the music of our city

Last night, I took the F train into Manhattan after being restricted to the borough of Brooklyn for almost a week in the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy. It was a surreal experience. The city was as quiet as I’d seen it since 9/11. Practically, the only cars on the street were taxi cabs, outnumbering other cars 10 to 1. There was a tension on the trains punctuated by supportive smiles and silent nods from other passengers.

I went to Manhattan to attend a talk, The Public Forum at Joe’s Pub, featuring two of my artistic heroes, solo performer Anna Deavere Smith and David Simon, creator of “The Wire.” They talked about their work processes, the music of speech, and, of course, Sandy. It was great being in a theater for the second time in as many nights, and hearing them speak in a place I consider a home was healing.
David Simon and Anna Deavere Smith

One of the most poignant moments came when Ms. Smith spoke about how tragedies can invigorate creativity. They spur artists to vehemently return to the work because artists make art. She expressed her anticipation of rejuvenated creativity and related it to shopkeepers returning to work after Hurricane Katrina. This is who they were, and if they didn’t open their shops, their lives lost meaning.

The Forum inspired, indeed. Mr. Simon shared how he records actual background conversations for all his productions instead of the traditional “peas and carrots” walla typically taped because it works as a soundtrack – the music of conversation. Ms. Smith insists on word perfect recitation of the interviews she performs because every “like” and “um” represents the soul of that person.

I left Joe’s Pub on cloud nine. After the talk, I was supposed to connect with my wife Christy, who was teaching yoga in the neighborhood, but my phone died and I couldn’t call her. We planned to meet up and ride the subway back to Brooklyn together. Instead, I hopped on the F train at Broadway-Lafayette, resigned to ride home solo. When the train pulled into the Delancey street station, I peered out the train’s window, hoping Christy might be on the platform, since that is where she typically catches it.

Low and behold there she was.

My train car passed Christy, and she didn’t see me in the window. She boarded the train two cars behind me, so I had to walk back to surprise her. At the next stop, I was able to skip to her car and sneak up on her, smiling big, hoping for a hug.

She saw me, and with wide eyes she said, “Were you down there next to the fight?”

Fight? What’s she talking about? Where?

She pointed to the end of the car, and I saw it: Two men – one big, young guy and another, older, homeless man. They yelled at each other. The young guy was pissed because the homeless man was staring at him. The homeless man shouted that he wasn’t looking at the young guy.

They got louder and louder until I said, “Let’s get out of here. Go to the next car.”

Christy hesitated, but the fight escalated, and it seemed punches might fly at any moment. She stood, and we went to the next car, fleeing the fight.

Through the end windows of our new car, we safely watched the young guy, inches from the homeless man’s face, screaming. Finally, as the train pulled into the Jay Street-Metro Tech station, the young guy lifted his arm and slammed it against the homeless man’s face. The homeless man dropped to the ground, and the young guy grabbed his own travel bags, exiting the train onto the platform.

Dazed, the homeless man stood up, scrambling for the young man, but then he realized he was leaving his own bags. He went back for his bags, grabbed them and stumbled onto the platform where I assume they continued fighting. The F train pulled out, and we headed home, both shaken by the experience.

A woman sat across from us. She was eager to recount the altercation blow by blow. How she evacuated the fight car, too. How the young guy had also yelled at her when she sat across from him. She speculated he might be displaced by the storm. He had travel bags. Maybe he was going home. Maybe he was an evacuee, headed to a friends’ place in Brooklyn. Whatever the case, he was disproportionately angry, and the homeless man got the brunt of that rage.

Soon, she spoke about the storm. She’d been volunteering in Red Hook and Coney Island, and the stories she shared were harrowing. She and her friend purchased saris in Jackson Heights and took them to Coney Island because women who wouldn’t leave their homes uncovered for religious reasons had been wearing wet, moldy saris for days. In the Red Hook Housing Projects, there are many elderly residents who didn’t evacuate and won’t leave. There is plenty of support from Red Cross on the ground, but the residents won’t evacuate. One elderly lady’s apartment had wet, moldy carpeting and was infested with rats and raccoons. The woman begged the older lady to let her carry her down 12 flights of stairs, but the older lady wouldn’t abandon her home. The woman told us she must get a hepatitis shot because she’d been wading in waste for two days.

Christy and I arrived at our stop, leaving the woman on the train with faint smiles and weak waves.

“Good luck,” we said.

“You, too,” she replied.

We felt gut punched. It was hard to talk for a few minutes, grappling with the fight we witnessed and the woman’s tale. After a detached week watching devastation on the news, we heard first-hand accounts of what it looks like inside the madness. We saw the affects of madness on men. We tried to make sense of our fortune of living at the highest elevation in Brooklyn, a place barely touched by Sandy’s wrath.

