Monday, November 29, 2021

Understanding

Clear mountain stream
under a warm sun
I settle into a rocky bed
as cold water, like language flows,
from crown to toes
Rinsing impurity and
teaching me to breathe.
Then deeper in I float
with strong currents.
There words move me
in a kind of kinesis to realize
I’ve the understanding
of a one-year-old
just learning to say
Mama and Papa

Wednesday, November 10, 2021

Tom

Two doors down from our building on Court Street there was an old bodega. It was convenient for a Nutriment or half dozen eggs in the middle of the night or a buttered roll with coffee in the early morning. Inside aisles were narrow and shelves tall making for a claustrophobic experience. The fabric enclosure outside prevented natural light from ever making its way in. Out in front on the sidewalk, already narrowed by the awning, there was a medium sized blue metal box. I never knew why it was there, but it was chained to a signpost, and made for a rough seat a man might rest upon when his legs tired of standing.
That is what old Tom used to do. He was a tall, lean black man with a huge smile and big dark eyes. He really wasn’t that old. Day after day most days he would stand outside the bodega. He kept an eye on the newspapers, produce, and flowers. Tom would watch your bike when you went inside for a bottle of water. His clothes were worn, yet always clean. From the green army cap to his boots, there was something about Tom that was both benign and a little bit intrusive. He insisted on being part of your life. If you asked him how he was doing it depended on the day of the week.
"How are you, Tom?" I would ask
"Pretty good, for a Tuesday, Mark." He would reply. "Hi to Jen."
The bodega did not hire him to stand there, greeting people as they passed. In his large hand he often held a crumpled blue paper coffee cup. A few coins clinking together at the bottom. Not specifically a panhandler, Tom graciously accepted donations from the public with a smile and a soft-spoken word of thankful encouragement.
Everyone in the neighborhood knew Tom and when he asked your name once, he would remember it. His wisdom always pleased. Nearby restaurants would feed him. There was something comforting in seeing him out there. It was a different time. After tall buildings were leveled in lower Manhattan by terrorists with jumbo jets our big city got little-town smaller. Community grew closer and we relied on the good will of each other to assure us the world had not devolved completely into darkness. Tom represented that cohesion. That unity. When he wasn’t out there, I worried about him. Wondering if he was ok. When he was there, it seemed everything was alright.
Tom was not homeless. He was a veteran who lived on a quiet street not far from the blue metal box. One time I asked him to tell me about himself. (Which was a big thing for me to ask such a personal question!) I wanted to know how he came to be standing outside the bodega not exactly panhandling. He said it was an interesting story. That one day the guy who used to stand out in front of the bodega just stopped. So, he took over.
Tom had a very wry sense of humor.
When our apartment building caught fire in the cellar while we were away for a Labor Day weekend, Tom was able to give me the moment-by-moment news of how he saw smoke and sparks coming from the sidewalk. How he told the guys inside the bodega to call 911. Unfortunately, one of the restaurants which gave him meals was destroyed, otherwise no one was hurt.
Then one day he was gone. It soon became clear something had happened. Word came that Tom was in the VA hospital. He had pancreatic cancer.
Tom died. We would no longer see him sitting on that blue metal box, long legs crossed, elbow on knee, big smile, offering kind words and thanks for the coins and dollars he collected. Someone made a sign and placed candles at the box. The sign read “We Love You, Tom. You Will Be Missed.” More elaborate memorials would follow with box and signpost decorated in his honor.
Not long after he passed the bodega would close and be renovated into a real estate office. The sense of close-knit community did not go away, but something palpable was happening. Like the barely perceptible erosion of sand on a beach, or the wearing thin of fabric washed and worn for years, and years, our once overt sense of togetherness slowly faded. Today divisions seem to multiply. Nothing can be said or done which will not spark fiery arguments.
But I think of Tom and our neighborhood which once embraced him. I miss my friends from the old building. Laura and Locke and Corrine and Tony. And little Paloma all grown up now. I miss Jean François from Quercy downstairs, Louie from Sam’s next door and Brenda from Reuben’s Liquor across the street. Jim and Andy were down the block with their produce garage, and Mr. Staubitz, I don’t know if that was his name, but he was the elderly gentleman who owned the oldest butcher shop in Brooklyn. Fish Tales and Cody’s and the laundromat, the list of establishments frequented goes on each with people working inside who had become like extended family. And I miss Tom. I am glad I got to thank him for his service.
Sometimes I feel like a mosquito flitting along the surface of a pond. Barely making a ripple as I skip and fly looking for my next bite. At others I feel a vast depth to our universe. The stardust from which I am made radiates inside of me. And I feel one and at peace with the world.
“We all just passin’ through, Mark,” I remember Tom saying.
Isn’t that the truth.

