DON'T CLOSE THE DOOR

If there are things I wish that I'd known all along, they would be (in no particular order):

Write everything down.
Take more photographs.
There are no mistakes.
Coincidences always end up making sense.
Love the way you look today.
It all matters, even if you can't see it yet. even if you never see it. It matters to someone.

Because one day, when the kids are grown, leaning in to their own adventures and plotting their grand entrances into the world, we'll look back on these days when Levon was still a doughy little thing on his mama's hip and think to ourselves, those were the days. And we won't be wrong.

There was, once upon a time, my magical first year in the city. I knew nothing then, and longed to know it all. A lifetime of dumb luck and naive mistakes loomed before me, and there was no conversation too trivial nor moment too insignificant. It was all so new, and all. so. thrilling. Life in the Lower East Side was a dazzling haze of art openings and parties, coffee and cigarettes, and creation. Creating films, creating music, creating art... making anything we could get our hands on just for the sake of that fleeting sense of expressive satisfaction- making things for joy. There was a cafe our closely-knit gang of friends all congregated at from the time we rolled out of bed- messy-haired and positively brimming with tales from the previous night's escapades- until they closed at 2am. Then we would pay our bill and all migrate together, clad head to toe in faded black, cloaked in oversized second-hand leather jackets and worn boots and antique jewelry, to the bar across the street to continue our conversations until the sun came up. Some of us worked at the cafe as well, and it quickly became our clubhouse of sorts.  Each day was a caffeine-fueled romp through the narrow streets and shops and galleries downtown, each night an unimaginable scene from some gritty surrealist film. We had all been lucky enough to find one another, an unassuming little group of wildly optimistic misfits, in this run-down neighborhood in this great big city, and we were quite certain that it would never end. With so many influential and interesting people passing in and out of the cafe day after day, week after week, year after year, we were sure that the magic would keep growing forever.

We'd all heard the hushed whispers that the cafe was closing, all accepted the fact that our beloved clubhouse was on it's last legs, but when the day arrived, quietly and without occasion, and the front gates of the cafe stayed pulled down and locked, we mourned. The neighborhood followed shortly- beautiful century-old tenements bulldozed one by one and replaced with luxury hotels and condos. Our favorite places began to disappear, and soon our favorite people followed. And suddenly our home was unrecognizable. That was the first time I heard myself mention, those were the days.

I came to find out that we were indeed right, the magic does keep growing forever. But it morphs and twists and takes on new forms with age. The next five years of living in the city were golden. I grew up a little, learned a bit about grace, a bit about humility- stories for another time. But my oh my, those were the days. Then there were the first years of my marriage, when it was just us against the world. We partnered off, found an old railroad apartment in the East Village and over time re-built, re-wired, sanded, painted and sculpted the space into the wood-plank-floored kingdom of our dreams. We painted portraits and hung them on the wall surrounded by dried roses we'd given one another over the years. We wallpapered our kitchen in vintage french film posters and built a headboard out of tree branches. We became the ones who threw the parties, overcooking the entrees while our guests laughed and played guitar on our torn Victorian sofa in next room. One time I botched an entire Thanksgiving dinner for close to 40 people, grossly underestimating the amount of time it would take to cook the turkey and ending up not serving food until well into the evening, when our friends had all had one too many drinks and the music selection had naturally evolved from Billie Holiday and Louis Armstrong to rare Beatles recordings to old Sephardic Jewish records. We ended up eating dry turkey and smoking cigarettes and dancing to Moroccan mandolins well into the night, crammed like sardines amongst the overflowing bookcases and antique lamps in our funny little apartment. It was very Breakfast at Tiffany's, and I'd hear friends lamenting, years later, well those were the days.

Spaces changed, babies were born, and the city, as always, continued to transform. When I first walked into The Deep End Club, I couldn't quite put my finger on what about it seemed so familiar. It was just a shop around the corner from our tiny tenth street apartment, run by the sweetest woman with the most interesting stories. You could always count on Tennessee's smiling face and charmingly formal British accent to be there. Over the next couple of years a community grew around that shop. The space became greater than the sum of its parts, and The Deep End Club bloomed into a neighborhood sanctuary, a place we could go to meet like-minded people, see friends, plan movements, and support and empower one another. It was where my children learned how to use a rotary phone. It was where I learned to practice Reiki. It was where I sat, nearly two weeks overdue with Levon, surrounded by women meditating to try to help bring the baby. I went into labor the next day. It was the birthplace of some of my most treasured friendships. And as our country teetered on the verge of massive shifts, it was where we all gathered to discuss how we could organize and stand up against the insanity, violence, oppression, and racism that our country has been stuck in since long before my time. It was a place of hope. It was our new clubhouse.

One late spring day my children set up a lemonade stand outside of the Deep End Club. They had painted rainbow-hued signs and taped them up and down the block with scotch tape. All proceeds from the sales were going to the Bernie Sander's campaign, for which we'd all actively been campaigning for months. "Lemonade for Bernie!" they would joyfully heckle at the passersby. The faint sounds of Tennessee's band NAF practicing down in the shop's basement drifted up through the gate to the sidewalk, a fitting soundtrack for the slow and sunny afternoon. The door of the shop was propped open to let in fresh air, and as someone passed they accidentally closed it. The children ran over to pull it back open, hollering enthusiastically, 'Don't close the door!".

