Taking a break for a few days. There's a lot of great stuff going on, and actually a lot to write about, but there are also a lot of demands at both my jobs this week and most of my screen/brain time is going to be focused on getting donor letters written and out the door and writing an instructional DVD. Some of it will also be spent looking for job #3, as the cushion I brought with me is rapidly dwindling.
And at the risk of sounding a bit dramatic, I'll also say that I'm going through a time of transformation / revelation about what I want to do, who I want to be, and what I want to create here, and how, and all that internal yadda. I don't want to process it in public (and I bet you don't want me to either). But I need to assimilate it all more before I re-emerge. So. There it is. For now. Taking a break. If you do indeed exist, dear readers, I thank you for understanding!
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Monday, May 17, 2010
gathering
is the word of the day, and what I'm doing right now: gathering with new people, and gathering up moments, stories, images, questions, to write about, think about and follow into a new maze of experience / reflection / action.
soon i'll strew them at your feet like fresh cut flowers from a basket, one by one by one.
but right now, i'm gathering.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Meta-resolution
Just read back through the last few blog posts and realized with a sinking feeling in my chest that this blog has become impossibly boring. Full of half-baked self-help insights and dull everyday resolutions that would put even the most dedicated reader to sleep.
So here's my meta-resolution for the week: no more resolutions. No more self-critique / self-improvement narratives. From now on, this space is about stories, encounters, moments, ideas, adventures, questions - anything but the bone-dry repetition of How I Can Do Better. That stuff will always be there. But I'll save it for my journal -- and my therapist.
Onward.......
So here's my meta-resolution for the week: no more resolutions. No more self-critique / self-improvement narratives. From now on, this space is about stories, encounters, moments, ideas, adventures, questions - anything but the bone-dry repetition of How I Can Do Better. That stuff will always be there. But I'll save it for my journal -- and my therapist.
Onward.......
FIERCE
Went to a benefit last night for FIERCE, an organization that provides services and support to queer youth of color in NYC. Excellent event, packed with fine women. Wore a blue afro wig, black platform boots, a clingy black dress, red lacetop stockings, and danced like I haven't in months. Performances by Stacey Ann Chin, Me'shell N'dege'Ocello, Toshi Reagon, a naughty trans hip-hop outfit from Brooklyn called House of LaDosha, the FIERCE staff, and a youth poet. Here's a pic of Me'Shell throwing down some FIERCE guitar.
A very different show (and very different performer) than when I first saw her 14 years ago in Seattle.
More later on that and the many social/artistic/racial/cultural questions swirling round my head in the wake of the event and this very full week.
But right now I'm paying for my long evening out, and I got hella shit to take care of!
A very different show (and very different performer) than when I first saw her 14 years ago in Seattle.
More later on that and the many social/artistic/racial/cultural questions swirling round my head in the wake of the event and this very full week.
But right now I'm paying for my long evening out, and I got hella shit to take care of!
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Very very busy
is how I am right now. So not much blogging time this week.
I will admit that since Monday, when I wrote up that intricate set of standards for myself, I have not yet accomplished the get-up-early-morning routine.
On Tuesday I set my alarm for 5am and woke up at 9. Today I set my alarm for 6am and woke up at...9. I realize, of course, that if I went to bed earlier it would be easier to get up earlier. I do realize this is true. But I DO get a lot done later at night when the daytime distractions have dropped away, so the hard part is going to bed and losing those hours between 10am and 2am when I feel productive in a more focused way than I often do during the day. I have to make the adjustment. I know. But given that it's 1:35 AM and I'm still working, it won't be tonight!
I will admit that since Monday, when I wrote up that intricate set of standards for myself, I have not yet accomplished the get-up-early-morning routine.
On Tuesday I set my alarm for 5am and woke up at 9. Today I set my alarm for 6am and woke up at...9. I realize, of course, that if I went to bed earlier it would be easier to get up earlier. I do realize this is true. But I DO get a lot done later at night when the daytime distractions have dropped away, so the hard part is going to bed and losing those hours between 10am and 2am when I feel productive in a more focused way than I often do during the day. I have to make the adjustment. I know. But given that it's 1:35 AM and I'm still working, it won't be tonight!
Monday, May 10, 2010
This week's commitments
These are really lifetime commitments, but - as with almost every practice that is good for the soul but hard to begin and maintain for whatever reason - it's easier to do them if I/one commit(s) to doing them for a finite period. So, I'm committing to doing the following things this week. And if that feels like too much, then every morning, I'll commit to doing them for just that one day. And then the next. And the next.
