The Storms: Death and Destruction, Help, Hope and Recovery

While counts of the toll the two storms that hit the northeast in recent weeks continue toward a final tally, people of the area busy themselves donating to others still in need, waiting in gas lines, resuming (or trying) semblances of normal in their work and personal lives, while others wait for electricity and struggle to stay warm. 400,865 homes in the eastern U.S. remain without power as of yesterday.  The least fortunate of us trudge the long uphill road of grieving lost loved ones. For those, the pain will last long past the clean up crews and news media. For those, the recovery never really ends. The death toll of victims in the U.S. has reached 120. At last count, it was close to 70 victims in the Caribbean, hitting Haiti (52 fatalities) the hardest.

Flashes of hope of the basic compassion of humanity are present in the vast relief efforts underway. From local long-standing businesses such as Two Boots Brooklyn, organizing food and clothing drives, to the new and innovative Mealku, making sure those who have lost much are receiving home cooked meals. And of course there are so many others lending a hand and organizing volunteers: Red Cross, NYC Mayors office, New York Cares, Congregation Beth Elohim, Occupy Sandy, the Humane Society (leading pet search and rescue efforts), Staten Island Recovers, and of course The Salvation Army. If you are donating, please remember the victims in Haiti, whose suffering is all that much greater given its extremely impoverished state and particularly vulnerable to the effects of natural disasters and global warming. Please consider contributing to groups such as Direct Relief and International Medical Corps and Americares.

Most everyone I know is in some way in the trenches, whether by helping a family member or hard hit local business (like Rocky Sullivan’s in Red Hook – my friend, part owner, was there with a pump before realizing the task ahead was too great — he was able to keep himself safe but the bar/restaurant itself has suffered serious damage). (Please check out this NYT blog post if your small business was affected by the storm).  Others are rolling up their sleeves and coming from our of state to see what help still needs to be done. At Greenwood Cemetery, they’re busy removing the 150 trees that were destroyed during the storm, and restoring many broken monuments. Donations for that restoration are being accepted online.

Please let us know of other disaster relief efforts you are supporting, what people can do to help, and any useful links you may have. In the wake of so much destruction, the helping hands of others is the real source of recovery.

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Three Dog Night, Minus Dog

On the front stoop where normally are perched three distinctive, unusually peaceful and wise-looking dogs, there were, tonight, three cats each in the dog’s usual respective places. They watched as I passed by, taking my own pet for a midnight stroll. The cats’ eyes darted hither and fro, following me like peepers behind bad paintings in a bad movie. They looked like they’d been caught, but didn’t dare to move and doing what I don’t know. Other than stirring in place, however, they barely moved. They shifted just a little, waiting to see if I might do something unusual. They waited for the unexpected. To my surprise, my dog ignored them, and I wonder if he saw them.

It was so odd, how they stood in the usual place of the very striking but quiet dogs. These three dogs are so striking, in fact, that when I met my neighbors recently who are moving, and we tried to place each other, and wondered as a matter of conversation if in fact we passed each other many times in the last decade (though it was apparent no flicker of recognition sparked from either side). I started to mention walking my dog — maybe i had seen them then.

“Do you know the three dogs,” they asked. When they asked it, “know” was kind of long and drawn out, like there was the question. No, I explained I only have one dog. I started to tell of the other dog I had till he died a couple of years ago and how he was truly amazing, but I realized that was outside the gates of this conversation. So instead, “I know them but they’re not mine,” which opened the path for us to gush over the strange qualities of the beautiful dogs and let drop like a feather to the floor the fact that, now it was certain, in more than ten years, we never even nodded to each other, let alone said hello. But we both knew the dogs that lived between their house and mine, and satisfied ourselves with the shared appreciation of them. Sometimes it doesn’t take much to be a neighbor. As we showed each other that day, talking amidst the cast-offs of their lives on our block, it is never too late.

We did not mention the dogs’ owner’s name. I think they did not know it. I would need a moment to remember it. But it was enough that we knew the dogs. It solidified things.

