Cracks: A Super Storm Memoir--Day 1

A week ago tonight we had dinner with friends. Earlier, our host tried to go to Whole Foods to buy a little food for the dinner, but she discovered that lines already wrapped around the perimeter of the store. Whole foods is huge, but our host said she didn't know how to tell between who was shopping and who was standing in line.

A storm was coming.

Our host then abandoned her shopping cart and phoned us to bring extra food, which we were happy to do--use supplies while we could.  I had a feeling our power would go out once the storm hit, and our freezer was packed.

While the storm was still hundreds of miles away, I had gathered provisions at the same store, packed our shopping cart with what I thought we might need:  water, chocolate, hummus, S  wanted dried organic mango that I made her put back (but then once the power was out for awhile, wished I'd hadn't).  I bought a can of organic stuffed grape leaves.  I bought bananas, cereal.  I forgotten the candles.

One thing I remember, I thought we should gather delicious things.

I never got around to opening the grape leaves.

But I do have to say that all those days without power--four of them (only long when you're in them), I learned a thing or two about my relationship to food storage.  More on this later.

Whole Foods was closed the following day and the days after.  A. just went by there tonight.  It's this gargantuan store, but there were gaping holes in their stocks.  No eggs.  Not much dairy.  It's strange to see cracks in things that always have their best face forward--when huge corporations are crippled, unable to patch themselves up.

The night before the storm hit, I sat nervously at our host's house trying not to be too anxious to leave.  I had spent the entire day moving things off the floor, sweeping, locating batteries and flashlights.  Setting up a Super Storm Sandy station on a couple of folding tables.  And I felt the need to get home and hunker down.  On the way there, we walked against wind gusts. 

We had our sandbags out, but not in position yet.

We learned that school for that Monday would be cancelled.

_________________

Post storm: A. just talked to a woman in our building who, today, spent the day volunteering in the hardest hit borough, Staten Island.  She said she bleached out a woman's home.  Helped change a baby's diaper that hadn't been changed in days.  Signs were on residences where bodies had been removed.

I hope no one minds, I'm going to be spending the rest of this week at least talking about this.

sunday migraine

got hit with a migraine and intense nausea.  be back tomorrow with a SUPER RAD guest blogger!

a flower so crooked & obscure?

i was gonna write something about last week, a list or movie review, but everything seems so trivial compared to what julie turley has been through.

i'm so glad she's okay & blogging again.  i hope she'll share some of the journal she kept during that epic time.

one thing that didn't feel trivial to me this week was "the yellow flower" by william carlos williams.  more and more i realize he's my poetic ancestor, and i owe a lot to his influence.  this is a later poem, and sounds broken--it is broken, actually--look at the lines.  he was a little bit broken

as we all are.

so, in honor of the broken

but still breathing,

a poem:


The Yellow Flower

by William Carlos Williams

What shall I say, because talk I must?

                        That I have found a cure

                                                for the sick?

I have found no cure

                        for the sick       .

                                                but this crooked flower

which only to look upon

                        all men

                                                are cured.  This

is that flower

                        for which all men

                                                sing secretly their hymns

of praise.  This

                        is that sacred

                                                flower!

Can this be so?

                        A flower so crooked

                                                and obscure?  It is

a mustard flower

                        and not a mustard flower,

                                                a single spray

topping the deformed stem

                        of fleshy leaves

                                                in this freezing weather

under glass.

An ungainly flower and

                        an unnatural one,

                                                in this climate;  what

can be the reason

                        that it has picked me out

                                                to hold me, openmouthed,

rooted before this window

                        in the cold,

                                                my will

drained from me

                        so that I have only eyes

                                                for these yellow,

twisted petals   .           ?

That the sight,

                        though strange to me,

                                                must be a common one,

is clear:  there are such flowers

                        with such leaves

                                                native to some climate

which they can call

                        their own.

But why the torture

                        and the escape through

                                                the flower?  It is

as if Michelangelo

                        had conceived the subject

                                                of his Slaves from this

-- or might have done so.

                        And did he not make

                                                the marble bloom?  I

am sad

                        as he was sad

                                                in his heroic mood.

But also

                        I have eyes

                                                that are made to see and if

they see ruin for myself

                        and all that I hold

                                                dear, they see

also

                        through the eyes

                                                and through the lips

and tongue the power

                        to free myself

                                                and speak of it, as

Michelangelo through his hands

            `           had the same, if greater,

                                                power.

Which leaves, to account for,

                        the tortured bodies

                                                of

the slaves themselves

                        and

                                                the tortured body of my flower

which is not a mustard flower at all

                        but some unrecognized

                                                and unearthly flower

for me to naturalize

                        and acclimate

                                                and choose it for my own.

How Far Would You Walk for a Hot Meal?

My first post-Sandy post. 

I'm very tired.

Our path to civilization

I kept a journal every day.

A flashlight was a necessity.  I didn't leave the apt without it.

What I'll remember is the cold.  Cold apartment, cold water, cold electric stove.

Warm refrigerator.

How far would you walk for a hot meal?  Yesterday, I walked about a mile-and-a-half over a bridge into Brooklyn, bringing my daughter with me.  We brought our dead phones and chargers with us.  I couldn't find my other daughter until I charged my phone. 

Communication in our neighborhood was reduced to notes taped up on doors, dropping by apartment buildings and yelling up at windows, hoping to catch someone home.