Requisite disclaimer: of course: I know this is just boring personal everyday stuff, and I could just write it down in my own private journal, and by putting it out here on the web I'm contributing to that Oprah-inflected TMI-soaked culture of confession and public disclosure that some say is eroding the sturdy American tradition of keeping important things to ourselves, but sorry y'all, it helps me to say this out loud, to make the commitment in public. So if you don't want to read about my daily routines, eating habits, etc. - and honestly, I don't blame you if you don't! - feel free to ignore the following. If you do read it and hear me faltering in my commitments, feel free to give me some constructive coaching. (And if I don't want to hear it, I'll let you know!) Thanks.
Big commitment #1: go to bed earlier and start my days earlier, making/taking time in the morning for daily practices. (Goal: bed by 11pm, waking up by 6:30-7:00am) These practices are:
- Walk dog for a full 20 minutes before spending time @ the park. (Means must allow about 45 min for dog time).
- Read Rumi for about 10 min (while heating water for coffee).
- Meditate for 10-15 min.
- Yoga for 15-30 min. (Re-learn sun salutation and 3-5 other basic poses to do every day).
- Every other day: blog for 10-15 min. (Instead of doing all posts at the end of the day when I'm too tired!).
Big commitment #2: become more conscious of my eating habits and make better choices.
- Eat all meals sitting down at table or in living room, not standing up in the kitchen.
- Related to that: make the time to take all vitamins every day.
- Track breakfast and all food via Weight Watchers.
- Cut out all sweets except dark chocolate (and the remainder of that giant chocolate chip cookie in the fridge).
- Work harder at making vegetables part of my everyday meals. As in, take the extra 10 min to cook the damn vegetables or make the damn salad instead of taking the easy way out by microwaving yet another boca burger and calling it lunch.
- Make food on the weekends that I can take to lunch during the week so I'm not spending a bunch of time and money buying lunches that are probably more fattening than I want to admit.
Big commitment #3: Re-structure my process of working on grants, the DVD project I'm working on, and other deadline-based projects.
- Start project by looking at the end goal and working backwards.
- Start at least a week before I think I need to, because it ALWAYS takes longer than I think it will.
- Break down every project into individual tasks and create a schedule by which to complete each task.
- If someone else is part of the process (boss, editor, etc.) include them from the beginning: don't be afraid to ask questions and ask for assistance if needed - and do this sooner rather than later so that they have a chance to give input without being rushed.
- Leave plenty of time to check, double-check, triple-check everything.
Big commitment #4: Re-start my creative life
- In blog posts and/or journal, write down one writing idea or other creative project idea per day. (Even if I never do any of these it'll get the juices going.)
- Start/sign up for a new class: UCB, Neo-Futurists, or...class on generating new solo work, or documentary film class, or class at UrbanGlass
Big commitment #5: find new service project
- Explore opportunities to work with seniors and youth, either in my physical neighborhood/community or in a community to which I feel a particular connection
- Find the opportunity that most inspires me, even if it doesn't seem like something I would "normally" do
- Commit to a project - maybe start in a small-scale way, assisting with one or two events - and move forward from there.
And that's it - for now.
Ahh. Feels good. To have written that. Now to do it!
Requisite disclaimer: of course: I know this is just boring personal everyday stuff, and I could just write it down in my own private journal, and by putting it out here on the web I'm contributing to that Oprah-inflected TMI-soaked culture of confession and public disclosure that some say is eroding the sturdy American tradition of keeping important things to ourselves, but sorry y'all, it helps me to say this out loud, to make the commitment in public. So if you don't want to read about my daily routines, eating habits, etc. - and honestly, I don't blame you if you don't! - feel free to ignore the following. If you do read it and hear me faltering in my commitments, feel free to give me some constructive coaching. (And if I don't want to hear it, I'll let you know!) Thanks.
Big commitment #1: go to bed earlier and start my days earlier, making/taking time in the morning for daily practices. (Goal: bed by 11pm, waking up by 6:30-7:00am) These practices are:
- Walk dog for a full 20 minutes before spending time @ the park. (Means must allow about 45 min for dog time).
- Read Rumi for about 10 min (while heating water for coffee).
- Meditate for 10-15 min.
- Yoga for 15-30 min. (Re-learn sun salutation and 3-5 other basic poses to do every day).