There is another name that has been on my mind recently. It is the name of a flower, shared with a lady down the street. She has a singular style. Long white-blonde hair, white-blonde and gray all over, long hair in two loose ponytails hanging down each side of her, topped with a gardener’s hat marked by a big floppy pinned-on flower. Big boxy running shoes that make her ankles look even smaller and fragile than they already are, with socks pulled all the way up almost to her knees. Her skirt never reaches that far, and her knobby knees jut out, leaning into the conversation. I started talking to her, finally, a year or so ago. She was unusually striking and bright, brimming with eagerness and compassion. Although I had to strain to understand the words beneath her accent, I learned she was from Eastern Europe, where she’d seen hard things. Her bright eyes would never belie it. I wish now I could remember more of what she told me. I wish now I had written it down. Where I think she lived does not look the same anymore. Eventually, maybe later this summer, I’ll start asking around whether anyone has seen her. For now, I like to imagine that she went back home, as she seemed to always hold some longing for it. I’m not ready to be told otherwise.

The moving neighbors gave me a type of ginger plant. I tried to plant ginger in the front last year after a weekend trip to Saratoga Springs, which was marked by my own sudden decision to grow heirloom tomatoes, and my partner’s patience with me as we trekked back to the city with tomato plants in tow. We set them on the window ledge of the hotel we stopped in when we were too tired to plow all the way through to Brooklyn. We made special trips for them when it was obvious my bags would tumble, I would tumble, or the tomatoes would tumble. I remember looking out the window at the parking lot, and seeing the little baby tomato plants resting on the curb, waiting for the rest of the family and all the various family stuffs to pack in the car. We gave the tomatoes a lot of love that weekend. They spent the rest of the summer giving it back.

When I passed the main corner tonight, I saw two trucks near the subway entrance. On the side of the small trucks were the words “Mobile Wash Unit.” On my way toward that corner, I passed several groups of people. Everyone happy, some families, some young people. Out and about on a late April Saturday night. I turned around and headed back a few blocks into the other side of the main corner. It felt cold and odd over there. It was now past midnight, and people looked at me like I was a stranger intruding. People were coming home from bars. One man left a house quickly and quietly, walked half a block then turned around and walked the other way, passing in front of the house he left and darting glances across the street toward me. On the second story of the house he left, a man stood on the porch, waiting outside the door. He looked like he didn’t want to be seen. And so, I guess, I didn’t want to see him. At one point in one of my many careers, I interviewed cops. They talked about “perp fever,” which is the feeling you come to get, like a sixth sense, after being on the beat for a long time. I don’t think I would like to be a cop because I sometimes get that feeling, and usually do not want to know if it’s justified and why.

I crossed the main corner and headed back home. The second floor apartment that often has a person or two smoking on the porch outside, while music is unable to be contained and flows out onto the street, was having its usual Saturday night soiree. It’s Saturday night, and the block seemed to be saying it was okay. The porch light of the moving neighbors was on. So was mine. Even though I’m not crazy about the flourescent light it’s shining, it was on for a young man from my hometown who lost his life in our war. Porch lights were left on until his remains’ return. Lights lit from Orfordville, Wisconsin to all over the globe, from neighbors lighting the way for his return, stayed on till he came home recently. He’s home now, and the neighbors, I believe, are closer than ever, having shared some pain and ritual, loss, compassion, and absurdity.

Strange that the moving neighbors did not have a dog of their own but would select the neighbor between’s dog as a point of reference. Those striking dogs, come to think of it, have more the demeanor of cats than dogs. They don’t interest themselves much in the passersby. They just sit back and watch them, like it’s a mobile museum of paintings passing before them. Sitting in the quiet company of themselves. Lucky dogs.

I Would Pay For That: on Syria, the Super Bowl, and Survival

A note to my fellow revelers:  I woke up this morning thinking about a business idea I’m putting out there for the taking when current events worked their way out of my mind, where I must have been mulling them over in the past several days, and into this post.  It winds but if you bear with me, I hope you’ll agree it matters.

Business idea.

Watching the Superbowl and its just as widely watched commercials, a viewer could have no doubt the year we live in.  The build-up to 2012 as possibly the last year of the humankind has been great.  Now marketers are capitalizing on, while poking good fun at, the hype.  From Chevy’s “2012” commercial where those who survive the Apocalypse are, of course, those who were in their Silverados when it happened, to movie trailers feeding on schadenfreude and seizing the zeitgeist.  In the lineup are Marvel Comic’s The Avengers, which shows a scene whose celluloid vision is now overly familiar: a city destroyed, with cars overturned and smoke billowing from random corners of the screen, which in the next scene become firebombs roaring through a city’s narrow streets.  A voice over tells us, “The world has changed.”  Then there’s Battleship: another city street that in one moment is peaceful and calm while a family waits with bored and impatient faces to get through yet another typical big-city traffic jam, when out of the sky alien machinery comes crashing down like a giant pinball, overturning cars and sinking full highways in its path.   Ominous, machine-like heavy breathing segues into random sounds of destruction, hard rock and occasional digital bleeping to lay the soundtrack.  In the same opening tone of the Avengers trailer, we hear an official-sounding voice inform an apparently other official person, “We’re looking at an extinction-level event.”  And there you have it.  The preview to 2012.  Hollywood style.