Then, I remembered the conversation of Ms. Smith and Mr. Simon just an hour earlier. As an artist and a writer, it is my job to share these stories. It is my job to reflect the madness of victims and triumph of heroes. It’s important to get back to work. For many, this may not be possible for a while, but it is important to return as soon as we can.

I can return to work now. I can help others with not only my donations and service, but by writing and sharing stories. It doesn’t matter if you sell coffee, teach yoga, work in a skyscraper, or entertain and educate through artistic creation. As soon as you can, get back to what you do best. It adds your unique voice back to a wondrously diverse symphony – the music of our city.

OTHER WAYS YOU CAN HELP NYC RECOVER

The City of New York volunteer registration nyc.gov/service

Park Slope Armory 8th Avenue between 14th and 15th streets in Brooklyn
(Kids cannot volunteer and should stay at home)

Southwest Brooklyn Industrial Development Corporation
402 Van Brunt St, Brooklyn, NY 718-965-3100

Red Hook Initiative 767 Hicks Street Brooklyn, NY 11231
ONLY ACCEPTING PREPARED FOOD

Red Hook Recovers  (347) 770-152 https://redhook.recovers.org

Resurrection Parish (Gerritsen Beach)
2331 Gerritsen Avenue, Brooklyn, NY 11229 (718) 743-7234

The Silver Gull (Breezy Point) 1 Beach 193rd Street, Breezy Point

Far Rockaway St. Francis, 219 Beach 129th Street

Coney Island  Staging area @ 2770 West 5th Street Between Neptune and West Ave.

Staten Island – Tottenville High School 
100 Luten Avenue, Staten Island, NY 10312
nysassembly60@gmail.com

Rebuild Staten Island
https://www.facebook.com/RebuildStatenIsland

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i love you, burning man

It’s been ten days since my return from the desert playa that is Black Rock City. Burning Man offers something new and different every year. Personally, this burn was one of restoration and reflection. While many in our camp danced till sunrise at sound camps – most notably Robot Heart – I slept and meditated a lot. Out there, you must listen to your body, and that’s what mine told me to do: relax. My mind’s musings are still settling, and I’m aiming to organize them into something useful soon.

Upon my return to the default world, I found myself yearning for the creativity and spirit that fed my heart, so it was beautiful this morning when, over breakfast, my wife shared a video by Stefan Pildes and his lady love KJ. Over the past few years, they’ve created homage to the place we love with fun music videos featuring fellow burners. Before I headed into the desert this year, I shared their rendition of “Home.” This year, these Groove Hoops members posted a Fertility 2.0 celebration using Michael Franti & Spearhead’s “Say Hey (I Love You).”

Below, is video of the burning of the Temple of Juno, designed by David Best. The burning of The Man was amazing and fun, but as I said, my mind was more meditative, which the temple burn was. I tagged the temple with the name of a friend, Kibibi Dillon, who died this past year. It was good to let go. Now, I’m letting go of the 2012 Burn. Time to dig in heals and get back to tasks at hand.

Thanks to my campmates – Christy, Ron, Jeffrey, Leo, Josiah, Araceli, Marina, Steph, and our honorary German mate, Florian – for sharing it all with me. One love.

PS – If you want to check out my pictures, here is a small album.

enter the burn – part deux

I love to watch stuff burn. I’m drawn like a moth, hypnotized when flames play in the wind and consume oxygen, paper or wood. Twice, as a child, I almost caught our house on fire from playing with it. Finally, I figured out fire isn’t a toy, but an element to revere. A year ago, I made it to the festival that celebrates fire (and much more) in all its glory: Burning Man.

My first pilgrimage to the desert was difficult, fun, sad, joyful and rewarding. Burning Man is a lot of things to a lot of people. Just as with any art, everyone has her/his own relationship to it, and some people love it while others can’t be bothered.

No matter your take, I’m amped. When I saw a video documenting the creation of the official welcome sign, it fueled my fire.

Burning Man 2012 – Fertility 2.0 Festival Sign from Mad Dog on Vimeo.

Earlier this year, Tedshots posted a beautiful adaptation of Dr. Seuss’ “Oh, the Places You’ll Go!” shot in 2011. It’s one of my favorites.

Now that I have the lay of the land and a better perspective on the culture of it all, I’m hoping I’ll be able to see more fun things. This video by Rainbow Raccoon is long, but that’s because it covers so much. I didn’t even see several wonders it features.

Home is where the heart is, and I know so many burners declare it’s like returning home. It may seem silly to you, or perhaps you’re a kindred spirit who gets it. Whatever the case, my heart fills when I imagine riding my bike across the playa.