Alley Cat

The backyards of brownstone Brooklyn are a magical hidden world that the rest of the world doesn't readily know about, and before the massive explosion that brought about its gentrification by so many white Americans to our fair city, that was just the way we liked it. The apartments were beautiful and affordable, though not to my newly-established boyfriend from upstate New York. He was saddled by credit card debt elicited by his manic phases of unrest and urgency that told him he needed to do something now nOW NOW! It didn't dig him out of his depressive holes, but rather kept him there with something more to be upset over, which got him back on the binge cycle of drinking all-nighters that kept his diseases well-fed, if not happily cured. 

But, my aunt's old apartment by Ocean Avenue was sad to be in, and the neighborhood was too far a commute to Manhattan. I told him I would pay any monthly rent he couldn't afford, and for the next year, we had full use of the entire first floor of a garden apartment in central Park Slope, for the now mind-boggling low fee of $950/month. It was deemed an extraordinary luxury by some, and a horrid "frontier" land in the ghetto by others, depending on the individual's agenda. After we pulled out the fridge to clean it and found hypodermic needles, one could presume either a diabetic lived there or a heroin junkie, again, according to the bent of your imagination.

We didn't care. The neighborhood was great, and the apartment was gorgeous; a classic "railroad" style place where each room opened into the next to the garden in the back, separated by old wooden pocket doors that closed off the bedroom from the living room. The kitchen opened up to the garden by sliding glass doors, and by the reactions of our guests, I knew I'd struck gold. My dad joked about my lack of a green thumb because of the tree in the middle of a concrete area that died before we got there, which meant that some envy had taken hold. We hung sparking white Christmas tree lights on it that lit up at night, and as the evening wore on, the magic took hold until there was nothing else but happiness around the patio table.

An opera singer did her warm-up scales almost every afternoon with the window open in the building behind ours on the next block over, and thick ivy covered one of the walls that had a simple bench of concrete blocks under a bower of grapevines from next door. Without the partitions of so many walls, the whole city block is basically one big garden that no one can see from the street. Back there, it was a different world; gardens sprouted lush vegetables every year, as the bees and butterflies fluttered around huge sunflowers in the summer sun. Like our beautiful neighborhood with great rents, it felt like a secret we had earned as hard-working New Yorkers. It felt that good and that right, to me.

My friend from RISD had a place in Brooklyn, too, in a different neighborhood that's also well-considered, though less of a garden district. He'd gotten a kitten to ride out the loneliness that comes with the single city life and long hours at the studio. He'd found work at MTV Studios: a factory of drafting tables where he was one of hundreds of production artists who painstakingly filled in the minor details for the then-popular "Beavis and Butthead" show that caused him painful embarrasment as a classically trained draftsman. The creator, Mike Judge, could give a shit about the fine art of animation, and basically told them that at meetings. Oh, well. Looked good on the resume, though.

His parents still lived in Mass., as well-to-do Armenians who owned a successful car dealership. They spoiled Ed and his siblings rotten, but that's first generation affluence for you. Any problems could be solved with money, right? That's the American Dream! It wasn't, of course, but who were we to tell them that? They went on ski vacations every year, and turned out functional illiterates who could draw alone in a room for many hours. Done deal. Back in Brooklyn, we agreed to babysit Ed's kitten while he flew home for a holiday, with the warnings that me and Dave were solid dog people, and that a lot of cats roamed through the gardens, getting into loud fights almost every single night.

He tentatively agreed to drop off the cat with a backup plan of a kennel, in case the deal went bust, and it did, no surprise to us. He'd assured us that the animal had been well-socialized and could mix it up with other cats, but within a half an hour, me and Dave ran back to the kitchen to the sound of a deathly kitten scream, finding it being clawed through a window screen by a big orange tabby street cat with a really angry look on its face. That kitten won't make it through the night, here. We called him up with our concerns, and once again he was back at our place in a quick cab ride to drop it off at the kennel. Within a few months more, Ed and my other RISD friend Lisa would leave the city for southern California, never to brave the streets of New York again. Ain't that the way of it, though?

Oooh, Oooh, Oooh, Oooh,
Black and orange stray cat sittin' on a fence
Ain't got enough dough to pay the rent
I'm flat broke but I don't care
I strut right by with my tail in the air

Stray cat strut, I'm a ladies' cat,
A feline Casanova, hey man, thats where its at
Get a shoe thrown at me from a mean old man
Get my dinner from a garbage can

Yeah don't cross my path

I don't bother chasing mice around
I slink down the alley looking for a fight
Howling to the moonlight on a hot summer night
Singin' the blues while the lady cats cry,
"Wild stray cat, you're a real gone guy."

I wish I could be as carefree and wild,
but I got cat class and I got cat style.