Later at one of her shows, Tennessee told me that they had heard the children's voices drifting down into the basement and  had turned that line into a song on the spot.

The Deep End Club closed it's doors for the last time a couple of weeks ago. Before the end, we all made this video together. And while, yes, part of me is saddened; the older, wiser, and against all odds, more optimistic, part of me knows that everything that happens is simply paving the path for what must happen next. Of course we'll look back and this time of our lives will all seem like a long lost legend, a glamorously romantic period in the city. It always does. And of course we'll nostalgically ask one another, well weren't those the days?

But I think that maybe, just maybe, the best days are yet to come. And that all of these tiny stories are just bits and pieces of something so big, so grand, so wild, that we'll only be able to read it backwards. I'd like to think so, anyways.

WHY CHILDREN'S BOOKS MATTER

"If you want your children to be intelligent, read them fairy tales.  If you want them to be more intelligent, read them more fairy tales."    - Albert Einstein

A few months ago, out of the blue, a torn and tattered paper package arrived in the post, labeled for me.  When I unwrapped the frayed edges of the paper I smelled a familiar scent, but I could not quite place it.  Then I saw the cover of the book, and a thousand memories flooded into me at once. "The Story of Babar," it read, and I knew the whole tale before I opened the first page.

When I was young,  a wee little thing, Babar was my friend.  He was my accomplice, my advisor, and my advocate.. and he always knew what I was going through. When the foster care system threw me and my sisters in and out of courtrooms and families and cities and states... he understood.  In case you haven't read the story (and I highly recommend that you do), Babar's elephant mother is killed, and he escapes to the foreign world of the city.  He learns to thrive there, with the help of a loving benfactor, and eventually returns to become the king of the jungle from which he was from, with his beautiful wife.   I used to request the story of Babar every single night, for many months, after my mother passed.  Then one day we were swept away in another move, to another home, and the book was left behind.  And with it, sitting on a dusty shelf, all of the promise and wanderlust of Babar's world remained, for two decades, just like that.  It was forgotten.

Until a few months ago, when it was returned to me.  And in an instant I realized how much children's books really do matter.

My long-lost cousin had tried to mail the book to me three times, originally as a baby shower gift for Biet, now almost three years old.  After navigating around misspelled addresses and unforeseen moves, it finally arrived to our Brooklyn home.   I opened the package and my heart flooded over: love, memories, forgotten hope, fantastical  dreams.. it all came forth.  It was like coming home after two decades of being away.  The smell, the words, the delicate illustrations- I knew them all, but then again, they seemed foreign.  I had to work to remember the story as I turned the pages, but when i did, it was magic.  It made sense.

I took Biet to the public library the other day to experience the exhibit, The ABC of it: Why Children's Book Matter.  I knew why they mattered.  I knew of the importance, the hope, and the promise that they lent to children.  I knew of the way in which a simple book could prepare you for the whole world.  I knew of the magic, the glory, and the shameless imagination that a fairytale could inspire in you.  I knew, and I wanted her to know.  And as she made her way through the life-size storybook exhibitions and listened to the excerpts in the wall-mounted recordings, I knew that she would understand their significance one day.  She would find the words and the pages that she needed to help make sense of her world, just as I had.

I now keep my copy of Babar- the same copy that I begged my caregivers to read me as a child, the same copy that instilled hope in me so long ago, up high on a bookshelf, a relic of magic and loss, thoughtfully preserved.  I will read it to Biet one day, when she is ready.  For now, we peruse the books at the library and make up magical tales on our own.  We pause at the end of the marble library hallway to introduce ourselves to the woman sitting there who sketches in her sketchbook the leaves that she has collected from parks all throughout the city .  We take a moment to grin in silence with our best friend, and stand together upon the windowsill, looking out at the whole world bustling below.

Reading fairytales to my babies will help them to make sense of that big, bustling, frenetic world outside.. in time.  And I'm honored to be the one to be reading now, as my children listen in wonder.

Five Years Together

"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars."  

-Jack Kerouac 

Five years ago today, I spoke these words to you, and we said "forever." We smashed a glass under the chuppa and paraded through the village as Mister and Misses. And though our souls and our lives had been intertwined for many years already, on that day we proclaimed it to the world.  And then we set out on a grand adventure..

From the cobblestone streets of Paris to the dim crumbling brick of an abandoned Brooklyn subway tunnel, we explored.  From midsummer rooftop parties at our little home on second street, to wintertime games of fetch with Nico in the snow-blanketed park, we celebrated.  From street art to music to babies, we created. And through it all, through the hard times and the magnificent times, we found strength in each other.  And we grew.  Sometimes it's hard for me to fathom how much we've grown.

