I am acutely aware of the ways that people view and interact with this city beach because my parents met at Rockaway Beach. For them, summer was synonymous with this place. For me, I just have a peculiar case of nostalgia for a place I never even knew. Rockaway has changed since my parents were out there, but what’s interesting is, it’s changing again. I like to think of it as a re-birth of cool.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Rockaway Roundup
Rockaway Beach, Queens—the little piece of land just beyond Jamacia Bay—has gotten so much new attention in the past few years. On Saturday, we collectively held our breath as hurricane Irene approached this fragile place. I’ve heard stories of past Rockaway hurricanes, and how the ocean would greet the bay with disregard for the unsuspecting sandy-land between.
Friday, July 22, 2011
A Box for all Pizzas
I am fascinated with watching people make pizza. It’s something we take for granted because it is so ubiquitous in New York, but so are many talented pizza-makers. Seriously? tossing the dough up in the air and cradling its fall with your fists? The same fists that can punch holes in things. That is not easy. But it happens all the time, many times, at the same time, all over the city. Simultaneous pizza making is part of the daily urban hum. How many potential pizzas take a little spin in the air at the very same moment each day? I wonder.
Joe is building shallow wooden boxes for a guy who owns a pizza place. The guy’s name is, not surprisingly, Sal. The boxes will be a place for the dough to sit quietly and rise. I like this project. These boxes will bear hundreds of expanding doughy miracles, to be baked, shared and crunched.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Saturday, June 11, 2011
The Photography of Barry Underwood.
“It is better to light one small candle than to curse the darkness.” —Eleanor Roosevelt
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
The Traffic Island Chronicles
There is an island that I spend a lot of time on. It’s strange. I have waited on this island for many minutes. I should probably not spend as much time there as I do.
I was on the island again the other day, sitting on a bench, staring at the ginkgo tree and smelling the simultaneously comforting and revolting hamburger exhaust from a nearby restaurant. This island attracts people who are somewhere between somewhere-to-be and nowhere-to-go. No one is waiting for them, anywhere.
Two men sat on the bench perpendicular to me. They were sleeping as the sun beat down on them. They had on the same pair of black boots and I wondered if they knew. Or if they knew each other. Then, a woman came and sat next to me and ate one of those huge homemade rice crispy treats that they sell in delis, but that no one ever purchases. She was new to the island. Just as I thought about how my island faithfully attracts transitional characters, misfits, outcasts and odd birds, a pigeon walked by with a deformed or badly injured foot.
On my island you will find two large black metal trash cans, three benches, five medium sized trees, two small trees and two shrubs in planters. Most of the trees are sycamores, the type that have the bark peeling off so it’s variegated, like camouflage. Each tree sits in a bed of wood shavings, which is surrounded by concrete. The ginkgo tree across from the island lights up a charasmatic green against the deep red brick facade. The facade belongs to an old factory building, the kind with crumbled character that will be missed and then forgotten when the city tears it down and puts a high-rise in its place. Most of the surrounding buildings are low now, so I can see clear to the 59th street bridge. And I can see sky.
I sit on this island and wait for Joe to finish work, many times he takes too long and I grow restless with a kind of urban island fever. Many times I leave the island before Joe arrives and I wait somewhere else.
I was on the island again the other day, sitting on a bench, staring at the ginkgo tree and smelling the simultaneously comforting and revolting hamburger exhaust from a nearby restaurant. This island attracts people who are somewhere between somewhere-to-be and nowhere-to-go. No one is waiting for them, anywhere.
Two men sat on the bench perpendicular to me. They were sleeping as the sun beat down on them. They had on the same pair of black boots and I wondered if they knew. Or if they knew each other. Then, a woman came and sat next to me and ate one of those huge homemade rice crispy treats that they sell in delis, but that no one ever purchases. She was new to the island. Just as I thought about how my island faithfully attracts transitional characters, misfits, outcasts and odd birds, a pigeon walked by with a deformed or badly injured foot.
On my island you will find two large black metal trash cans, three benches, five medium sized trees, two small trees and two shrubs in planters. Most of the trees are sycamores, the type that have the bark peeling off so it’s variegated, like camouflage. Each tree sits in a bed of wood shavings, which is surrounded by concrete. The ginkgo tree across from the island lights up a charasmatic green against the deep red brick facade. The facade belongs to an old factory building, the kind with crumbled character that will be missed and then forgotten when the city tears it down and puts a high-rise in its place. Most of the surrounding buildings are low now, so I can see clear to the 59th street bridge. And I can see sky.
I sit on this island and wait for Joe to finish work, many times he takes too long and I grow restless with a kind of urban island fever. Many times I leave the island before Joe arrives and I wait somewhere else.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Outburst Opportunities
Opposition often occurs by obsessively observing objects,
old ways obstruct open minds
other opinions often offend orthodox oracles.
Ongoing offensive obstinate overblown omnipotence overwhelms ordinary orderly options.
On the other hand, oppression of non-objective object observations only omits obvious
inevitable ongoing outburst opportunities.
When I was in art school I wrote a little book of poems and illustrated it with typography. It was full of alliteration. Each page featured a different letter. The first spread was all words that began with the letter {W}, the second page {O}, the third {R}, fourth {D}, fifth {P}, sixth {L}, then {A} and {Y}. It spelled out {WORDPLAY}, which is all it was. Here is the second installment, its about looking at art.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
A Little Alliteration: W
When I was in art school I wrote a little book of poems and illustrated it with typography. It was full of alliteration. Each page featured a different letter. The first spread was all words that began with the letter {W}, the second page {O}, the third {R}, fourth {D}, fifth {P}, sixth {L}, then {A} and {Y}. It spelled out {WORDPLAY}, which is all it was. Here is the first installment, this poem is called Web of Wisdom.
What does your mind wonder when
you witness words working their way?
Whether it woe or whimsy,
weaving a web of wisdom
willfully wrapping, wrapping,
wrapping your weak will into a womb
until you worship what you see written
without so much as a wince.
Will you wonder when words work their witchcraft,
or will you wane and whimper beneath the
wise world of words that whip you with their
wit.
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