Note to Self:

Saturday, August 12, 2017

Stalking Bellocq.


 “We are making photographs to understand what our lives mean to us.”
— Ralph Hattersley

So I just returned from New Orleans. Well, two days ago. But in many ways the city is still with me. The uniqueness of the place has not fully sweat from my pores. This was my fourth or fifth time to New Orleans. The first time I was there was the late 80's when I lived and worked there for a very brief time. But I haven't been back in almost twenty years. I've also never been there during August. I was expecting the heat and humidity but nothing could have prepared me for it. As one local commented on the heat, "Yes, it pretty much sucks the oxygen out of the air." I had gone there for a bit of relaxation, and to take photos and drink beer. I accomplished all three.

Whenever  I find myself in an old historic city I can feel the ghosts of those before me (metaphorically, not literally). And  sometimes I'll create my own sort of walking tours. In Greenwich Village, for example, I did a bit of research and walked around to places where Khalil Gibran lived, worked, and drank. In San Fransisco I hunted the old beat hangouts of Kerouac. And thus on this trip I stalked E.J. Bellocq.

Bellocq worked as a commercial photographer in New Orleans about 90 years ago, mostly in the French quarter where he spent his entire life. But he also had a secret side to his life in photography. He kept secret that besides his day job as commercial photographer he also photographed the prostitutes of Storyville, which at the time was a legalized red light district.

This at first may seem a bit pervy...a guy photographing prostitutes and not telling anyone about it. But it is the contrary. Yes of course some of the models are shown unclothed, but many were partially or fully clothed. He showed them in the places the lived and worked. In short, he showed their humanity. And it is beautiful. Keep in mind that while prostitution was legal having these photos at the time was not, they would have been considered pornographic and could have resulted in jail time at the very least, and even worse in many ways, personal and public disgrace. Click here to see a good representation of his work. 

It's interesting to note that his photos were never developed in his lifetime. Plates of his photos were discovered in an old slave's quarters on St. Peter Street behind the Preservation of Jazz. Many of the plates were water damaged and some even had the faces of some of the models intentionally scratched away. There is a great article written at Exquisite Corpse that goes into this in more depth, to read that story, click here.  

The morning after my arrival to New Orleans I headed out to St. Louis Cemetery #3 as this is where I had read that is remains were buried. I thought I'd pay him homage, but to no avail. On this day the temperature peaked in the mid 90's and at the cemetery there was no shade. It hurt to walk around. I often visit famed cemeteries in historic places and was surprised to find that not only was there no office to offer information there was no information to be had anywhere. There were a few tours going on and I interrupted them to ask information but no one could offer any. Seeing a worker's van down one of the long rows I approached it to find a man sleeping in the air conditioning. After startling him awake he did offer me general advice but nothing concrete. I approached another worker, this one spoke broken or at least heavy accented English. I am usually pretty good at picking up an accent upon hearing it but could not place this sweating and jovial man's language. It wasn't until he spoke into his walkie talkie that I realized he was speaking a form of French...Cajun French. But alas, still no info.

The cemetery is vast and as aforementioned has no shade so I began walking back towards the road to seek the shade of a tree. But not wanting to give up I googled additional info as I walked. Sweat was literally dripping from me and onto the screen of my iPhone. I emailed a person who had posted a picture of Bellocq's grave and surprisingly she emailed me back right away. Unfortunately she could not remember the exact location but only general area. I did go back and look again but to no avail (though I did find the family tomb of Chef Paul Prudomme). At any rate, with the risk of severe sunburn or heat collapse I left the cemetery but  know that I had likely walked right past his grave as they all look so similar.

Over the course of the next few evenings I did what I came here to do...walk around and take photos. The temperature would dip to about 80F in the evening so it was still rather stifling. As I  walked I'd make a point of stopping at addresses that were once home to Bellocq's studios...Rue Conti, Ursulines, Burgundy. And I'd try to  imaging what it must have been like to haul that heavy photography equipment of his day through this heavy heat.