Saturday, October 9, 2021

09/12/2021

That day the fire hydrants all ran dry and we began to douse still smoldering flame with our tears. A fine dust was piled like pink snow except where it met water. It there expanded into a thick, foamy muck a shade or three lighter then blood with bone pulverized and comingled. And we all went to work heavy with sorrow for those brothers and sisters who lay buried.

Friday, October 1, 2021

The Visit by Friedrich Durrenmatt as adapted by Maurice Valency at ECU

directed by Kimille Howard
Sardonically funny at times this production is a tragicomedy with satirc contempoary overtones which range from #MeeToo through #OnePercent. The plot is simple yet complex. It is about a time and place which has historic overtones on how a society declines into less than humane behavior. Howard’s production is set in Germany and though no time frame is specifically mentioned, the costumes, sets, and props suggest a time just before the rise of Hitler’s Third Reich. The homecoming of a powerfully wealthy prodigal daughter to her birthplace, which as a town has fallen on hard times, sets the play in motion. Claire Zachanassian (Tatiana Burrus) returns to fanfare and expectation as potential saviour. Her ex-lover, Anton Schill (Andrew Goins), is chosen to woo her generosity and investment in the broken down old place. Yet there are dark secrets to be revealed.
I took away a feeling of great sadness over The Visit. At the same time, it is filled with hilarity from comedic turns by supporting characters like Kobby (Nikki Neuberger), Lobby (Riley Yates) and Bobby (Bobby Moreno). What a wonderful performance of a play which does not always celebrate the best in us as human beings. The last time I felt like this after a theatrical performance, Taylor Mac was The Good Person of Szechuan where beauty and spectacle belied serious subject matter.
The question of justice looms large in The Visit. Vengeance, unfettered capitalism, family values, the devastating effect of generational poverty all wrapped within characters dressed in period costumes and played on an ambitious stage festooned with brilliant sets and props. Kudos Delta Childers-Smith, Reid Parker, Nolan O’Dell, and Michael Shoaf. Movement and intimacy, of which there is abundance, directed by Jill Materelli-Carlson and Emily Phoebus. Vocal coaching by Elana Kepner.
This bold production choice could not have been timelier. The play satirizes a process through which group mentality can be manipulated by way of materialism which in turn facilitates a decline of society. I applaud the smart casting by Director Howard. There is a strong voice of reason coming from a character like Professor Muller (Casey Wortham), but reason is ultimately overwhelmed by temptation. ECU students all rise to the challenges of their roles which included the wearing of masks while speaking with German accents. Yet everyone works valiantly to overcome obstacles and their characterizations, to a person, are spot-on. This theatrical experience works its magic by compressing time into a delight filled evening. Even if it is one that left me feeling sad. The following came to my mind before bed the other night with the play's end landing in my soul.
Hearbroken days for world full of hurt where a mountain of gold is worth less than dirt When tears are flowing over lives we have lost, is there anyone showing just how much we've lost?