I don't bother chasing mice around
I slink down the alley looking for a fight
Howling to the moonlight on a hot summer night
Singin' the blues while the lady cats cry,
"Wild stray cat, you're a real gone guy."

I wish I could be as carefree and wild,
but I got cat class and I got cat style.

Indian Giver

Mi'kmaq warrior and dancer, Danny Boy Stephens, takes a moment to reflect on the shores of the Great Slave Lake, Northwest Territories, Canada.

For years I lived in one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in the world; 
a very affluent section of Brooklyn called "Park Slope", famous for its' artsy writing crowd, media types, ubiquitous designers, and lesbians, which suited me just fine. Except for the occasional coffee-house misunderstanding (volunteer firefighter "dude" with a preference for Great Danes and Christmas lights, I know you knew I was straight, girl, but thanks for being a weirdo to me when I was sitting alone), I was pretty much left to my own devices, which also suited me fine. 

I didn't have a lot of time for bullshit anymore. I was a full-time Art Director in publishing, and after I quit smoking, a part-time martial artist in training, which meant I had weekday evenings after 9pm and Saturday mornings to sleep in, which was exactly what I did, and I did it every week for years. I'd also tack on church and Sunday school classes when I worked from home, but it was pretty much the same deal, because no one around me was suitable for my company.

Sometimes I dated men I knew I could trust from my past, from places like old jobs or school, but that eventually went away, too, because they weren't suitable for me either. Mostly, I worked and walked and kept healthy, which kept me going. When the boom was lowered on me financially, I did double-time creatively by cutting out everything but food as an expense, but just like my training provided, I set up a new routine in which I could flourish and work, albeit more sporadically and with much less frills for decorating. 

It's the same productivity I have in place today: free Internet access at the library, while trying to keep the freaks off of me. But in Brooklyn, it was harder. People are savvier, and they know how to work you over. 
I met a man there that I knew was troubled, but because I grew up with it, I managed to stay safe by my own wits. He knew that, too, along with many other facts that were mixed in with his psychosis.

What my Nuyorican friend from Brownsville did not know, and had never known, was an Acadian Métis warrior. He thought his "street smarts" about welfare scams and rent cheats were powerful weapons that he had in his arsenal, along with an almost total lack of a moral compass, really bad acting skills, and one very serious mental illness. Over time, I put him through all the paces, but to no avail, which certainly didn't surprise me one bit.

If my friend said he needed a clock, I gave him the old one I'd had for more than 15 years hanging in my kitchen, because I had another one in my living room. If he said he was "learning" design at a broke-ass school on Staten Island, I gave him my old small spare portfolio to use, with deadlines in place for him to keep to, and he did absolutely nothing with the gifts I gave him, just like any other asshole white boy I've ever tried to trade with.

When I asked him to show me his portfolio pieces one day, as I was checking out his tiny room in a typical Brooklyn tenement in the Spanish-flavored part of the Slope that turns into Sunset Park, he shamefacedly opened it to reveal that he turned into a place to keep his checkbook and receipts for storage. Oh. OK. You've done nothing. Give it back to me, asshat. NO! I mean hand it over to me now.

He sputtered in shock. But, but...he's a welfare-case. Pretty white ladies usually give him stuff for being sick and broke! Yeah, bitch, meet the real deal ethnic minority. He tried to quibble with me about my genetic past, saying I just wanted to paint myself "exotic", like the mass murder in our Nova Scotian past was something I chose to brandish about town, like he did with his check from the government for school. You know, because he needed a "hand up", not a hand out.

Same thing with my room clock: you don't help me move my stuff after I run out of money "homeboy", you give me back my clock (which I eventually ditched at a Park Slope storage place when I ran out of money for that, too). By this point, I had him trained: he just sighed, took down the clock from the painted-over graffiti ghetto wall, and handed it back to me.

You see, esse, in my world, if you don't have something of equal value to trade, we don't trade with you at all, so give it back. All of it. It's okay, though. I've got a special lil' internal clock running, just to keep track of all the borrowed time you're on. Take your time with it.

 

from Wikipedia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Indian_giver

Street Art: Hookah Jellyfish

Jellyfish likes hookah: in Park Slope, Brooklyn.

Around the Way: Easter is here, and so is Spring.

Easter Sunday, and Spring is here.

The light changes, the sun becomes stronger, bushes and trees sprout a fine green haze around them, waiting to burst into renewed life. It seems like overnight, daffodils and crocuses spring forth from the soil, and the air becomes vibrant, verdant with new growth. We celebrate all of this, and more. 

Enjoy the warmth of a new day, here in New York.

Street Art: The Pole Speaks

“Hey! Whassup?”

Street Art: Jerky was here

Never compromise, ya jerk!