But what’s the reality?  In two words: change hurts.  The globe has been going through growing pains, notably and obviously, beginning with last year’s Arab spring, where people in the Arab world banded together to overthrow dictators and protest human rights abuses and economic conditions.  It sparked an era where people across the globe are coming into their own as activists and change agents.  Next came the protests stateside starting in the fall and continuing as a still fledgling movement with its battle cries sounding out against inequality and injustice on an array of fronts from the economy to food production.  People everywhere, it seems, are waking up and saying, “I’m not gonna take it anymore.”  Fill in the blank, of course, for whatever your “it” may be.

While the bravado behind these movements is inspiring, and will likely provide a wealth of Hollywood fodder in the years ahead, as Syria is currently showing us, change invites resistance that, when tested, can become an all-out offensive.  NPR features an article today of the story of a former regime-backer, Younes Al-Yousef, who agreed wholeheartedly with the government that the protesters, or “terrorists,” were to blame for all the discord.  That was, until he saw the government he supported kill its own citizens to tamp out the protests, and witnessed himself, a former cameraman for a pro-government TV station, as a pawn in their unfair play.  He has since fled the country, and survives for now to tell another Syrian horror story.  I listened yesterday to a Skype interview on NPR of another citizen, Omar Shakir, a blogger and citizen journalist stuck in Syria and hiding out with no food and little electricity, hoping the killers simply will not get to him and his comrades.   The sound of gunfire is heard, as well as jokes being told between friends, for the purpose, he explains, to “encourage ourselves … so we can feel better.”  He describes rockets and Russian tanks and machine gun used against his fellow civilians.  The day before, the hospital was hit by a rocket.  He describes mass killing, and explains that every man in his town is wanted and will be killed.  He clearly understands this to include himself and his friends.

Where does this leave us — us, the viewer, the outsider, the consumers of hard-core media coverage and soft-core celluloid versions of our fears and nightmares (the former telling stories that have uncomfortably uncertain outcomes and the latter guaranteed to let us work out these anxieties and sleep easy at night).  It leaves me to do what I do best when I start to get overwhelmed with things I can’t control: reel the focus back to a micro level.  Ask myself if I am prepared for the unpredictable.  Ask myself if there is anything I can do to help my neighbor.  Which brings us back to the business idea.

If there were a service of a person who is well-versed in disaster preparation and recovery, I would pay that person for their wealth of knowledge and recommendations, and for doing some of the leg work on those preparations still unmade in this household.  We have water, for example, but no generator.  I have put off buying a generator (which, yes, I do think most households should have) because I am overwhelmed by the thought of doing the research on which is the most reasonable (economic, space-saving, reliable, and easy to use) generator to have.  This is just one example of why I would pay someone good money (and put money into our economy) to do the legwork for me.  My partner’s father does this type of work on a city-level.  There’s no reason we shouldn’t be ensuring at least a basic measure of preparedness in our own homes.

Now, what to do about Syria?  Like most of the rest of the world, I don’t know yet.  Cash isn’t flush right now and it doesn’t seem like throwing money at a problem as out of control as this is going to do much good at the moment.  If I thought it would do some good, though, I would do it.  My own brief research hasn’t turned up any reliable channels for getting relief to the Syrian people.  If anyone else has found otherwise, though, please let us know.