Friday, September 24, 2021

Tragedy Tomorrow...AND...Tonight! Hamlet on Staten Island

SI Shakespearean Theatre Company presents Hamlet by William Shakespeare.
Set in “Denmark, mid 1990s,” this gender bending production is slightly anachronistic with the use of they, them, their pronouns for a Hamlet played valiantly as a young nonbinary individual by the capable Anna Glenn Sparks. At one point when Polonius (Frank Duffy) counsels Claudius the King (Jack Dabdoub) he deftly makes use of all three pronouns in succession. The use of the pronouns may sometimes be confusing. In this case though, it was hilarious. Kudos to actors able to adjust archaic language of a venerated old text and adapt it to a modern ear. A fantastic Claudius, Horatio (Gary Bradley), Ophelia (Victoria Gullo), Gertrude (Brandon Thomas), and many parts played by the ensemble including the Grave Digger (Mitch Maglio) especially popped with both dramatic and comedic fireworks. Then there was the fantastic Laertes portrayed by Andre Sguerra. His long locks and Van Dyke style facial hair gave him the perfect look and bearing for the orphaned son and brother bereft of family by Hamlet’s hand.
It was as much fun to follow Hamlet’s tragic arc as it was to watch capable and fine renditions of Rosencrantz (Rina Sklar), Osric (Amanda Rose Benjamin), Guildenstern (Meredith Sladek) and Fortinbras (Courtney Emerson). The play with-in the play was a fantastic spectacle with costumes and histrionics to match. Player King Rit Mahoney and Queen Barbara Scalici were exceptional.
The vacant lot in a former wasteland along Front Street, which even the Navy could not permanently gentrify, was magically transformed with lights by Nick Diaz and sets by Keri Sheheen with Graphic design by Chris J. Sorrentino. 1990’s music is holding up well with sound by Ally Popick. The set was festooned with cartoon skulls and the artwork of so many creates a safe space where you should be comfortable in your seat since you bring it yourself.
Hamlet is a bear of a part for seasoned professionals. The young Sparks began appropriately sullen for a youth not at all thrilled with circumstances. With angst filled ease they deliver their first speech after a passionate embrace with the ebullient Ophelia which director Frank Williams uses to establish the love affair between the two. It was a great start. The Ghost scene was an innovative interplay of visual effects and the live action of Charles Sullivan vacillating between the two. Our beach chairs were low to the ground, so the stage vapor emitted from a smoke machine had an eerie effect as it enveloped us.
This Hamlet, like many, fully embodies the emotionally tortured prince with a witty, curious, and passionate (if confused) mind. With so many brilliant actors deserving of their moment in the spotlight, Director Williams understandably was hard pressed to cut the script into soul-of-wit brevity. That said, all the acting shines brightly into the night with Tom Shcherbenko as Voltimand, Alex Acerra as Bernardo and Vera Mahoney rounding out the ensemble.
Staten Island Shakespearean Theatre Company presented Hamlet, 9/17 - 9/18 and 9/24 - 9/25 at Maker Space which is adjacent to 450 Front Street in the Stapleton section of Staten Island. Contact: www.sishakespeare.org

Monday, September 13, 2021

Not Forgotten. But…Never Forget? 9/11 20 Years On Pt 2.