As I walked I also thought about all the places I have been where I myself have walked at night with my camera on one shoulder, tripod on another, and a belly full of beer. In many this was a sort of deja vue as I had walked these same streets thirty years prior with a camera and tripod. In those days it was with my old 35mm camera, whose prints of that time are mostly lost or packed away in some box in an attic or closet in which I cannot find. When I was here during that time I was so young and had no idea of all that lay before me. I have done so much since then...have changed so much but at the same time am still very much the same. And it occurred to me as I walked that I was not only stalking the ghost of Bellocq but also that of my younger self.

To read a very nice article written about Bellocq for the Smithsonian, click here.


Urban Simplicity.

Friday, August 11, 2017

Things that can be carried on a bike (#724)...


"There is no machine known that is more efficient than a human on a bicycle."
~Bill Nye

To read Bill Nye's short essay, Why I Bike, and from where this quote was culled, click here.

To see more in the Things That can be Carried on a Bike series, click here.

On the bike: $47 in groceries.


Monday, August 7, 2017

Bourbon Street at 6am


the air is thick
even at this early hour
humidity engulfs
smells from the night before
and the night before and the night before
ooze from the buildings and street
beer, sweat, bleach
slap you in the face
tingle your nostrils
stragglers from last night
drunk revelers
stumble
city workers spray the street clean
for tonight's show
i’ve walked this street
many times
years ago
at dawn
on my way to work
accompanied by prostitutes
then as now
bourbon street
at 6am
you are different
but very much the same

Sunday, July 30, 2017

Chickpea Burgers with Basil, Asiago, and Jalapeno


So a couple days ago I wanted falafel and put some chickpeas in a bowl to soak, then I forgot they were in the fridge. And because I forgot about them I never went to the store for cilantro and parsley. Discovering the soaked peas today I wanted falafel again, but still no cilantro or parsley. So I went out to my garden and picked a bunch or basil and some peppers, I also found some shredded asiago in the fridge. So I used these ingredients instead of the traditional ones. I also made them into full sized burgers instead of nugget sized. Anyhow, this recipe is the result. Really delicious. Healthy. Simple to prepare.


Chickpea Patties with Basil, Asiago, and Jalapeno

Makes about 2 dozen small patties or 8 full-sized burgers

1 cup dried chickpeas
3 cups water
½ small onion, diced
3 cloves garlic, minced
3 jalapeno, seeded
1 bunch fresh basil, washed
½ cup asiago cheese, grated
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1 teaspoon turmeric
1 teaspoon baking powder
6 tablespoons whole wheat flour
vegetable oil for pan-frying

Combine the chickpeas and water together in a bowl overnight and leave them at room-temperature to reconstitute. The next day drain the chickpeas, reserve ¼ cup of the water. In the bowl of a food processor, combine the soaked chickpeas, ¼ cup of reserved water, onion, garlic, jalapeno, basil, asiago, salt, turmeric, and baking powder. Process until a mealy consistency then transfer to a bowl. Mix in the flour, cover and let rest for about 10 minutes. Shape into patties, preheat about a half-inch of oil in a skillet, and pan-fry (in batches) on both sides until golden and cooked through.

Seven Photos of One Building, and a Few Words.


Mere color, unspoiled by meaning, and unallied with definite form, can speak to the soul in a thousand different ways.
~Oscar Wilde

A couple things. One is that the event two nights ago was incredible. If you are reading this from somewhere other than Western NY the event I speak of is the illumination of the former Richardson Complex, now known as Hotel Henry. I have posted about these structures before but not in a while. The hotel and the original complex take their names from the architect, HH Richardson. Constructed in the 1800s, for many years it was part of the Buffalo Psychiatric center, which still resides next door. Then it sat vacant and crumbling for many years, decades. It was close to demolition at one point. But as you can see it has been resurrected and in a glorious way. Thus, as a grand opening of sorts, two nights ago the buildings were illuminated and the Buffalo Philharmonic Orchestra played. The light-show was choreographed with the music. As stunning as these photos are they do not do it justice to actually being there..at points the buildings looked to be throbbing and even melting. Incredible. On a slightly different, but at the same time similar note, if you'd like to see images of our grain elevators illuminated, which are now a permanent nightly display, click here. The City of Light.






Thursday, July 27, 2017

A Hero Named Chuck.