- Every other day: blog for 10-15 min. (Instead of doing all posts at the end of the day when I'm too tired!).
Big commitment #2: become more conscious of my eating habits and make better choices.
- Eat all meals sitting down at table or in living room, not standing up in the kitchen.
- Related to that: make the time to take all vitamins every day.
- Track breakfast and all food via Weight Watchers.
- Cut out all sweets except dark chocolate (and the remainder of that giant chocolate chip cookie in the fridge).
- Work harder at making vegetables part of my everyday meals. As in, take the extra 10 min to cook the damn vegetables or make the damn salad instead of taking the easy way out by microwaving yet another boca burger and calling it lunch.
- Make food on the weekends that I can take to lunch during the week so I'm not spending a bunch of time and money buying lunches that are probably more fattening than I want to admit.
Big commitment #3: Re-structure my process of working on grants, the DVD project I'm working on, and other deadline-based projects.
- Start project by looking at the end goal and working backwards.
- Start at least a week before I think I need to, because it ALWAYS takes longer than I think it will.
- Break down every project into individual tasks and create a schedule by which to complete each task.
- If someone else is part of the process (boss, editor, etc.) include them from the beginning: don't be afraid to ask questions and ask for assistance if needed - and do this sooner rather than later so that they have a chance to give input without being rushed.
- Leave plenty of time to check, double-check, triple-check everything.
Big commitment #4: Re-start my creative life
- In blog posts and/or journal, write down one writing idea or other creative project idea per day. (Even if I never do any of these it'll get the juices going.)
- Start/sign up for a new class: UCB, Neo-Futurists, or...class on generating new solo work, or documentary film class, or class at UrbanGlass
Big commitment #5: find new service project
- Explore opportunities to work with seniors and youth, either in my physical neighborhood/community or in a community to which I feel a particular connection
- Find the opportunity that most inspires me, even if it doesn't seem like something I would "normally" do
- Commit to a project - maybe start in a small-scale way, assisting with one or two events - and move forward from there.
And that's it - for now.
Ahh. Feels good. To have written that. Now to do it!
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Grounding and expanding
My weekend was domestic and mundane, lots of taking care of business, from buying much-needed new bras at 40% off at Macy's to attending my first Weight Watchers meeting today to finally getting a pair of Born walking shoes so that I can protect my feet as I walk for miles around the city. Despite the somewhat shocking outflow of cash that accompanied these activities, it felt good and grounding to do all these things (except during a few overstimulated moments at Macy's where I seriously thought I was gonna lose it in the midst of the racks and racks of on-sale clothing - the experience of shopping there, and what it brought up around materialism, money, and identity, may actually merit a blog post in and of itself).
In some ways, though, my domestic weekend felt way too limited, too anonymous somehow. I've given up on the idea of dating for the moment, but I'm feeling the need to be engaged in a larger context / dialogue, which is ironic given that i live in this giant city. It's a tricky balance: in order to feel sane and settled here, you have to, as my roommate says, "make it a small town," which I'm doing more and more as i learn the neighborhoods of Brooklyn, commune with my dog park friends, etc., find the best coffee shops to sit and work at, but I need/want to expand the world I'm part of here, and I need/want to do it in two ways:
1) By doing service work - in a creative way. Either through a senior center or a youth center or a vets organization: volunteer to teach/lead some kind of writing project. Could be an interview project like the ipod project in which LGBT youth interview elders in the community, or something more personal. But I need to get engaged in this way.
2) By expanding my connection with/to other writers and artists. How do I do this, and why? And is what I really want to expand my own creative activity, i.e. write more? Which comes first, the work or the connections? The work, of course: that's the heart of it. But there's symbiosis between the two. And I don't want to work in isolation, and I don't necessarily want to just write as my creative outlet. I just finished a big article project and am about to take on a bunch more grantwriting for my theatre job and health/expository writing for another job. What I feel the urge to do, more than ever right now, is some kind of performance that includes writing. Which makes me think: I should take an improv class at Upright Citizens Brigade or the Neo-Futurists. Or a film class. And I should do that this week.
But now, I should go to bed.