So, it has been a self-indulgent couple of days when it comes to searching my mind on the significance of this, the twenty-year mark after 9/11. Now that the day is here, I have foregone all discussion and remembrance…so far…its only 3:43 pm. See what happened there? I looked at the clock on the computer and it gave me the number of fallen FDNY members lost that day. It occurs for me just how much the day defines me, how it shaped my life and the lives of millions…and yet I struggle to comprehend it all.
Since 9/11 I have worked to cope. I published a book of poems about my experience entitled “After September.” The title inspired by the late Tommy Zurica, one of my mentors and co-workers from that time. Tommy was a big man and the only time he ever raised his voice was in laughter. He would speak constantly about how things had changed “after September,” and we all knew what he meant. He meant after September 11th, 2001. Tommy suffered personal loss as his brother-in-law, a New Yor City fire fighter, was killed in the collapse. He lost his own battle with cancer two years ago.
Prompted by my sister Pat’s query posted on her Face Book page, I recount in full my experience of that day. Simply, and as well as recollection can serve, what follows here is my latest catharsis on the matter. As I wrote, a presence to the sensations in my body let me know I was re-living the experience. I felt the fear and the anticipation of doom, I could hear the eerie quiet, and the subdued panic, I felt the rush of wind created by the collapsing south tower, I tasted the acrid stench of burning plastic, rubber, and a thousand other different substances released in ways nature did not intend.
I was in my office on the 14th floor at 60 Hudson Street writing an email. I heard the roar of the first plane and the explosion. A co-worker commented that some Navy fighter pilot was going to get in trouble for flying so low. This had a temporary calming effect. Then…
My boss came out of his office...his window had a view of the north elevation of the north tower. I was a facade inspector back then. He said "You wanna talk about facades, look at this!" I joined him in his office and saw the gaping hole high up on the building that was the north tower of the World Trade Center. Before smoke was even billowing out, I went to call Jen to tell her what had happened. I told her a jet hit the World Trade Center and I didn't think it was an accident. I had to go back to my car which was parked on Greenwich Street to get my binoculars. The streets were silent except for the growing sounds of sirens. I got back up to the 14th floor and went out onto a setback to start surveying the damage. As I was counting the number of columns the plane destroyed a sense of dread washed over me. I had learned from the previous attack on the Trade Center in 1993 that the exterior walls of the building were structural. I feared that the building might collapse. Then I began to witness the human tragedy. I began to see faces of people above the impact zone at the windows. They couldn't get out. My binoculars trained on a young, stout man with black hair wearing a chef’s coat. He was leaning out the broken window a thousand feet above the sidewalk. I prayed for him to sit tight. That help was on the way. I had no idea the plane had destroyed the stair wells below him. The second plane hit the south tower from the south. I didn't see it, but I heard the explosion. People began to panic. I went back to my car a second time and people were out of their buildings now looking up at the twin towers. I stopped to call Jen from a payphone this time in Yaffa's, a bistro on Greenwich Street. There was a line of people waiting to use the phone. It moved quickly as everyone felt the urgency to reach their loved ones. I told Jen I was alright and to stay inside. We had no TV back then; she didn't know what was happening. On my way back upstairs, my boss came out of the elevator and said the commissioner wants him to take a couple of inspectors and go down to the Trade Center. I was behind him and another inspector who wanted to drive, but my boss said we probably wouldn't get through. So we began to walk. Most everybody was going in the other direction. I looked up and saw people jumping out windows. Then I saw the top of the south tower wrack to the left. Everything seemed to happen in silence and slow motion and then there was dust everywhere. I couldn't see my boss or the other inspectors. I headed for the bridge. People were leaving Manhattan on foot in an orderly way. I helped a woman over a fence and onto Brooklyn Bridge. After I got over the bridge a man was sitting in his car listening to the radio. He said there was another plane that hit the Pentagon and one maybe was going to hit the White House or the Capitol. When Jen heard me out in the hallway, she flung the door open and hugged me, dust, and all. She was beside herself crying. Our friend Steven was there.
The rallying cry of “Never Forget” is etched in our minds…but just what are we remembering?
What I remember is grief. I have read that grieving never stops, that we adapt and learn to integrate it into our daily lives. But the pain is always there. It resurfaces as we empathize with others. What happens with those for whom empathy is not possible? When people cannot feel as others grieving feel?
Perhaps it is time to forget some things. Such as ethnicity, and skin color. It’s time to forget gender and sexuality. Time to forget political parties and affiliations. Time…long past time to forget divisions. Half the world looks to America as a shining beacon of hope for mankind. An example of what is possible when equal rights for all is the cherished norm. Half the world wants to tear that thing down and ensure mankind suffers a second dark age.
One of the most profound moments for me on September 12th, 2001, at Ground Zero was seeing a note scrawled in the pink dust clinging to a store front window which read: “I have seen war today.” People conflate destruction with war. Hurricanes and earthquakes can cause destruction, but no one admits Nature is at war with us. Is it because Nature has no political ideology, no religion, knows no border or bound? War is a state of mind. A state it seems so many who care little for its consequences are flocking to in droves.
Perhaps it is time to forget war as means to an end. The problems of this planet are complex and interconnected. People around the globe look to us, a fledgling society with a problematic past, to light its way into the future. Many think we did not ask for this responsibility, yet the words of our founders have outlived them. They have grown beyond their vision to become greater than the sum-total of all human history.
We…the people…hold these truths to be self-evident…
You may wonder where my anti-war stance comes from. I will tell you. I grew up during the Viet Nam era. The war was ramping up when I was in grade school and would not end until just before I graduated high school. My sixth-grade teacher was an imposing figure of a man. (Quite different from the young and idealistic teacher from fifth grade who read to us from the Hobbit on late spring afternoons.) This man had a military style about him. He would randomly handout “Patriot of the Day” awards and constantly defend what was happening in Viet Nam with pride and conviction. The memory of him seared on my soul is the human one where he broke down and cried in front of us while relaying the news of his own son’s death in the war.
Evidence compounded upon itself for me with nightly news broadcasts and eyewitness accounts from those who returned from the conflict, and the accounts from those whose brothers had not returned, combined with the growing anti-war demonstrations from those burning their draft cards to Muhammed Ali being stripped of his championship title for refusing to serve. And then there was John Lennon. Give Peace a Chance, War is Over…if you want it…
One can’t help but wonder about what all those who have died at war were fighting for. Wasn’t it a better future? Is this it yet? I for one will never disrespect a person in uniform who has the best interest of our society at heart. Yet I will ever seek, expose and decry hypocrisy behind the misuse and abuse of power.
I have not survived this thing called 9/11 to sit idly by while hate wrapped in the flag of the United States is allowed to flourish. The least I can do is speak my mind. Thank you for journeying with me thus far.