 “Honor to the soldier and sailor everywhere, who bravely bears his country's cause.
~Abraham Lincoln


So a couple things. One is that while it may look like I am laughing I am only doing so at the situation, not at the story or what happened as this photo took place. I was surprised, I suppose. And also, that's Chuck in the background running to get his daughter for the photo. In my opinion he is a hero. But I'm jumping ahead as I'm apt to do. Let me begin again.

It was raining today so I took the subway and then the bus to work rather than bike. I was waiting for the subway when a man approached me, it was 6:15am. Keep in mind that the Buffalo subway system can be pretty desolate at that hour (see below photo). I was sitting down and he was sort of imposing, probably 6 feet tall, and he stood a bit too close as he spoke. It made me nervous at first, but then my nerves eased as I stood to face him and he spoke some more. His name was Chuck, he told me, and at first I didn't think he was going to ask me for money. I could tell there was something a bit "off" as he spoke, so I thought maybe he was just making chitchat...asking me if I was from Buffalo, what I did for work, talked of the rain outside, that type of thing. Then I asked him his story, shortly after is when he asked me for money for coffee, a newspaper, and maybe a soda for his daughter, Karen, who he said was waiting upstairs.

Chuck told me he's a war veteran, having served two tours in Afghanistan and one tour in Iraq. He also told me what he did. I never asked for details, he just told me. I can't remember the military jargon he used for his title but basically he traveled with the medical crew and was usually the first on the seen when a soldier or soldiers were down. He would administer shots to the fallen soldiers to ease their pain. "I can't even begin to tell you the pain I saw," Chuck told me. Sometimes, he also added, that that was all they could do was "give 'em a needle to ease their pain."

I have mentioned in previous posts that I personally am a pacifist and that I feel that nothing good ever comes from war, but at the same time I have the utmost respect for the men and women who serve our country. And while Chuck was telling me his story all I could think is that to some he was likely the last face they saw on this earth, just before he gave them a needle; he was their angel.

Chuck talked a lot. He lives at home with his mom and is being treated for PTSD because he is "having difficulty back in civilian life." At one point, when there was a brief break in his story, I thanked him for his service to the country. This stopped him in his tracks. He had rarely looked me in the eye but now he was, and he stopped talking. "Thank you, sir. That means so much to me," is how he broke the silence. 

So by this point I knew my train was coming so I gave him $5 and asked if I could take our photo together. Really, he asked. It was the first time I saw him smile. Then he told me about his daughter, Karen, who was still waiting upstairs. "Come on," he said, "I really want Karen to be in the photo," and he began to run taking two stairs at a time. I caught up to him at the second level (there are three levels) and told him the train was coming and if I missed it I would be late for work. So he stands next to me as I ready the phone, and just before I snap the photo he says, "But she's right up there," pointing to the next level and calling her name, and then he darts to get her. Now I hear the train coming on the level below which only gave me seconds to get to it. "Sorry Chuck, I have to go," I yelled to him, and made the train just as it's doors were closing. I looked through the window as we pulled away but did not see him or his daughter.

So this is how I met a hero named Chuck on my way to work this morning.

Saturday, July 15, 2017

Things that can be carried on a bike (#723)...



"There is a communion of more than our bodies when bread is broken and wine is drunk."
~M.F.K. Fisher

On the bike: An electric mixer, an 18-year-old sourdough starter, and all the small-wares and ingredients to to have a bread baking class.

Urban Simplicity.  

Sunday, July 9, 2017

Lily Dale...Where Lines are Blurred


I heard again and again. People say they can feel Lily Dale’s power when they enter the gates. It calms some people and revs others up.”

~Christine Wicker

So I just finished reading the book about the tiny spiritualist community that resides about 60 miles south of Buffalo, Lily Dale, The Town that Talks to the Dead, by Christine Wicker. I’ve been intrigued by this community for years and finally got around to visiting, thus this is a two part posting. It is about my thoughts of the book and also of my visit, which in many ways meld together. But before I begin I have to tell you about my journey to get there, which has been 27 years in the making.