In some ways, though, my domestic weekend felt way too limited, too anonymous somehow. I've given up on the idea of dating for the moment, but I'm feeling the need to be engaged in a larger context / dialogue, which is ironic given that i live in this giant city. It's a tricky balance: in order to feel sane and settled here, you have to, as my roommate says, "make it a small town," which I'm doing more and more as i learn the neighborhoods of Brooklyn, commune with my dog park friends, etc., find the best coffee shops to sit and work at, but I need/want to expand the world I'm part of here, and I need/want to do it in two ways:
1) By doing service work - in a creative way. Either through a senior center or a youth center or a vets organization: volunteer to teach/lead some kind of writing project. Could be an interview project like the ipod project in which LGBT youth interview elders in the community, or something more personal. But I need to get engaged in this way.
2) By expanding my connection with/to other writers and artists. How do I do this, and why? And is what I really want to expand my own creative activity, i.e. write more? Which comes first, the work or the connections? The work, of course: that's the heart of it. But there's symbiosis between the two. And I don't want to work in isolation, and I don't necessarily want to just write as my creative outlet. I just finished a big article project and am about to take on a bunch more grantwriting for my theatre job and health/expository writing for another job. What I feel the urge to do, more than ever right now, is some kind of performance that includes writing. Which makes me think: I should take an improv class at Upright Citizens Brigade or the Neo-Futurists. Or a film class. And I should do that this week.
But now, I should go to bed.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Word of the day: figment
It's the only word that Andy Warhol wanted on his tombstone.
Warhol also said, "Dying is the most embarrassing thing that can ever happen to you, because someone's got to take care of all your details."
Apparently, whoever did so for Warhol hadn't heard, or chose not to acknowledge, his tombstone request.
Ironic, and a little sad, for someone who was so intent on creating and controlling his public image and his legacy.
I hope there's always a Campbell's soup can perched on the base of his tombstone in the St. John the Baptist Byzantine Catholic Cemetery in Bethel Park, PA (how the hell did he end up there? a story for another time). It seems it would keep him company.
"I always thought I'd like my own tombstone to be blank. No epitaph, and no name. Well, actually, I'd like it to say 'figment.'"
Warhol also said, "Dying is the most embarrassing thing that can ever happen to you, because someone's got to take care of all your details."
Apparently, whoever did so for Warhol hadn't heard, or chose not to acknowledge, his tombstone request.
I hope there's always a Campbell's soup can perched on the base of his tombstone in the St. John the Baptist Byzantine Catholic Cemetery in Bethel Park, PA (how the hell did he end up there? a story for another time). It seems it would keep him company.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
more pics of the hood
the spot at the left is VIM (an acronym i have yet to decipher), a clothing chain that sells trendy kicks (Nike, converse), jeans, & tops. if i decide to cave & buy a pair of skinnys i'm gonna look there first. and whenever i need a pair of tennies I know just where to go.
the building that houses this VIM is a former bank. etched in the stone façade above the big stars and stripes sign are the words "The People's Trust Company". around the corner, there's a mural and the name of a cafe which must have formerly inhabited the space.
wait - i said i was too tired to write, and i am. so i'm just gonna post pics from here on out. but before i do - check out that sunset. pretty lovely, huh? one of the advantages to living in Brooklyn - you get to see stuff like that.
ok. after uploading about 5 pics i can tell it's going to look too awkward to just do the cop-out photo collage. so instead, here are 2 more photos, one of the church next door to my apartment building, and one of the church across the street. (i live on a quiet block, except on saturdays and wednesday nights, and sometimes other times, when the attendees of the French Speaking Hebron Seventh Day Adventist Church next door (yes, that would be the one with the archway) make a whole lotta joyful noise with their singing, much of which is indeed in French due to the high Hatian population in the neighborhood (which is probably due to the presence of the French Speaking Hebron Seventh Day Adventist Church and its associated school up the street). Once I knew I'd be living on this block I researched the history of the Hebron Seventh Day Adventists - their founders were kind of an intense bipolar-sounding bunch, prone to investing great a deal of energy in second-coming predictions and then getting really bummed when they didn't come true. definitely worth a blog post of their own.
The Methodists who gather in the brick church are much quieter, or perhaps i just don't hear them because they aren't singing just a few yards away from my window. Since i'm named for the founder of Methodism, I feel like I should be more curious about them. But my main relationship with the place so far is one of deep gratitude for their fenced and gated but never locked grassy yard, one of the few patches of green between my apartment building and Brower Park, which is a good 5-minute walk away. Sometimes when it's raining, or really late, or the dog is really tired, or I am, I ask my great great grandfather, the Southern Methodist minister Jason Chrysostom Moser, if my dog, who spreads joy to so many just by being her good-natured self every day, is worthy to commune with the church's green pastures. If I clean up after her. Which I always do.
