Extol it from the Rooftops

New York has a way of getting you down sometimes.  The sky is slim in Manhattan and heavy in Brooklyn.  When I first moved to Indiana, I felt sewn in by the miles of landscape between me and the ocean.  Now that I’m back on the East Coast, I can feel the ocean in my skin again.  In New York, it’s not the landscape that holds you in--EK tells me one big hurricane and we’ll all be under water--but the man-made buildings which anchor us down to the island.  

When I was a kid I remember reading a passage from Genesis and being perplexed,

And God said, “Let there be an expanse between the waters to separate water from water.”  So God made the expanse and separated the water under the expanse from the water above it.  And it was so.  God called the expanse “sky.”  Genesis 1:6-8

I had to ask my parents what that meant.  They told me people once believed what we call “outer space” was another body of water like the ocean.  This made sense to me because water rains out of the sky.  Also, looking at a clear, starry night and the limitless ocean seem to evoke the same kind of awe in people.  

EK and I have a great view from our rooftop.  We take all of our visitors up there to see the uninterrupted Manhattan skyline.  The air is cool and breezy.  The street noise seems remote.  Something about standing on the roof makes me want to put my arms out and throw my head back to stare at that wide empty “expanse.”  When EK’s family was here we took a blanket up and laid on our backs to stargaze.  When my parents were here, I think we saw a UFO.  We have had serious conversations, joyous occasions, phone calls, photo-ops and memorable times up there.  New Yorkers love rooftop parties.  Partially because we lack the square footage inside and partially because of something else.  There is some inexplicable delight in a rooftop party on a summer night.  

In a time when most people wonder why NASA still exists, space holds less mystery than ever.  The ocean has been equally demystified.  After all, we can go to an IMAX theatre and explore the deep sea or outer space in 3D.  

Still, nothing compares to that feeling of staring at an empty sky or ocean.  Whether you believe in creation or evolution, the most primal part of our contemporary world is outer space and the deep blue sea.  It triggers something primal in us.  Maybe that is why people build tall sky scrapers, want beach houses, sail around the world, pay extra money for rooftop access, etc.  

I had a high school English teacher in Delaware who questioned our love of the beach.  No one had ever asked us why we loved it so much and none of us could explain.  A day at the beach has the same simple charm of a rooftop party.  I would venture to say that our love for space and ocean is singular, primal, and inexplicable.  Looking at the two bodies of “water” frees us from the lives we’re anchored to beneath the “expanse.”  Or maybe, it makes us feel for a moment, that we might be swallowed whole, consumed by the great unknown in a single wave.  It is that thought which slightly thrills us in a world where so much else keeps us drifting along.  Maybe that too is the source of the giddy delight we feel at the beach or on the rooftops of New York City.

Extolment: NYC

I don't want to get mushy or sentimental about today, and pretend that it means more to me than it does. I remember watching that episode of Rescue Me, where one of the guys thinks he's going to a survivor's meeting, and turns out, it's just a group of people who weren't immediately affected by what happened. He gets PISSED.

I do have a friend who lost her father, and I know the pain of losing someone. I don't know the multitude of feelings that must go into losing someone, and then being reminded of it in the news on a daily basis, or by protests, or (god help us all) by tacky tee shirts and posters.

But today, it is quiet and grey in the city. It is raining and windy. And down there, they are standing around the fence and they are reading names, steadily and without fanfare. Standing, in their suits and dresses in the rain, and honoring the staggering number of people who died, in a way that is right and good to do.

Good on you, NYC. While the rest of the world is still losing their head about this, you aren't.

Drumming Damnation

I want to start off by saying that I am in no way against drums or drumming or drummers. My little sister is a damn fine drummer, and I appreciate the skills and focus that go into it.

However (you knew there was going to be a however).

This week, at 4 am, I awaken to hear my upstairs neighbor beating his hands bloody against one of these. Not only that, but he's also blaring Michael Jackson's "Beat It", laying down his own drum beat against the already percussive song.

Something had to be done.

Looking something like this, I drag my weary, nightmare-riddled body up a flight of stairs and start bashing their doorbell. When the drunk, heavily accented man answered the door, our exchange went something like this (you figure out what his initials stand for):

EK: Hey there. What the hell is that banging?

DB: My roommate. He's playing a drum.

EK: Um. You know it's four in the morning right?

DB: Yeah. Too loud?

EK: You woke me out of a dead sleep. Yeah. Too loud. Just. Stop it.

DB: Yeah, whatever.

I slither back down the stairs, to find that DD has also been woken up, and ladies and gentlemen, she is not to be messed with in the middle of the night. She gets kind of wild eyed.

I relay my failed attempt to her, and she heads up for round two. By this point, our neighbor's baby is in hysterics, probably because he thinks we're being taken over by some kind of drum-wielding Bushwick nomads, so she takes up our friend, our metal persuasion, our baseball bat (affectionately nicknamed Lil' Papi), to help her negotiations. Their conversation, decidedly more heated, mostly focused on the fact that she was holding a bat in her hand, but eventually he decided she was serious, and shut down the drum circle. After having the balls to ask which part was too loud, the Jacko on repeat, or his goddamned rain dance.

In my small way, I will exact revenge. I was up at 8:30 this morning, banging on our ceiling with a broom. Perhaps tomorrow I'll figure out a way to light their doorknob on fire.

Writing Prompts Damnation

This weekend, I have decided to hide from the world outside of my neighborhood (Bushwick), my apartment, and my computer.  My intention is to open a space for writing to come into my life.  Normally, I’m so busy making and keeping plans that I don’t sit down to write until Sunday night.  

EK and I decided to look for some writing prompts to fuel our creative minds.  I’m currently searching them out.  All of my books are still at my parents’ house in South Carolina.  So I’m turning to the world wide web for inspiration.  

Below you’ll find three of the worst writing prompts I came across today:

You forgot to make your bed this morning, and your mom is on the prowl, ready to hand out punishment.  In an effort to avoid grounding, make up an excuse (no matter how absurd) as to why you are unable to make your bed.  

http://writersdigest.com/WritingPrompts

In my opinion, writing prompts are intended to get the writer out of his/her head, not dig deeper into the asinine thoughts we are trying to muck out.  

"Pretend you were selected to receive a special award. Write the article that would be in the newspaper to announce your award."

http://jc-schools.net/write/create.htm

That site has a dancing pencil!  These prompts encourage the kind of writing I hate: self-indulgent and self-absorbed.   (You know, like, blogs.)

Write a piece on “a blur of ego”

http://www.creativewritingprompts.com/#

What does that even mean?  Nothing.  It means nothing.

A commendation goes to the Six Word Memoirs http://www.smithmag.net/sixwords/

Here’s my writing prompt:  Read a Chinese, Thai, Mexican, or any other cheap foreign food menu.  Choose an item you have never ordered before.  Order it, eat it, write the name of it at the top of a page.  That is the title of your story or poem.  Now write until you find the meat.  

Or maybe I’m just hungry.  Today, I’m extolling Hing Ling on Knickerbocker and their General Tsau’s Chicken.  It is a constant source of inspiration and nourishment at a good price.  Unlike most of the writing in this world.