I dug through old hard drives and phones and pieced together all of these little videos (most of which you shot) from our past, so that we can celebrate and reflect on all that we were, all that we are, and all that we are becoming.  I love you Gaby.  Always and forever.  Sometimes I can't believe I found such a kindred spirit to walk beside.

Happy Anniversary my love.  Life with you is magic.

LOU YORK THE GREAT

"Some kinds of love... between thought and expression..."

A very long time ago, when I was a dreamy teenager making my way uneasily through an uncomfortably sunny and stucco'd southern California world, my Dad taught me how to drive.  When I got behind the wheel, an overwhelming sense of freedom settled into my heart, and the world joyously opened up before my eyes.  I saved up my money and bought my first car, a 1984 black Peugeot, which I envisioned one day driving into the sunset, to some great place full of adventure and excitement, where I would make my future.

It was right around this time that I discovered The Velvet Underground.  I'm not sure how I came upon the old mixed tape of Lou Reed's mesmerizing and raw rock and roll recordings, but when I put on that little tape and layed on my bedroom floor, life began to make sense.  This was back in the days before iTunes and Google, at the very dawn of the information age, so when I held that tape in my hands, I didn't know exactly what it was.  I didn't know if the music was old or new, or who this Lou person was.  All I knew was that these songs made sense.  They spoke to me in a primal and ethereal way which shook my bones and jarred me with inspiration, and they demanded the artist in me come forth.  I connected with the music in a beautiful and tragic way, and it forever changed me. 

My Dad came to visit me and my sister one weekend just after I got my driver's license and my very own car, and I proudly asked him if he'd like me to take him for a ride around the town.  "I've got something to show you!" I excitedly exclaimed.  We got in the car and started it up, and I put on "Heroin" by the Velvet Underground.  "Listen to this Dad, it's amazing," I said, and we drove through the winding dark streets as the song wildly unfolded.  When it was over, my Dad looked over at me with a smile, "The Velvet Underground, eh?" he slyly inquired, and proceeded to tell me all about his times with Lou from the past years, the wild years, when my mother was alive and the world was their oyster.  He pride in my musical taste was palpable.

As I listened to more and more Lou Reed, I began to long for the world that he sang about... the gritty, dimensional, glamorous city, where offbeat eccentrics flocked together to collectively create a new reality for themselves, where dark alleys and hidden nooks held the secrets and remnants of the city's storied past, where everyone seemed to abide by the gospel of "live and let live." He sang of a world I had only dreamt about, and one which I had always felt drawn to.  He proved to me that it did indeed exist. He inspired me to go and find it. 

And so, just after my 18th birthday, I went.  As it turned out, New York City was too far of a drive for my rickety old car, so I sold the car and bought a plane ticket.  My best friend Lauren drove me to the airport, and we listened to Lou the entire time.  We both cried as we pulled up to the airport, but I had never been more excited in my life.  As we said our goodbyes, Lou's voice echoed from the speakers,

"New York City's the place where they said, hey babe, take a walk on the wild side..". 

After bouncing around downtown for many months, I rented a pretty sun-filled room in an old emerald-green-painted apartment in the East Village with a lovely boy, a fellow artist and dreamer, my friend Alex.  We redefined ourselves a dozen times in that crooked old candle-lit apartment, taking pictures and spinning adventures and weaving decades of history and lore into our self-created nighttime worlds.   Alex and I saw each other fall in love, saw each other through despair, and saw each other through the magical years of experimental youth.  Together, inside of our emerald palace and outside in the city's underworld, we became, all the while making coffee for each other each morning, and throwing glitter on each other each night.  And each week when Sunday morning rolled around, we would turn on the record player by the cracked fire-escape window and listen to Lou..

"Early dawning, sunday morning, it's all the streets you crossed not so long ago.."

As my years in the city mounted, Lou and I began to cross paths.. at a restaurant, at a deli... a secret show here, a conference or poetry reading there.  We shared a village within the city, and random circles of friends as well.  But that's just the way the city is, I guess, the longer you've been here.  To slowly realize that this artistic force, this icon of mine, was just a man, just as I was a woman, who grabbed a coffee at the corner deli, was humbling, and deeply inspiring, to say the least.  One day as I sat in an old wooden chair in a small room in the West Village, listening to a woman three times my age speak vibrantly about her adventures through NYC, I looked over and saw Lou sitting there next to me, listening, in stillness and silence.  In that moment I felt like a New Yorker.  And in that moment, my journey here made sense.

"And I've walked down life's lonely highways, hand in hand with myself, and I realized how many paths have crossed between us."

Gaby and I often quote Lou's poignant lyrics on fatherhood when our own parenting stresses seem to become unbearable.  We say to each other, "Baby, it's the beginning of a great adventure."  And that always somehow puts our troubles back into perspective.  Part of me always hoped, each time I would walk around the West Village carrying Lucien, that I would spontaneously run into him again.  I saw myself smiling and saying, "Lou, meet Lou."  Alas, fate had other plans.

Lou Reed passed yesterday at the age of 71. My heart broke a little when I heard the news.  He was a poet who spoke the truth of the world that I, and many others, dared to believe exists.  He was such a kindred spirit.  And he will be missed.