So far, Jason Chrysostom always says it's ok.
obama & me
(Disclaimer: the piece below is raw and unprocessed. Just wanting to write it down to keep up with the blog and make sure I don't forget the dream. I almost NEVER remember my dreams these days, which made this one feel especially potent. With a bit more distance I might riff on how it feels like some kind of strange amalgamation of Grey's Anatomy, the Jesus story, the Clinton mythos, and (sadly) a runaway slave narrative...someday, I might. But not right now)
I dreamed this morning that President Obama, who in my dream was definitely the President but also a surgeon of some sort, and I were in a freight elevator talking to each other (he was still in his scrubs). I think we had started chatting earlier and he had allowed me to observe his surgery for some kind of educational or professional reason (maybe I was writing an article about his work).
We were enjoying our conversation, which was completely platonic, but we both knew we had to be really careful because there were all these people out to get him and if they saw him with any unknown female they would frame it as if he were having an affair to get him kicked out of office. Later we ended up at the same house - I don't know if it was my house or a house that belonged to him, or one of his friends - but somehow I was in the bathroom when some investigators came to the door. I couldn't see them, only hear them, gruff and presumptuous, "We know why you're here." Reeling off names of different women - "Is she here? Is she? Is she?" Finally they said my name. As he had with the others, he said I wasn't there. I locked the bathroom door and got ready to climb out the window. Dream end.
There was a sense of flirtation around us, but I knew what it was about: me being attracted to and admiring him. Nothing from his end but his usual universal charm, just directed at me for a moment or two as he took off his surgeon's gloves and smiled my way.
I felt protective of myself (don't fall for the very charming and quite obviously completely unavailable and uninterested president/surgeon and get dragged through the tabloids for no good reason) but so much more so, I felt protective of him. It was so clear there were wolves at every door, sniffing out any weakness, salivating as they waited for their moment to strike.
I dreamed this morning that President Obama, who in my dream was definitely the President but also a surgeon of some sort, and I were in a freight elevator talking to each other (he was still in his scrubs). I think we had started chatting earlier and he had allowed me to observe his surgery for some kind of educational or professional reason (maybe I was writing an article about his work).
We were enjoying our conversation, which was completely platonic, but we both knew we had to be really careful because there were all these people out to get him and if they saw him with any unknown female they would frame it as if he were having an affair to get him kicked out of office. Later we ended up at the same house - I don't know if it was my house or a house that belonged to him, or one of his friends - but somehow I was in the bathroom when some investigators came to the door. I couldn't see them, only hear them, gruff and presumptuous, "We know why you're here." Reeling off names of different women - "Is she here? Is she? Is she?" Finally they said my name. As he had with the others, he said I wasn't there. I locked the bathroom door and got ready to climb out the window. Dream end.
There was a sense of flirtation around us, but I knew what it was about: me being attracted to and admiring him. Nothing from his end but his usual universal charm, just directed at me for a moment or two as he took off his surgeon's gloves and smiled my way.
I felt protective of myself (don't fall for the very charming and quite obviously completely unavailable and uninterested president/surgeon and get dragged through the tabloids for no good reason) but so much more so, I felt protective of him. It was so clear there were wolves at every door, sniffing out any weakness, salivating as they waited for their moment to strike.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Enamul Hoque and the garden of love part 2
(Continued from previous post.)
After a work-related adventure in Manhattan last night, I was back in Crown Heights, I experienced the familiar disorientation that often accompanies my return from the Island back to my home turf. Walking up Nostrand from the subway stop, past all past the wig stores and 99 cent shops, I was thinking, "Yep, I live in the full-on hood," and pondering the comforts and pitfalls of urban insularity, when I noticed something going on in the usually empty abandoned lot about a block up from Fulton. About half of the grassy lot had been cleared down to the dirt. A small black-haired man in a work shirt and dark pants, his back to the street, was walking the length of a long gash in the dirt, tamping it down with his tennis shoes. A seed row, I realized. This guy had planted something.
I took out my iphone, ready to take a stealth photo and move along. But before I could press the button, a friend of his had called out from the fruit cart on the sidewalk - "Hey! She gonna take your photo!" The planter turned around.