On a beautiful day in the summer of 1990, not unlike the one when I visited Lily Dale last week or the one now as I type these words, my girlfriend and I were on our way for a day trip to Lily Dale. It was upon her insistence as I had never heard of the hamlet. We were young and had so much ahead of us. We would later marry, have a child, who is now a beautiful young man not much younger than we were when this story began, and then later we would separate but remain friends. Anyhow, for some reason I can remember the day but not what the argument was about. As we drove down Interstate 90 we got into such an argument that we actually halted the trip and turned around. In retrospect I wonder if something was keeping us from our visit. Over the years I thought of visiting many times but never did, until last week, but again it was a struggle to get there.

As many of you know I do not own a car but am a member of Zip Car, so a week ahead of my planned trip I reserved a vehicle. The evening before my trip I received a phone call telling me there was a problem with the vehicle and they had to cancel my reservation, and sorry but there are no more vehicles available. What, I thought to myself? I decided to check their website and there was a vehicle available but it was about 4 miles away; I booked it anyhow as I had planned other errands prior to driving to Lily Dale. So the morning of the reservation I rode my trusty little folding bike to the car and put it in the back. Noticing it had only a half-tank of gas I stopped to fill it. For those that don’t know, gas is free with a car-share; the cost is worked into your membership. So I stopped at a gas station and attempted to put gas in the vehicle using the Zip Car credit card and my membership number. It wouldn’t work so I went inside the store to ask the clerk for help. She ran the card, then looked up at me awkwardly and says, “It says you’re an invalid driver.” What?

So I call the company, and yes, they say there is a problem with my card, you’ll be issued a new one but in the meantime use your own card and you will be reimbursed. Ugh, okay, so I used my own card. I then drove out to the suburbs, at Empire State College, to meet with my mentor. I get there and he wasn’t. Really? We had made a change in our plans and he didn’t make the change in his calendar. My blood pressure was slowly rising.

Okay, I thought, I’ll stop at a diner for lunch before the ride. After lunch I get in the vehicle and it won’t start. Nothing. Nada. Are you freaking kidding me? Blood pressure continues to rise. So I call the company again, they agree that it is a “weird occurrence,” but they are able to diagnose the problem and start the vehicle remotely. After the vehicle was started I sat for a minute to collect myself and I spoke aloud to the Universe, “Look, I’m not sure what the deal is, but I am going to make it to Lily Dale today, with or without your help or permission,” and then I drove off. The remainder of the ride was uneventful other than the front end of the vehicle needed a wheel alignment (I’m assuming) and felt at times that someone was pulling the wheel from the left and then to the right. Nonetheless, I did make it, and the minute I entered the gates I felt peaceful and calm.


Christine Wicker first went to Lily Dale about 20 years ago as a reporter from a large Texas newspaper. She had gone with an open mind; not necessarily a believer but not there to debunk either. What was supposed to be a short stint ended up being multiple visits spanning a couple years. In this same way, I approached Lily Dale as both a believer and a skeptic. In short, I am open to most things until proven false. I also believe in mind power and that there is far more to this existence that our puny human senses can perceive.

What would later be called spiritualism, began in 1848 in a small cottage in Hydesville, NY, which was owned by the Fox family. They began hearing “knocks” at night, and could communicate with the knocks by offering variable knocks in return. It was deduced that the knocks came from the spirit of a peddler who had been murdered and buried in the cellar of the cottage. Feeling as though the spirit was speaking directly to them, two of the Fox sisters, Kate and Margaret, eventually went on to speak in front of large audiences. Thus was the very beginning of spiritualists offering “messages” from the spirit world.

According to Wicker, during the 1800’s Western and Central New York became so known for the “mighty works of the spirit” that the region became known as the “burned over district,” because of the fires of Christian revivals that swept through the area. Another example of this “fire” can be seen with Joseph Smith, who in 1823 claims to have received golden plates from an angel, which happened just outside Rochester, NY. Smith, of course, went on to found Mormonism and the plates were translated into the Book of Mormon.

Lily Dale was originally founded as a sort of revivalist tent camp, eventually buildings were added and it became the quaint Victorian town that it is today. Interestingly, the town is still referred to as a camp by it’s residents and summer is called camping season. The Fox cottage was moved to Lily Dale in 1916 but burned to the ground in 1955. Today, the patch of ground on which the cottage sat is considered a sort of holy ground by spiritualists.

