand, the teenager and I headed back to Brooklyn, talking about Kimya, her legions of fans and ideas, listening to Defiance Ohio/ Nana Grizol songs, John Prime, Kimya, the Moldy Peaches and the rest of the anti-folkers, all night on the drive back.
Driving, we heard the news of the Trump indictment in Fulton County. Dad always said: “go after them with RICO.” The Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act ( RICO ) of 1970 established new penal prohibitions for unlawful activities of those engaged in organized crime. In involves inviting people to cross state lines to engage in a crime. God knows they go after protesters for this. Even Guiliani was charged. He used to put in the call personally to central booking to put us all through the system, 36 to 48 more hours in processing, the process is the punishment. He loved to put those charged through perp walks which destroyed lives.
I made my rounds through beloved Brooklyn, from Bijans to Barbes, taking in Slavic Soul Party sets, walking these mean streets through the hot summer. Lots of observations. One, its more expensive, more of a production. You feel the threats of violence here, speeding cars, guns. Still activists push forward.
August 16, I joined @maketheroadny @actupny @cpdaction @psc_cuny on hand, health care advocates @ 12 noon outside NYC office of Jones Day 250 Vesey Street (at Hudson River) in Lower Manhattan." Drop the lawsuit, drop the prices," said Mark Hennay, condeming the lawsuit by big pharma against the inflation reduction act. Bristol Myers Squibb and Merck are both suing Medicare to stop its new Rx drug price negotiation program before it even gets started! "Welcome to our big army fighting big pharma. We will bring you down. 90 percent of generic pharma is controlled by two companies… a fight between greed and money on the one hand, right and justice on the other…. Health care is a human right. Ken from act up spoke about the history of act up fighting big pharma over prices and access. “This is not going to stand.” Mark Milano talked about the personal impact of increased drug costs. Jonas drop your clients.
“Drop Your Lawsuit, Drop Your Prices!” said activists.
Later that afternoon, gays against guns were dancing away their heartbreak, contending with another plague, reminding us we can change history...at “a DANCE PARTY with a purpose on Hudson street, at Magical Bus Tour, visiting 26 communities across the nation that have faced the trauma of mass shootings, will reach NYC on Wednesday, August 16… welcoming them to honor and celebrate the life of their son, Joaquin, who was shot and killed at his school.”
Stopped by Village Works, our favorite new bookstore on the way to meet Berlin friends leaving town, others dropping by between here and there... on the way to the beach.
Afternoon after afternoon, the teenager and i biked from Brooklyn, over the bridge, to Manhattan, West on Chambers, and North up to 92nd street and back.
And ran into friends at Theater for the New City at Coney Island on a hot magic Friday night, the whole city out dancing on the boardwalk....as JC says....“We give and take a mighty love to you” as we take a wild ride to Coney Island in our supremely original musical Life on the Third Rail.
Babs joined Caroline and I at Beach 105, Rockaway summer... gorgeous sky, warm water...endless summer.....
All week, we explored the new city, old city, Bear’s hair not unlike Lou Reed in a misfits t…
Road trips to see Mom. flipping through the stacks at PREX, listening to some tunes with my besties, after a night out dancing to old Madonna records late into the night, in a sweaty gay bar deep in Brooklyn. Mom still loves FDR. And regrets LB J got us into Vietnam. Always lovely catching up...trying to settle back in after a year away, making rounds between yoga and red hook and barbes. It's not so simple. One of our bags is still sitting in terminal one in Brandenberg Airport.
Up into the woods, we drove, through windy roads, to a waterfall in a day full of surprises. On stage, Frankie Cosmos reminds us a third of Americans consider pizza a breakfast food, Friday August 25th, 25, 2023 at Glen Falls House, dancing the night away up state in the woods.
After breakfast, we made our way out of Round Top, on our way to a cemetery we saw a sign for Cairo NY. I recalled mom talking her way out of a ticket in Cairo Ga, telling the cop she was busy telling her kids Southerners pronounced Cairo with a long A in these parts. The cop waved off the ticket. And drove on to Thomasville. The teenager and I explored the cemetary, wondering about those who'd passed their lives here, many living eight or nine decades, eluding the cruel fates of war or famine or starvation. We stood looking at the graves, reading an old poem, “Spoons of Silver and Spoons of Tin” by Benjamin Peck Keith, about it:
“In the Village Graveyard
Cairo, NY
Among the grass grown graves I stand,
A deathlike stillness fills the air,
Familiar names on every hand,
I read upon the headstones there.