Friday, September 10, 2021

Not Forgotten. But…Never Forget? 9/11 Twenty Years On...Pt 1

People mean well when they say, “Never forget,” but do they take into account those of us who cannot forget? We who live with the trauma of that morning every day.
Perhaps all my childhood trauma helped prepare me for 9/11. Every year further away from the actual event has been different. A year later it was all still happening. Two years. Five years. Ten years. My mind and soul still lived in a swirling dust cloud of collapsing buildings. I was serving New York City. Doing what I thought I could do to help heal open wounds as well as those deeply buried under tons of steel and rubble.
2008, we lost our father. 2014 our mother. I slowly began to wake up and wonder where my life had gone. It’s like I have forgotten everything that ever occured prior to September of 2001. Like my past all happened to someone else. But then I started to look ahead to the future. My future. What did I want? Where would I go? Who would I be? I had no answers. I did not think I deserved to see the future when so many could not.
I feel guilty wanting anything remotely resembling happiness. I feel guilty about surviving that day. I've gotten to know this as survivors’ guilt. And that I am fortunate to be alive to have it. And that some people can’t understand what this is. And it’s difficult to explain because it sounds like whining. But I have it. It kills the joy of loving life. And if there is one triumphant thing I can say twenty years on is that I love my life. I’m glad I did not die that day. I curse the malaise I was in for so long afterward that had me crippled to present moments with my family, friends and all the people, the amazingly good people, I was so fortunate to meet and love alongside these many years. Yet, for all my stress and pain, I see and know there are those who have it both physically and mentally so much worse.
For those of you who cannot understand what I am ranting about, I envy you. To those who know all too well the ravings of a tortured mind, bless you. I wish you and everyone peace.... Dealing with PTSD is a lifelong battle. The temptation to succumb to despair looms over everything like a vast emptiness that swallows all light. There is strange comfort in knowing I am not alone in facing that darkness.
Those who suffer along with me and those who may empathize with that conundrum...thank you all...and stay strong. Life is worth living.