In her interesting and highly entertaining book, Christine Wicker profiles many of the towns eclectic residents, those that currently reside there and those that have crossed over to the spirit world (as they are not referred to as dead in Lily Dale). One of the residents that I would loved to have met is Lynne Mahaffey. According to Wicker, Lynne first came to Lily Dale in the 1940s, and when arriving she felt the urge to immediately remove her shoes because she knew she was on holy ground. At the time of writing the book, Lynne is described as an elderly grandmother who rides around Lily Dale each morning on an old Schwinn bicycle. She does it for her heart and the world, the author states. She would ride for the physical exercise but also would pray for all of humanity as she rode. I’m assuming, given her age at the time and the time lapsed since the book was written, that Lynne has crossed over to the spirit world. She did not communicate with me on my visit. 





I have to admit that there is something to Lily Dale; there is a certain feel to the place. After my frustrating morning I did feel a sense of calm the minute I arrived. Maybe it’s the throwback feel of the village...the unpaved roads and quaint Victorian buildings transported me to another time. Or maybe it was just all in my head. Nonetheless, it was real to me at the time. I felt at peace.

One of the things I noticed right away were all the figurines. They were everywhere. Small statues of angels, elves, fairies, gnomes, cats, dogs, you name it, they were everywhere. In windows, front lawns, and in the woods, one could not escape the tiny statues. It was while I was squatting down to take a photo of some figurines in a front lawn that a golf cart rode up behind me. “Are you interested in fairies,” the person questioned? Somewhat startled, I turned, “What,” was all I said. “Well, I see you’re taking photos of fairies, have you been to the Fairy Trail?” When I told the cheerful and welcoming woman that I hadn’t, she told me it was on the opposite end of the camp, and then said, “Hop in, I’ll take you there.” Under “normal circumstances” I would not have gotten into the golf cart of someone I didn’t know, but I surprised myself when I did.





As we rode I received a sort of impromptu tour of the camp. My guide asked if it was my first time there. Yes, I told her, and that I was reading a book about Lily Dale and wanted to visit. The Town that Talks to the Dead book, she questioned? I told her it was. She simply smiled and told me she was in the book. Her name is Shelly, she told me after I asked. I’ll remember her name, I said, because I have a sister by the same name. She has summered at Lily Dale for 40 years, she also told me.

After arriving home that evening I flipped through the book. It turns out there are large portions of the book devoted to Shelly. She is a retired psychologist who, at the time of the writing of the book, lived at Lily Dale with Frank, her husband and retired philosophy professor. On our tour Shelly did not speak of Frank but she did talk about her children and grandchildren. She drove me past Mother’s Garden, where here children had just planted flowers.








Shelly founded the esoteric group, Lower Archy of the Pink Sisterhood of the Metafuzzies and Blissninnies, whose motto is “We don’t know jack shit, but we care.” A no-nonsense type of a person, regarding her thoughts on the secrets of the mediums she is quoted in the book, “Either they’re crazy or I’m stupid.” In the short time I was in Shelly’s golf cart she pointed me in the directions of the Fairy Trail, the Pet Cemetery, the museum, and the Buddhist Monks who were preparing a sand mandala in the fire hall. Before parting I asked if I could take a selfie of us, she readily obliged.


After visiting all of the said places, I meandered over to Inspiration Stump, which resides in Leolyn Woods and is considered the holiest place in Lily Dale. It is here that people gather twice daily and mediums offer free messages to a few people. I was surprised at how beautiful it was, I felt as if I were in a sort of outdoor cathedral, and in some ways I suppose I was. The person introducing the mediums claimed that the area was a vortex or portal to the spirit world. I’m not sure how I felt about that, but it was very pleasant. Unfortunately, I found the message service uninspiring. I stayed to listen to three mediums which all followed the same format. They would choose a person from the audience and ask if they could “come to them,” or “enter their energy.” They would then say what they were “getting,” which to me seemed pretty vague, such as an aunt or grandmother from the spirit world wanted to let the person know that they were doing well and that they were proud of them. Maybe it would have been different if a medium entered my energy where specifics meant something, but these messages just seemed vague. The thing is, I really do believe that there are people that can channel energies or make connections to something unexplainable, but on this day I don’t believe I witnessed it.