I feel a sense of deep unrest,
Beyond the power of words to tell,
There is a sorrow in my breast,
The memory of a last farewell…
Dream on..”
On we dreamed and talked, looking at the road that goes on forever, Kimya and Robert Earle Keene, Frankie Cosmos and Otis lee, old Moldy Peaches records Nina taking us through holy America, just like Dad and I used to do it, stopping a farmer’s market, picking up some peaches, growing between crumbling buildings, old cars. Debating music, I got in a few older songs, the Front Porch Song and Guitars and Cadillacs, recalling that high and lonesome feeling....
"Girl you taught me how to hurt real bad and cry myself to sleep
You showed me how this town can shatter dreams,”
Sang Dwight David Yoakam.
…
“Now it's guitars, Cadillacs, hillbilly music
Lonely, lonely streets that I call home…”’
Thats some chorus, I said.
It certainly is.
A year prior, we were both reading the Dharma Bums.
This year, we were back on the road, trying to find a space between Berlin friends of summer and New York’s fall.
That night, the older kid, Damian and I compared notes on Graffiti on Low or No Dollars: An Alternative Guide to Aesthetics and Grifting in North America, on the Lower East Side, into the summer night, reading poems as we sat at Cafe Himalaya on East First.
Greg and Babs and I met at the beach the next morning, each of us riding the metaphysical tides all day ... surfing... treading water, stumbling, spinning backward in the water, some rides more successful than others...friends converging on a hot summer day.
And who says there aren't places to go dancing in nyc. Leaving the 72 hour parties in Berlin was hard, but late night dancing at St Vitus and Mr Sunday reminded me of the possibilities of nyc, its beats and people, queer bodies, funky bodies, party people still making the city shaking it... Chicago House and Techno, as well as '80's beats with a little NYC grunge all weekend long. With its Sunday party, Nowadays felt a little like Sisyphus in Berlin. We even ran into an old friend from Berghain, dividing his time between NYC and Berlin. Its complicated he told us. God we know. We still have a suitcase and a lost clock there.
Still trying to make our way, Baby C got us tickets for some theater at Park Side Lounge, Clockwork and SHABOOM! created by Silky Shoemaker, Lex Vaughn and Paul Soileau, a spectacle teetering at the edge of disaster. Sharing a mind of anarchy and absurdity, we create environments and actions of pleasure and liberation for our audience. SHABOOM! is not just an experiment with failure, but a jubilant funeral procession for the notion of success, driven by maddening determination and an impressive lack of good judgment. SHABOOM! is theatre for the masses that forces culture and critique through the clown horn of queer slapstick.
And summer went on and on.
Finally a first week of teaching, the first in a year and a half, meeting friends afterward at barbes...chatting about it all, making plans for Labor Day, hanging tough with Al and Mom... chatting the afternoon away
Funny night, running into characters passing through ...the beighborhood, on the way to St Mark’s Place see @pinklouds @villageworksnyc singing... "How come all the lights still on" and other songs about lost friends and dead landlords and keeping the neighborhood what it is... It's the end of an era... come outside...wipe those eyes...so let's start all over again…
And out for dancing in Ridgewood, a new New York revealing itself to us, still rough around the edges. Club land is still club land. See the young cool kids getting bounced from the Merge second aniversary party. Sooo much fun dancing late in funky nyc... surrealist music and lights... time in motion…
The city is popping, we stop at Frans wonderful show with the Church of Shopping, and then to the work of art that is Elizabeth Street Garden, and Elberto Miller's show broken hand show of mosaic at the entrance... on our way to village works.
The story of public space in NYC takes countless directions.
Barbara Ross reminded us:
·
“There used to be only one very narrow unprotected bicycle lane in all of Manhattan. Broadway was a street only for cars.