Sunday, August 15, 2021

Kitchen Talk

I remember the ends of wooden spoons always burnt black because they were ever in contact with bottoms of hot pots full with gravy/sauce or big cast iron fry pans browning pork sausage or braciola. My grandmother, the angel of Baltimore, silently presses fresh pasta dough for ravioli. She seemed to always have a fennel seed to chew between teeth that sat beside her on a bedside table while she slept.
Dad taught me to love seafood. I had my fist steamer in Bayonne. He won a stake in a restaurant by winning hands of poker with the owner. When he took us there he said we could have anything we wanted and suggested the lobster tails. After dinner he would just sign the bill. I had one of my first jobs working that kitchen as a busboy and dish washer. I was 12.
My uncle Paul taught me how to de-seed a watermelon. One mouthful at a time. He boiled the sweet and the hot links before roasting them over a charcoal fire. My aunt Gin made crab cake from scratch and ruined, for me, ordering them out anywhere the rest of my life.
My mother made the best meat balls. She didn’t mess around. Her hands were wide and she rolled them big so one or two was more than enough. On Mondays we would have sandwiches of sliced meatballs on wonder bread or kaiser rolls from the bakery if any were leftover from Sunday. Today onions and peppers from my garden sweat in a big skillet she gave me because I was the only one left who could still lift it. As smoke rises from my gas grill outside,I send after it prayers for my mother and my grandmother and everybody up there. I hope they smell the goodness they cultivated with culinary precision by hand and by love.

Saturday, August 7, 2021

Still Waters

Stillness. Meditation. Still. Realization: Nothing is ever truly still. In stillness, i realize movement. On a molecular level, atoms vibrate. i breathe. Focus on the breath. Lots of love in…lots of love out…
On a macro level…the Earth rotates and wobbles, the planets revolve around the sun…the sun…moves through space and time… Still. As rain falls, i contemplate the stream. In rushing water i see metaphor…how we are all part of the stream rushing over obstacles. Some of us are the water moving quickly, driven by gravity’s urgency to reach our goal and final destination. Some of us are the obstacles, rocks embedded in the stream, sitting, vibrating on an entirely different frequency. As water rushes around, over, under through the obstacles, so minute portions of stone wears away. The surface erodes to eventually expose a core…its foundations are undermined causing slow, imperceptible movement toward a goal… the water of the stream, divides for a moment going up and over, around, beneath, and then… rejoins , nosily, joyfully, on the other side ready to face the next obstacle. And then…the stream itself reaches its goal…stillness. Never actually still. Still moving, slower now. A lake or pond, or even…the majestic, roiling ocean where…yet a different type of stillness allows sunshine to lift water up into the sky…where gently ferocious wind currents move it around the world, until gathered once more into rain or snow, divined by lightning, heralded by thunder…delivered back once more to flow over obstacles, over stones, soil, streets and parking lots, roofs and driveways, sidewalks and fields, woods, mountains…hearts, minds…
We are, as water…divided ever at overcoming our obstacles…yet reunited always on the other side where what was once, for an instant, separated…becomes one…

Sunday, August 1, 2021

August...and Everything After

At midlife...there is often rebirth. This happened for me in the mid 1990s'. I began to fully embrace elements of myself previously submerged. A big part of my new awareness was helped along by the music of that time. The so called "Grunge" era for me was epitomized by groups like Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Stone Temple Pilots, Tracey Chapman, Beastie Boys, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Third Eye Blind and... my favorite...Counting Crows with their break through album "August and Everything After" all of which provided for me the sound track to my movie. The film noir of my life.
Back then I had no clue where I was going, I only knew I did not care for where I had been. The ensuing changes have landed me here, now, with you. Thanks for taking the time to read about my journey. One thing I continue to embrace is the unknown. What is going to happen next? This suspense is what keeps me going.
Sometimes I doubt the ground. It’s as if I feel gravity will somehow abandon me at unawares and I will suddenly find myself floating…directionless. Now... I am a being... completely unfettered by the laws of physics. How free my thought is. How boundless. Perhaps doubt is not such a bad thing after all.