I also went to a service at the open-aired auditorium, which are conducted free twice daily. This, to me, resembled more of a church service. People gathered, sung hymns, and a medium spoke. They refer to their talks as messages and not sermons. I enjoyed the daily message, which like most of the messages at Lily Dale, fortified being a good person, believing in yourself, and believing in others. The speaker quoted from Deepak Chopra, Wayne Dryer, and other New Thought authors. She also spoke of the power of personal affirmations, and recited a couple of the principles of Spiritualism which were posted in large letters next to the stage. The fifth principle is the only one that I personally have difficulty with, and that seems to be a main focus at Lily Dale. Honestly, I went away feeling positive and feeling good about myself and the world. The message did it’s job. 

Principles of Spiritualism 
1 We believe in God.
2 We believe that God is expressed through all Nature.
3 True religion is living in obedience to Nature's Laws.
4 We never die.
5 Spiritualism proves that we can talk with people in the Spirit World.
6 Be kind, do good, and others will do likewise.
7 We bring unhappiness to ourselves by the errors we make and we will be happy if we obey the laws of life.
8 Everyday is a new beginning.
9 Prophecy and healing are expressions of God.



Throughout it’s history many famous people have been drawn to Lily Dale. Susan B Anthony was a regular, for example. While I was in the museum the attendant showed me a photo of Susan B. Anthony at the camp and flanked by bodyguards because, according to the attendant, her life was in danger. May West was also a regular at the camp and had a personal medium, Jack Kelly, who was a celebrity himself among the mediums. Harry Houdini also visited the camp on several occasions and was able to debunk many of the fraudulent activities. He was so feared by the mediums that it is said they would lock their doors when there was news of him at the camp.

In her book, Christine Wicker discusses the many classes she took and messages that were given by countless mediums, and it seems she wanted to believe so badly but flip-flopped between belief and unbelief. She doesn’t speaks disparagingly about the mediums or their practices, and in the end she seems to have come to terms with what she felt the camp is really about, a sort of transformation, “It’s as though we live inside a big egg, whose shell is made up of a million perceptions, comments, and occurrences that have hardened around us and blocked our view of anything else. All we see are the calcified remains of our experience, and everyday the shell gets thicker. Lily Dale’s spirits tap, tap, tap away until they break a tiny pinhole in the shell. A strange light comes through. And some of us start to kick our way out.”

In the beginning of reading this book a problem I had with it—and I don’t mean this to sound snarky—is that I felt like this movement was a bit self-centered in that it focused on the individual rather than others. Mostly I felt like it was about trying to speak with the dearly departed. What I’ve come to think is that it is more about healing and transformation. Many people go to Lily Dale to be healed, physically or emotionally, which in turn can transform them. And like any transformation they then can then offer love to others, such as Lynne when she rode her bike and prayed for the world as a whole, but also on a smaller more individual level, to help a person feel good about themselves and those around them. Because if a person feels good about themselves they can spread good. A person first has to love themselves before they can love another.

So at the end of the day and the end of the book what do I think or believe? Well, as aforementioned, I do believe there is more than we can see, and I do believe that there are mysteries in this world. Like many, I myself have had mystical experiences, but at the same time I feel they sound trite when verbalized. Are there people—mediums—who can communicate with those “on the other side?” Yes, likely. Can everyone at Lily Dale do it (or are all of us capable of doing it as they claim)? Also, was there “something” keeping me from making my visit to the camp as outlined in the beginning of this writing? Maybe, I don’t know, but doubtful. I don’t mean for that to sound skeptical even though it likely does.

It’s interesting though how many people began going to this small hamlet with a visit and became entranced, many stayed for the rest of their lives. I have to admit, that on driving through the gates I felt good, and even though I have only spent one day there I seem to be thinking about it a lot over this past week. But why, I wonder. Maybe there is something to the place that is unexplainable. Maybe I need to visit again, and I will. Soon. Very soon. 