At least our government (one of the good ones – and, yes, I believe that but I’m not so foolish to think that that couldn’t change) is working with other governments to take a stance.  The U.S. has imposed increasingly stringent sanctions against Syria.  This week, the U.S. closed its embassy there.  Also this week, the U.S. joined the international community in condemning the tragedy unfolding in Syria.  China and Russia, in a move described by England as “incomprehensible and inexcusable,” vetoed the U.N. resolution against Syrian president Bashar al Assad.   Just days earlier, in backroom negotiations, the U.S and allies had dropped a demand for UN sanctions and an arms embargo against Syria in exchange for Russia’s support on the resolution.  Like a squabbling child who refuses to play nice even after making up, Russia is once again on the wrong side of the room.  Back in May 2011, Amnesty International asked for global help to the growing crisis in Syria.  In this Youtube clip, Salil Shetty, Secretary General, calls for the international community to refer Syria to the International Criminal Court, an arms embargo, an asset freeze, and for accountability, with only a weak response from governments across the globe.  Many individuals, however, had even by then expressed their support in petitions to protect peaceful protests in Syria.

While I, and others, are waiting and watching for what we can do to help, I am also trying, like others, to simply keep myself informed and help others be aware because surely someone who does not yet know about the depth and extent of the atrocities (recent estimates are 6000-7500 civilians murdered) just may be the person with the answer.

201 and 1 has 25

GROWING A GARDEN OF WORDS.  Contribute your word for the year to reveal our revelgarden…

1. Illuminati
2. Zombies
3. Mathy-apolisrevelgardener
4. Anonymous
5. Kardashian
6. “Really?”
7. Irene
8. Scribbling(s)
9. HOT!
10. Frustrating
11. “Like,”
12. Followers
Continue reading

201 and 1 is Growing!

GROWING A GARDEN OF WORDS.  Contribute your word for the year to our revel word garden…

1. Illuminati
2. Zombies
3. Mathy-apolis
4. Anonymous
5. Kardashian
6. “Really?”
7. Irene
8. Scribbling(s)
9. HOT!
10. Frustrating
11. “Like,”
12. Followers
13. Friended
14. Unfriended

15.  Republi-jokes

16.  Awakening

17.  Occupy

18. Occupy

19. Expensive

20.  Penultimate

21.  Bunnies

22.  Demonifying

23.  Prepping

201 and 1 is almost to 20!

1. Illuminati
2. Zombies
3. Mathy-apolis
4. Anonymous
5. Kardashian
6. “Really?”
7. Irene
8. Scribbling(s)
9. HOT!
10. Frustrating
11. “Like,”
12. Followers
13. Friended
14. Unfriended

15.  Republi-jokes

16.  Awakening

17.  Occupy

18. Occupy

19. Expensive

201 and 1: Day 2

I’m posting this on my FB page as well as this site; feel free to post it to yours.  The goal is to come up with 201 single-word items that typify this year.  By the end of December, we will have a people/places/things banner poem to wrap around the year and send off into the annals of history.  The game stops when 201 words have arrived.  The “1” part is a surprise that we will get to once we have the first 201 words.  In Comments below, add your word.  Here we go,  … Get your words in!

1.  Illuminati

2.  Zombies

3.  Mathy-apolis

4.  Anonymous

5.  Kardashian

6.  “Really?”

7.   Irene

8.  Scribbling(s)

 

Let’s Play 201 and 1

I’m posting this on my FB page as well as this site.  The goal is to come up with 201 single-word items that typify this year.  It can be an idea, occurrence, inspiration, what have you.  One can riff off another (as they certainly did this year).  By the end of December, we will have a people/places/things banner poem to wrap around the year and send off into the annals of history.  The game stops when 201 words have arrived.  The “1” part is a surprise that we will get to once we have the first 201 words.  Please get your friends to play too.  In Comments below, add your word.  (You can add more than one but each should be able to stand alone).  Since I’m kinda in charge here (at least in my own bloggiest imaginings), I’ll start us off with two themes that kept popping up for me (probably since I spent more time online this year than ever before)….  Here we go,  …

1. Illuminati

2. Zombies

The Best Food in Town Is at the Swap

Well, it was.  Now it’s in my kitchen, and Aimee‘s kitchen, and Scott‘s kitchen, and ….

Yes, my first visit to the BK Food Swap did not disappoint.  My partner and I brought brown sugar whiskey vanilla ice cream and butter cream cupcakes (one set with orange zest icing and begonia petals, the other with chocolate chips, with a chocolate chunk & Kahlua cream frosting).  Oohs and Aaahs were overheard in every inch of the room.  Unbridled yumminess the whole night long.  Brooklyn has some amazingly talented foodcrafters, by the way.  I’m also looking forward to perusing the various blogs and sites noted on hand-made tags and labels that came with the various goodies. My stash is quickly dwindling but before it goes, goes, gones, here are some pics from the night…