I recognized the planter as the owner of the fruit cart, which was being manned by several of his friends so that he could take care of his gardening. I asked what he was growing. "Tomatoes," he said in a South Asian accent, and then something else I didn't understand. I had to ask politely twice more before I got that it was "cucumbers". He has plans for other plants too -- potatoes, beans, and flowers -- the names of which became easier to decipher the longer I listened to him speak. He loves to garden. It's his favorite thing. I have to come back and see it all grow.
The friend who had called to him from the cart came over and joined him, and let me know that they would be working on another garden about a block away, at Fulton and Herkimer, and I had to come check it out next week. I asked him if he'd like to be in a photo. He rushed to the planter's side and posed.
After a work-related adventure in Manhattan last night, I was back in Crown Heights, I experienced the familiar disorientation that often accompanies my return from the Island back to my home turf. Walking up Nostrand from the subway stop, past all past the wig stores and 99 cent shops, I was thinking, "Yep, I live in the full-on hood," and pondering the comforts and pitfalls of urban insularity, when I noticed something going on in the usually empty abandoned lot about a block up from Fulton. About half of the grassy lot had been cleared down to the dirt. A small black-haired man in a work shirt and dark pants, his back to the street, was walking the length of a long gash in the dirt, tamping it down with his tennis shoes. A seed row, I realized. This guy had planted something.
I took out my iphone, ready to take a stealth photo and move along. But before I could press the button, a friend of his had called out from the fruit cart on the sidewalk - "Hey! She gonna take your photo!" The planter turned around.
Even from there it felt like he was smiling -- amused or delighted, or both, that someone would be snapping a pic of him at work on his project. His friend, an older bearded black man, beckoned me to step inside the chain-link fence and take a closer look. I did.
The friend who had called to him from the cart came over and joined him, and let me know that they would be working on another garden about a block away, at Fulton and Herkimer, and I had to come check it out next week. I asked him if he'd like to be in a photo. He rushed to the planter's side and posed.
Then came the multimedia portion of what was starting to feel like some kind of spontaneous interactive form of street performance. At his friend's request, the planter gave me his name and cell number so that I could send him the photos. Enamul Hoque. The proud gardener and seller of fruit. "I garden everywhere and make it beautiful." From what I could understand (he talks kinda fast), he doesn't own the lot, but the city lets him garden on it. It's a micro-version of the organic farms emerging on the city-owned, neglected urban prairies of Detroit - and the community gardens that have been created in similar lots on the residential streets of Crown Heights.
But there was something about seeing the emergence of this garden, smack-dab in the middle of the hood's retail district, that was especially moving. As I texted the photos to Enamul and thanked him for letting me take them, he brought me over to the fruit cart, saying "Please, please. Take banana. Please." I was so enamored of him and his generous spirit, and so caught up in the moment, that I took another photo, almost without thinking.
I thanked him again, for the banana and the photos, smiling at his fruit-cart friends who were all looking on in amusement (case in point, background dude in this photo). As I walked away, Enamul called out, "Hey - hey! Take plum! Here. Take plum."
I realized that he needed to give me something without being the subject of a story, without having his picture taken this time. I turned back and accepted the perfect round fruit and thanked him again. I would be back to see his garden, I assured him. And the one on the next block too.
I placed the sweet gifts in my bag and resumed my trek up Nostrand, feeling the garden love at my back and all around me, the beauty of the full-on hood.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Enamul Hoque and the garden of love
So this afternoon I had a completely surreal adventure dropping off a grant at the JPMorgan Chase corporate headquarters at 48th & Park Ave in Manhattan. Surreal element #1: the program officer with whom I spoke last Friday about the grant retired from the bank, um, last Friday. But gave no indication last Friday that he was doing so - I found this out from his outgoing voicemail today.
Surreal element #2: the entire sidewalk in front of JPMorgan Chase corporate headquarters was barricaded with stanchions and caution tape and fronted by tired-looking but helpful security guards, one of whom accompanied me to the front desk to drop off my packet for whoever was replacing the now-retired Program Officer.
When I asked if this was a normal level of security for the building, they let me know that no, it was not, and no, it was not due to the car bomb that had almost detonated in Times Square yesterday - it was to prevent any more protesters from rushing the front lobby like they had on Friday. Hmm. I wondered idly if this had anything to do with the Program Officer's retirement as I followed their directions for dropping off the packet at the Messenger Station, which I found by "following the arrows" through Surreal Element #3, the pervasive construction going on in the building, which, compounded with the abundance of guards and barriers, and signs requesting official ID, made the whole place feel closer to a restricted military zone than the headquarters of a powerful financial institution.