 For David, a.k.a. “Jerky”

Toys: The Easter Edition

The biggest Catholic holiday we have also ushered in a host of good things for us as children: warmer weather, flowers, and Easter candy. Just like with Christmas, we eventually figured out that our Easter Bunny was our Mom, who, over the years, became less adept at hiding, in direct proportion to our prowess as hunters. Easter egg hunts became fierce.

I remember the day when Mom asked me for something in dad's closet, and I found the big tell-tale straw basket instead, stuffed with goodies like chocolate eggs and bunny rabbit toys. Instead of being angry, upset, or disappointed, I actually felt relieved that the bringer of happy things was my own Mom. Well, of course it was.

I found this gorgeous selection of more naturally made animal toys at my kick butt local store in the Slope, Little Things. As much as I love stylised cartoons, I couldn't help but think I would have vastly preferred a real looking rabbit like this one as a little girl, over standard drugstore fare.

Happy Easter, and shield this one from the kids ;)

Around the Way: The Pavillion Theater

Type inlay on hard wood floor

A recent trip to my local cinema turned up a few lovely surprise, like inlaid type on a wooden floor, and custom hand-painted tables. Little gorgeous details like that, personal artistic touches to a space, make the experience all the more memorable.

Custom painted tables

Just like the art of the book, a really good movie house will never go out of style, because it's not something you can replicate digitally. Enjoy your movie time, just like I did.

Family portrait!

Around the Way: Hand Lettering

Jazzy poster at Barbés
http://www.barbesbrooklyn.com/

Curly ‘Do

There comes a time in every curly life when the thicket must be cleared. Such a time came to me one hard-working weekend, when I noticed that the shorter ends growing out of my layered ‘do looked sufficiently better than the long piece stuck down the back of my jacket. I was at the office, it was freezing, and I peeped myself in such a state in the bathroom mirror. Lo and behold, an idea for a new hairstyle was born.

My awesome hairdresser, a former RISD attendee natch, was on board because it's right on trend for the season. He went a little shorter than we originally discussed, but it was cool. I was up for it. So here it is; an uneven blunt cut with some hip longer pieces. He wanted to stay far far away from Soccer Mom Land, and so did I. We did that. Rudy, you da man homeboy ;) Thanks for the hook up.

Springtime curly ‘do

Around the Way: Spring is Coming!

Spring is Coming!

But it didn't feel like it this morning....

Around the Way: Fancy Pants

I wear fancy pants....sometimes

Around the Way: Walkens are Welcome

Walkens are welcome at the Café Steinhof

We have this great Austrian restaurant in my 'hood that's been around for long time, which is the hallmark of a successful restaurant in our highly competitive town. Places that have have been around for many years with a strong neighborhood following are signs that they're really good, because just to stay in business is a “win”, what with skyrocketing leases and an ever-dwindling supply of customers.

I walked past it a couple of weeks ago after getting a freshly made chocolate croissant from a tiny French bakery called “Parco” that's across the street. To me the door alone defines the essence of our unique Brooklyn lifestyle: hip without trying too hard, a cool vibe without forcing it on you, and really, really good food. Unpretentious and awesome: that's how I feel about my hometown. 
Walkens are always welcome!

http://cafesteinhof.com/

Around the Way: Snow Kitty Day

Sendak-inspired Snow Kitty

Just remember folks, March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb*. Let's say goodbye to winter with this last Nor'Easter! Goodbye, winter.

*http://bjws.blogspot.com/2011/03/origin-of-saying-march-comes-in-like.html

Around the Way: Goodbye Winter!

The Community Bookstore of Park Slope, Brooklyn.

Good morning, New Yorkers! Many of us start to feel the pall of winter-like conditions during the tempestuous month of March.
Today we had snow flurries during our morning commute, and some of us are totally over it. 

I thought this image captured the fun of a winter soon to be gone, taken of a local bookstore window in Park Slope, advertising the pleasures of reading indoors during cold days, over a bowl hot soup, with a book written and illustrated by our beloved hometown Brooklyn hero Maurice Sendak, now with a school named in his honor.   

Brighter days are ahead!

http://communitybookstore.net/

Street Art: Mama and Baby Bird

Mama Bird and Baby Bird, together on 6th Avenue

Around the Way: Back Alley Diety

The God of Garbage and Recycling has fallen a long way down!

Picture Window: Goodbye!

 moving on, like clouds across the sky

  

Dear friends, fans, and readers! I'm in the process of relocating, and though moving is a tense and uncertain time, it also brings about welcome change. As much as I loved the picture window views from my old apartment, I have an entire catalog of photos from that time period: the documentation of time passing from a fixed location, as written across the skies. With new vistas comes new subject matter, and as any artist/explorer will tell you, that indeed heralds an exciting time. As my view changes, look here for changes, too. Blessings to you, and have a great week.—Marie

Around the Way: Star Power

"Baby, I'm a star!"

Around the Way: The Brooklyn Public Library

The Park Slope branch of the Brooklyn Public Library