Sunday, July 2, 2017

A Walk in the Woods (a few photos and a few words)


“Adopt the pace of nature: her secret is patience.”
~Ralph Waldo Emerson

So I went for a bike ride and then a walk in the woods yesterday. It was overcast mostly, and on-again off-again drizzle for the morning, but then it cleared. I've written in previous posts how Buffalo is fortunate enough to have two nature sanctuaries within it's city limits. The one pictured here is Times Beach Nature Preserve, which is the smaller of the two. During the summer months when Queen City Bicycle Ferry is in service it is so simple to get there (it cuts off about 6 miles of a bike ride in a two minute boat ride). Other than some sort of an unidentified insect crawling up the sleeve of my shirt and biting me 4 or 5 times, it was a really wonderful walk. I was amazed at the wildlife one can see a mere 4 miles from my front door. Anyhow, click any photo for a slightly larger view.








Urban Simplicity.

Friday, June 30, 2017

Two Guys Talking on a Street Corner


[This is part of a series on Faces of the Homeless and street people, for more in this series click here.)

All things are linked with one another, and this oneness is sacred; there is nothing that is not interconnected with everything else.
~Marcus Aurelius

At first glance one would not likely think that Gary would be asking for money on the street. Dressed in khakis and a turquoise colored Polo-style shirt embroidered with a little sailboat insignia, he would appear to be just an average middle-aged guy waiting for a bus. But there was something in the way that he scanned people as they passed that I new he was panhandling. I was on my way to a local tavern when I first noticed him as I crossed the street. He looked both shy and a little scared when he asked politely, “Excuse me sir, can you spare some change for a disabled veteran?” Knowing the only money I had on me was a twenty dollar bill, and I was on my way for a beer, I looked him in the eyes and politely but selfishly replied, “No, sorry buddy, I can’t.” As the words came out of my mouth I thought to myself, “can’t” or “won’t,” but still I walked over to the tavern which was just a storefront away.

After the bartender brought me a pint she set my change on the bar, and as I looked at it I couldn’t help but think of Gary who was standing just a storefront away. So I set my book next to my beer, grabbed a ten from the change, told the bartender I’d be right back and walked over to Gary. He looked a bit startled as I walked back towards him, and without offering any money I introduced myself and asked if it would be okay to ask him a few questions and possibly take his photo. Not surprisingly he was leery and wanted to know why. I gave him my card with my blog address and explained to him that I was doing a sort of research with people on the street, that I wanted to hear their stories. He agreed, so here is Gary’s story.

Gary is 49, he’ll be 50 next month. He’s not homeless, he has an apartment which is subsidized. I asked him why he is on the street asking people for money and he told me to help pay his bills. His apartment is subsidized but it’s not free, he told me, and he also added that he doesn’t drink or do drugs. He’s only been panhandling for a “short while,” he also told me. When I asked him what it was like when he first started asking people for money, he averted his eyes, looked down and said, “It was humiliating, it still is, but I have no other choice.”

Gary is a veteran who served our country but here he was on a street corner asking people for money. In the age of affluence in which we live, how can this be, I wondered? He didn’t look physically disabled, I knew it had to be something else, so I asked him. “I hear voices,” he told me, “that’s why I can’t hold a job.” It first started while he was in the Marine Corps, back in 1989. Doing the math, Gary would have been in his early twenties, the age at which schizophrenia often emerges in a person, and this is what he is diagnosed with.

I have found that often people just need someone to listen, and that’s what I did. The two of us on a city street corner on a beautiful summer evening. Just two guys talking.

“I have tried so hard,” Gary told me. He asked me to imagine what it would be like to try to hold a job while people were talking to you from inside your own head. I cannot imagine, I told him. “I have fought back with this disease,” he added. He earned his associates degree from Alfred State, and also holds an electrician certificate. He’s tried to hold jobs, but he can’t. “I’m scared,” he said, “I try so hard but I just can’t do it.” His voice changed and there were tears in his eyes as he said this, which caused tears to well in my own eyes, and now it was me looking away uncomfortably.