And when I got to the door of the Messenger Station, a security booth-like room on the back of the building, it was completely unguarded and unlocked. Anybody's grandmother could've strolled in, offered the nice men behind the desk a grenade, pulled the pin, and disappeared back outside into the sea of weary bankers making their way to the subway before you could say "subprime lending". Which I genuinely don't wish upon those guys, or anyone, whether or not they're working for the Man. But like so many attempts to curb the chaos that threatens to erupt at any moment (and often does) in the madness of midtown Manhattan, the bank's attempts at security were fragile at best.
Surreal element #4 was leaving the Messenger Station, where the cool guys behind the counter promised to pass on my package (which I guess they must have taken on faith was not a letter bomb), stepping back out into the aforementioned sea of bankers, and having no idea where I was. Or how to crack the code of this swarming crowd in all its incongruous look-at-me glory. That six-foot-tall woman in black stiletto pumps, with a tight black miniskirt and suit jacket and slicked-back black-dyed bob strutting by with a satisfied look on her face: cutthroat financier or European whore? Hard to tell. And that woman there, a foot shorter with the pale blonde bangs and braid, and probably not of the banking domain judging from her almost thigh-high lace-up-the-back pointy black boots - fashion consultant or dominatrix? Got me.
But over there on the corner across the street was a character whose signals I could read just fine: pretty pictures, sizzling grill, happy man behind the cart. A soft pretzel and a kabob, please. Yes. We chatted about the heat, the car bomb, his barbecue sauce. And the world kinda sorta made sense again.
But this story is not about all of that. This is about Enamul Hoque, whom I met after I returned to the hood, and stepped out of the subway stop and thought, oh wow. I really do live in a different world.
to be continued...
Surreal element #2: the entire sidewalk in front of JPMorgan Chase corporate headquarters was barricaded with stanchions and caution tape and fronted by tired-looking but helpful security guards, one of whom accompanied me to the front desk to drop off my packet for whoever was replacing the now-retired Program Officer.
When I asked if this was a normal level of security for the building, they let me know that no, it was not, and no, it was not due to the car bomb that had almost detonated in Times Square yesterday - it was to prevent any more protesters from rushing the front lobby like they had on Friday. Hmm. I wondered idly if this had anything to do with the Program Officer's retirement as I followed their directions for dropping off the packet at the Messenger Station, which I found by "following the arrows" through Surreal Element #3, the pervasive construction going on in the building, which, compounded with the abundance of guards and barriers, and signs requesting official ID, made the whole place feel closer to a restricted military zone than the headquarters of a powerful financial institution.
And when I got to the door of the Messenger Station, a security booth-like room on the back of the building, it was completely unguarded and unlocked. Anybody's grandmother could've strolled in, offered the nice men behind the desk a grenade, pulled the pin, and disappeared back outside into the sea of weary bankers making their way to the subway before you could say "subprime lending". Which I genuinely don't wish upon those guys, or anyone, whether or not they're working for the Man. But like so many attempts to curb the chaos that threatens to erupt at any moment (and often does) in the madness of midtown Manhattan, the bank's attempts at security were fragile at best.
Surreal element #4 was leaving the Messenger Station, where the cool guys behind the counter promised to pass on my package (which I guess they must have taken on faith was not a letter bomb), stepping back out into the aforementioned sea of bankers, and having no idea where I was. Or how to crack the code of this swarming crowd in all its incongruous look-at-me glory. That six-foot-tall woman in black stiletto pumps, with a tight black miniskirt and suit jacket and slicked-back black-dyed bob strutting by with a satisfied look on her face: cutthroat financier or European whore? Hard to tell. And that woman there, a foot shorter with the pale blonde bangs and braid, and probably not of the banking domain judging from her almost thigh-high lace-up-the-back pointy black boots - fashion consultant or dominatrix? Got me.
But over there on the corner across the street was a character whose signals I could read just fine: pretty pictures, sizzling grill, happy man behind the cart. A soft pretzel and a kabob, please. Yes. We chatted about the heat, the car bomb, his barbecue sauce. And the world kinda sorta made sense again.
But this story is not about all of that. This is about Enamul Hoque, whom I met after I returned to the hood, and stepped out of the subway stop and thought, oh wow. I really do live in a different world.
to be continued...
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