Author: loiseaufait

Little by little the bird feathers its nest, and object by heart burnished object we surround ourselves with lovely necessities of memory and function. It is these things that make a silly Apartment a Home or a silly Wednesday an Occasion. Whether my nest is an old farmhouse, a sixth floor tenement walk up, or a brownstone basement... whether I share it with family, vagabonds, women of heart and mind, or a little brown cat and a sweet ginger banjo, my principal joy is filling it with light and laughter (and corralling).

Politics, not as usual

 

When I was growing up, my parents never told us who they voted for. They made sure we understood the gravity of the act, I remember going with my Mama out to Norge Elementary school in the Virginia of my childhood (before “red” and “blue” were things or slurs, when George H.W. signed our Presidential Fitness Certificates, and the first-ever black governor since reconstruction, democrat Doug Wilder, was on the back of the phone book) and waiting outside the booth, watching her Frye boots shift weight under the curtain, playing with the red metal sample ballot lever. If I’d ask who they voted for my parents would tell us that politics were personal and that we may decide differently when we were older, but we had to decide for ourselves. Accordingly, either in the name of sanctity, or in the name of civility—even before the age of facebook vitriol— I’ve mainly kept my views to myself.

But, after this wild week of bare-nerve humanity, trying to keep wonder and faith alive on a small scale, I have to say that I am proud. Chest-swelling, tear-welling proud, and yes, Hopeful for the future.

And, now that I’ve decided that for myself, this morning my Mama (probably wearing those same awesome Frye boots she still rocks) sent me this:

And one felt something tectonic shift tonight. America crossed the Rubicon of every citizen’s access to healthcare, and re-elected a black president in a truly tough economic climate. The shift toward gay equality is now irreversible. Women, in particular, moved this nation forward – pragmatically, provisionally, sensibly. They did so alongside the young whose dedication to voting was actually greater this time than in 2008, the Latino voters who have made the current GOP irrelevant, and African-Americans, who turned up in vast numbers, as in 2008, to put a period at the end of an important sentence.

That sentence will never now be unwritten. By anyone.

Rockaway, post Sandy

Here we are, heading out to Rockaway Beach this past Memorial Day, a classic American beach day at the gorgeous height of summer, Sweetheart’s beach block entrance, Beach 141st. Here it is now:The sea was angry that day, my friends. We’ve been out in Rockaway every day since last Wednesday, when the news told us that the Marine Park Bridge- the only way to access our end of the four-block-wide strip of sand that is Rockaway- was closed, but we went out anyway. What to even say about it all? What has happened out there is truly horrific: terrifying on the scale of what the sea can do, terrible to see the ever-mounting piles of sewage-sodden garbage constituting the entirety of people’s lives out on their curbs, the oil slick pump-water streaming down every street, eddying around wedding albums and heirlooms, cutting through the four feet of sand that covers the streets like snow, the houses ripped in half, bricks missing like gap teeth, ten feet of sea-wall strewn about like playing cards, tragedies abounding on a scale of wonder- huge and monolithic and seemingly impossible to process.Yet- as insignificant as our humanity is in the face of tragedy, in the face of nature, as insignificant as our humanity is to withstand storm surge and loss of power and loss of life, Our Humanity is strong. It is a goosebump thing, a tear welling thing, a wondrous thing to see and feel. “How can I help?”. Our friends, our dear dear friends, a different crew every day, to lift and pull and pump, to clean out and purge, to hold us up and watch us cry and to help us yell at the sky. And then the neighbors come. And then the strangers come. To Help. Alone, together, by car, by bus, when the gas ran out, by bike, offering water, hot food, coffee (the holy grail), then later- tools, masks, gloves, contractor bags, help- hands, hundreds of hands. And the constant refrain, that everyone says: “We are so lucky, so many have it so much worse than we do”. And it’s true.