It was getting dark now and I asked Gary if he has ever been harassed. A little, he told me, but nothing serious. I encouraged him to be as cautious as he could on this street. It is popular with panhandlers in the evening and I have witnessed some being verbally abused by young college kids coming here for the bars. He knew that he said, and he was planning on heading back to his apartment soon.

Before parting I handed Gary the ten dollar bill and asked again if I could take his photo. I took one of him and was surprised at the big grin he offered to the camera. “I smiled,” he said and then asked to see the photo. On an impulse I asked if we could take one together, which we did. I offered Gary a bit of encouragement and that I hoped he stays safe and that things will keep getting better. He hoped so also, he replied. Uncharacteristically of me, I almost asked Gary if I could say a prayer for him, but I didn’t, I couldn’t. Instead we talked some more, and I listened.

Back at the bar as I sipped my beer I thought of Gary and hoped he was safe as he made his way back to his apartment. I also thought of how we are all connected in some indescribable way. All of us. Most the time this is difficult to remember, but other times—such as tonight—it is not. It’s as if we entered a thin place, as the Celts call it. That place that is thin enough to get a glimpse through the veil, to see the reality of life and what it means to be alive. While I didn’t offer Gary a verbal prayer, in many ways our conversation—him talking and me mostly listening to his story—was a sort of prayer, something sacred. I need to remember this more often, the sacredness of human interaction. This is what I thought about as I sipped my beer on a warm summer evening with a breeze blowing in the opened front door.

Saturday, June 24, 2017

Things that can be carried on a bike (#721)...


Bicycling is a big part of the future. It has to be. There’s something wrong with a society that drives a car to workout in a gym.
~Bill Nye the Science Guy

On the bike...Eight 6-foot boards of lumber, two new shirts, a new pair of pants, and a camera.

Friday, June 23, 2017

Six Churches in Three Hours...


I like the silent church before the service begins, better than any preaching.”
~Ralph Waldo Emerson

Two weeks ago I was in New York City, had a day to myself, and went on a sort of self-guided tour to photograph some of that city's magnificent churches. Whether or not one considers themselves spiritual I cannot imagine not being moved by these incredible buildings. I have, for most of my adult life, enjoyed sitting in the quiet of an empty or near-empty sanctuary. I find it so incredible calming. The first time I noticed this was after not having been in a church for many years. I was in my late twenties and had crossed the border to Tijuana for a day trip. After many beers and walking in the hot sun I passed the Catedral de Nuestra and her doors were open so I went in. I probably sat there in the cool of the silent sanctuary for more than an hour. Since then, whenever I travel, I often find myself sitting in the quiet of a sanctuary if even for just a few minutes. Anyhow, here's a bit of info with this photo series.

I wanted to start uptown and work my way down, which is what I did. I was staying at Union Square so I took the train to the upper west side, to Riverside, and began at Riverside Church (pictured above). Why I started with this church, and why it has a bit of personal attachment, is because almost three years ago to the day, I sat in the third pew from the front at the isle seat. It was three days after our ordination as interfaith ministers and on that day it was our graduation. The church, on that day, was packed to the gills with nearly fifteen hundred people. It is a day I will never forget. After taking this photo I went and sat in the same spot. It gave me goosebumps.

The rest of the photos I will simply say which church they are as I don't feel the need to write a dissertation on them. But, if you are at all interested in this type of thing, I urge you to google them and their histories. So many of them have had activist ministers and congregations and interesting histories. Here's the rest of the churches.

After Riverside, I walked down to St. Paul's Chapel at Columbia University (and oddly this is the only one where photography was not allowed...I found out after snapping a photo without a flash). The next church, and the most impressive is is the Cathedral of St. John, which is not only NY's largest church it takes up multiple city blocks. I then walked over to St. Patrick's Cathedral and arrived just as they were offering Communion at their noontime mass. I sat for a few minutes and then accepted communion as the priests offered it, even though I am not Catholic and the walls did not crumble. From there I took the subway down to lower Manhattan and stopped at two of my favorite churches. First St. Paul's Chapel (where George Washington worshiped on the eve of his inauguration), and then Trinity Wall Street. Both of these churches are very close to Ground Zero and offered aid and shelter to the rescue workers during their services. Click any image for a slightly larger view.





Urban Simplicity.