In the Brooklyn restaurant we eventually ended up at, my kid asked if she could order steak and eggs.  "Of course!" I said.  And then I jubilantly ordered hot tea AND hot coffee and a kale Ceasar salad with homemade croutans, an egg sandwich with homefries.  We gave our phones and charger to our very sweet waiter who ran out and bought a power strip.

Every day without power I thought about food.  How I could get it and where.  How I would bring it back before sundown, before my neighborhood would go epically, Biblically dark. 

Tight place update:

To add insult to injury, someone got a hold of our banking info and swiped some money from our account last night.  Sigh.

my best therapist ever

morning pages take away--give yourself, and someone else, a great big kiss.

i freely admit to being a total self-help whore.  my children have mocked my epic search for the excalibur of solutions to all of my personal problems for years now.

when i started the artist's way back in the early summer of 2012, it was only one in a string of attempts, programs, and strategies i've tried over the years to overcome some of my frustrating blockages.  cameron's book focuses on help for "blocked creatives", those who fancy themselves to be artists, but can't seem to fully actualize their artistic intentions.

one of my favorite things about the artist's way is the morning pages.  in morning pages, you write three pages, by hand, in a notebook, every single day.  i've been doing this exercise faithfully, having only missed a handful of days, since june.

some days it's really tedious, but it seems useful (even when tedious) as a kind of meditative exercise.  it forces you to become more aware of the kinds of thoughts you're having, and it has the effect, for me, of centering both my mind and my body for the day, and making me feel like i'm more present in my own life--not so focused on  past and future.

this struggle to stay in the present is something i've dealt with since i was a child, and something that has caused a lot of depression and anxiety in my life.

so for me, morning pages are a kind of meditation, and since i feel very comfortable and focused when i'm writing, it's been an easier kind of meditation than a sitting meditation, which i've tried many times and have never felt great about.  the morning pages meditation is one i've been able to sustain for an extended period of time.

this morning, i was writing and feeling frustrated, experiencing a lot of tedium in the process, when i remembered to write down what i was actually thinking rather than what i thought i should be writing about and thinking about.

and then--bam!

i had some great insights into patterns of thought and behavior that cause problems for me in my life, relationships, career and artistic endeavors.  some of them are very particular, and are probably less relevant to "everyone", but i think a lot of people probably experience some of the things i wrote about today.

generally, one is not supposed to share morning pages.  they are meant to be a kind of private purge to rid your mind of negative thoughts at the start of the day, but i felt great about this breakthrough, and super proud that i was able to coax it out of myself, with no therapist, even, except for my beautiful morning pages notebook.

i felt inordinately proud of myself for becoming my own best therapist.

here's an excerpt from today's thoughts:

my new goal is to do my work without hurting myself physically or psychologically.  i don't need to abuse myself with my thoughts or with unhealthy behaviors in order to be productive.  this kind of self abuse* includes things like:

1) agreeing to commitments i likely can't fulfill.

2) recriminating thoughts when i can't accomplish unrealistic goals.

3) eating to cope with stress.

4) skipping yoga when i'm "too busy".

5) being "too busy" to spend time with friends.

6) being shy or exhibiting self-doubt about my abilities.

7) sabotaging the creative work i've done by not putting it "out there" because i think it's not good enough.  even after i've laboriously created and revised and workshopped it.

8) starting a new endeavor rather than completing the "old endeavor" because i lose confidence in the thing i made.  even after spending large amounts of time, effort and energy on the work. 

9) spending undue amounts of time and mental energy wondering how my work will be received.  

10) thinking too much about criticism from "the outside".

11) not relaxing my mind during down time--obsessing about work that needs to be done.

12) chastising myself for not pushing harder.

13) chastising myself again and again for past mistakes or choices.

14) ruminating on regrets and second-guessing past choices, even decades after those choices were made.

15)  fantasizing about possible outcomes and future success rather than engaging in concrete action.

*mormon readers who grew up in the '70's and '80's, i'm not referring to that kind of self-abuse.

i hope some of these thoughts resonate with someone out there.  at any rate, thanks for listening.

legwear: yoga pants

inspiration:  morning pages

looking forward: to the return of light to lower manhattan

julie update

i had a brief exchange with julie on facebook yesterday, while she had a moment of internet access at a friend's apartment.  i hope she won't mind me posting an update on the conditions in the lower east side:

no heat, no way to cook.

no way to keep food.

no water damage. it's pitch black after 6.

feels dangerous on the streets.

yes, sleeping at home. living by candlelight.

flashlights and batteries are necessities.

but we are very lucky.

it's hard to imagine the monumentally important manhattan brought to its knees like this.  i'm optimistic, though, because one thing new yorkers are really good at

is being really good at things.

the city will recover, and be better than ever, i predict.

in the meantime, i'm so glad that julie's apartment escaped damage, and that she and her family are safe, and i'm so, so sad for everyone who lost so much.  

here's one way to help:

hurricane sandy:  help those in need

rahsaan roland kirk

c. showed me this video last night, and now i have a new obsession.

it's not that often you see something so--

so--

simultaneous.

i love it when impossible things reside together, and work despite their impossibility.

things like playing three flutes with your mouth at once & then adding a nose flute all while circular breathing

plus

playing amazingly layered music--

both hip & moving

& so very present--

so virtuosic yet somehow void of narcissism and ego.

maybe this is just my interpretation (the part about an absence of narcissism & ego, which seem to be burned away by the music itself), but i'm really glad c. made me watch this at the close of halloween night 2012.

legwear: charcoal tights

inspiration:  simultaneity

looking forward: to an update from julie.  so worried about her and others.  please keep her and her family in your thoughts.