And bless Dan, Maggie, Molly, Lucy, Jocie, Julia, Chris, Fran, Seth, Tony, Eben, JJ, Aly, Paul, and John for helping our little family. And bless Jay for all of that and more.

From our experience on the ground, The Occupy Movement has put together the best real-time volunteer infrastructure. To volunteer, go here. Bless You. Bless You All.

To Rockaway We Go…

Not sure what we’ll find there, but it’s time to start picking up the pieces. Everyone we know is putting on their muck boots and coming with us and our hearts are big, and full and a little hollow. Try imagining a place where it’s always safe and warm…

We Are Safe

 

We are safe. And dry. And, miraculously, we never lost power, just sat with our flashlights at hand just in case, playing backgammon, drinking wine, and eating fried green tomatoes from the last greenies we pulled off the vines in the backyard before Sandy ripped through them.

I feel lucky, but most of all I feel connected. Though we haven’t left our apartment (we are listening to you, Bloombito), we know what’s up. Would I ever have thought to say… Bless you social media. Never before have the social networks seemed so, well, social. Not just the connectivity of cracking real-time-jokes during the debates (though that was awesome), but actual updates as to what is really happening exactly where you care about it. Feed as Sustenance. Want to know what’s going down in every neighborhood? That’s a job for Instagram, where everyone is an embedded reporter. Jared’s shot from Ft. Greene, above, and Renee’s Trees-down-in-Prospect-Park, Anne’s Churning-Post-Storm-Cove, Lucy’s View-of-Downtown-Manhattan-with-No-Power, and Julia’s New-Park-Bench-in-Cobble-Hill: Want to know what’s actually going down in Rockaway? There’s Katie Honan (a random social media maven who also just happens to be a girl from Rockaway) whose twitter feed confirmed that Sweetheart’s block wasn’t on fire, and whose page she set up to share information is hopefully right about the actual status of the Marine Park Bridge. And the best way to know if the people you love are safe? Their morning-after-Facebook-status-announcements:We’re still putting back the pieces (actually we’re trying to bake a birthday cake with ingredients on hand for Sweetheart’s little brother who, so far, has spent his birthday avoiding downed power lines), but, bless you social media, for your pure populist power and for—however illusory—making us feel safe.

Storm Queen

 

Sandy is coming and New York City has effectively shut down. No transportation, No work, everyone preparing for wine-soaked candlelit mid-day dinners. Soooo, is this the best thing ever? Not sure… Sweetheart’s dad sent us this quick snap from Rockaway this morning (mandatory evacuation be damned), storm surge already coming up and over Beach 134th and Cronston. Oh My. Us? We’re ok.

Storm King

Mark di SuveroOh Adventure! Last weekend we got a wild hair, piled into Francine (Miss Jocie’s mobile… all good cars have names), and made our adventurers way to Storm King Art Center. Five women strong, scarves, leathers, the flush of possibility, (and we picked up Mike, king of beers and collars, on the side of the road), a wrecking crew to make our way. Just an hour north of the city, Storm King is an outdoor sculpture park situated on 500 acres of impeccably swooping jealous-Olmstead wild-meets-barely-tamed earth, dotted with monolithic sculptures. In a word, it is awesome. This time it also happened to be peak leaf season, PEEPINGPEAKING, and everything was suffused with the kind of beauty that you can’t stop talking about, the sheer hush and truth of where you are, who you’re with, how the air feels, how the golden-hour light looks, and the how-if-everything-hadn’t-happened-just-so we wouldn’t be here, but it DID so REVEL IN IT makes you utterly, totally full-hearted and giddy. Storm King is open through November, so get thee there, this weekend, do it. And after you do, order six pulled pork sandwiches and a parcel of tallboys, to go, from Barnstormer’s BBQ. At least that’s what we did. Here, some of the beauty:

The Kitten Covers

THE KITTEN COVERS. Combining my two favorite things (classic records and cats) with my two favorite memes (sleeveface and icanhascheezburger). Just. Please. How Wonderful. Bless Meags for showing me the way…