Join me to check out this documentary about the Clash for more Public Space in NYC historically and the conflicts that continue to this day. A lot of cool footage & images of old NYC…”
Everyone was getting ready for the doc. The New York screening is at Village Works, an independent bookstore on 12 Saint Marks Place New York, NY, between Second and Third Avenues, September 9th.
After much rain, it seemed all our friends made their way there.
Thank you to all the friends who came and @villageworksnyc for hosting the screening of the Clash,our documentary about public sf pace in NYC. Gardens and public spaces are always under threat. It's great to see my nyc tribe our there preserving them. Thanks for cheering and being there.
NYC back in the swing of it, some days. Others not so much.
More teaching, more hanging out at the Anarchist bookfair, chatting with Eric and Damien and friends, all afternoon long.
By mid September, our lost bag had moved from Berlin to Vienna back to Berlin to London, where Caroline cajoled someone to send it back to New York, via Berlin.
And soon enough it arrived at our doorstep, the remains of our year in Berlin, posters and my clothes, a few note books inside. Some books are gone. The Basketball Diaries is nowhere to be seen.
I scour through my notes on the sociology of entanglements, finishing my old copy of Waiting for the Barbarians:
“I wanted to live outside of history that empire imposes on its subjects, even its lost subjects. I never wished it for the barbarians that they should have the history of empire laid upon them.”
I think about the Berlin conference, in which they divided Africa. And my trip to Durban, reading Coetzee. And here we are in Brooklyn, with our own colonial dynamics, empires and histories imposed upon each other, the residue in the street, in the trash.
When we left Berlin, we said no more cats. Still Shannon returned with us from Berlin. The best laid plans. A message from a friend with a wild cat in the back yard... in South Brooklyn... mama is gorgeous. We have been feeding her for 4 months. Then one day she showed up pregnant. She comes 2-3 times per day to our door to eat. The raccoons and possums are prowling. While I'm off at the naked bike ride baby c and bear rescue Nigel and Nico, who join Shannon and company here ... Spider and Aisla are gone... new roommates purring away... reading searching making their way... the mystery of it all... for all of us on our journey.
And soon enough the kid, who started their year in Berlin, then spent six months in Los Angeles. Then half the summer in Berlin, the other half in New York, was off again to the left coast, Los Angeles waves and skate parks, libraries and museums ahead. After a summer of exploring underground movies and scenes, punk shows and underground bookstores, we made our way through East New York looking at graffiti on the walls of our ever-transforming city, on the way to the airport, leaving on a jetplane.
Bonne voyage kid. It's never easy saying goodbye. Onward.
After they left, I found myself thinking about a birthday years ago, snowfalls and strolls through the snowy park down the street. It was a long time ago, a time none of us can get back. She’s out west. The other one has a senior year to go. Empty nest around the corner, like that old John Prine song Bear and I listened to with its wistful feeling of time passing.
"Well, it'd been years since the kids had grown. A life of their own left us ..."
It's not so simple being back. In yoga, I think of late nights and adventures, dancing till six am, ever distracting, daydreams of days and days, as we move toward the fall equinox.
Jim said he thought he saw me at one of the climate marches. I thought I saw you as well, i reply. How is it being back, he asked. The time away was strange and wonderful. It reminded me of what we said about Giuliani all those years ago. We lost some of our groove. We lost a bit of our right to party, even our dreams of it all, not that it was perfect by a stretch. But those dreams still live. I seemed to find them Berlin clubs and techno weekends, tons of art, welcomings and high times. I still love NYC. But it changed. Much of it doesn’t work anymore. The cruelty to the poor to the migrants, Kate's queer homeless youth, is heartbreaking. I loved the year away. It's strange being back. But I love seeing everyone. I've been reading Dennis Cooper, the American novelist, best known for the George Miles Cycle, a series of five semi-autobiographical novels... “Dan thought of love as defined by books, cobwebbed and hidden from view by the past,” he wrote in Closer, very queer, not quite Jean Genet. But still longing for something. I miss Tim and Mel and our discussions of who was going to get their copies of Steam: a Journal of Public Sex. Still adore the city and its imagination, its dreams and hopes, and lost landscapes.
.jpg)
No comments:
Post a Comment