union Square NYC
Originally uploaded by Charlie Roberts
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
UNION SQUARE
I take the van (available for the handicapped and elderly) to Union Square.
There is a little platform elevator that lifts you up into the truck, some moments of attention grabbing vulnerability, and then the driver locks you down with chains and belts as you remain docile, powerless, accepting. Caged Animal.
It's quite an extravagant feeling because the van ride is only for you.
Tooling around Union Square, I feel somber and gritty.
(I'm back fellow New Yorkers and this is what happened to me!)
Sometimes New York, with its constant vying to be more civilized and trustworthy and grounded, can seem so slipshod.
There is a little platform elevator that lifts you up into the truck, some moments of attention grabbing vulnerability, and then the driver locks you down with chains and belts as you remain docile, powerless, accepting. Caged Animal.
It's quite an extravagant feeling because the van ride is only for you.
Tooling around Union Square, I feel somber and gritty.
(I'm back fellow New Yorkers and this is what happened to me!)
Sometimes New York, with its constant vying to be more civilized and trustworthy and grounded, can seem so slipshod.
Monday, August 16, 2010
ROMANTIC TAIL
He enters up center through my front door (left ajar).
My apartment is feeling (more and more) like a stage set.
"Mister Roberts?"
"I'm over here by the plant!"
He's been trying to reach me, he says, he called twice this morning, he says.
"Is this your cell phone number?" he asks.
Oh.
This is today's visiting nurse, it dawns on me, and this going be good because Francisco (his name I later discover) has a thick European accent, bare muscular forearms, an athletic broad-shouldered frame, blue eyes, wide cheek bones, and a Prince Valiant ponytail.
He wears the "visiting nurses association" badge but the rest of him is more relaxed and urban than Miss Bessie was. Which leads me to conclude that Miss Bessie's girl scout uniform was self imposed. (We all like to dress up and play out our roles with costumes and props).
Francisco and I make small talk and grin at each other. I'm still bleary with coffee. The scene feels deliciously absurd - (Who are these strangers in my apartment, stirring oatmeal, shaking thermometers?)
We get down to the business of my bloated feet. In short, Francisco can find nothing wrong and is charmingly baffled as to why is he is here.
He grins, seductively looks me in the eyes and says,
"Pffttt! - there is nothing here. I don't know what they see but I see nothing."
I resist swooning a little mostly because when Francisco beams, his smile says, go ahead, swoon! everybody does, I enjoy it - so swoon!
I call Mary over and ask her to describe to Francisco what Miss Bessie had shown her. Mary and Francisco examine my feet like they're staring down a deep dark hole trying to make out if something's actually down there.
Mary passively points to a few places but looks uncommitted.
I look ahead of me at nothing, as if my feet had little interest to me but if they do for you, I'm willing to let them out.
"I see nothing" Francisco repeats - but he says he will return one more time, next week.
Before he goes, I can't help it, I gotta know where he's from.
Francisco releases the grin and says, "Brazil! But many people guess Sweden- the cheekbones. "
He's loving the attention.
My apartment is feeling (more and more) like a stage set.
"Mister Roberts?"
"I'm over here by the plant!"
I want whoever it it to play out to the house.
He strides past Mary at the door, past the broken scooter, and down to me at the end of the room (near the foot of the stage).
He strides past Mary at the door, past the broken scooter, and down to me at the end of the room (near the foot of the stage).
"Is this your cell phone number?" he asks.
Oh.
This is today's visiting nurse, it dawns on me, and this going be good because Francisco (his name I later discover) has a thick European accent, bare muscular forearms, an athletic broad-shouldered frame, blue eyes, wide cheek bones, and a Prince Valiant ponytail.
He wears the "visiting nurses association" badge but the rest of him is more relaxed and urban than Miss Bessie was. Which leads me to conclude that Miss Bessie's girl scout uniform was self imposed. (We all like to dress up and play out our roles with costumes and props).
Francisco and I make small talk and grin at each other. I'm still bleary with coffee. The scene feels deliciously absurd - (Who are these strangers in my apartment, stirring oatmeal, shaking thermometers?)
We get down to the business of my bloated feet. In short, Francisco can find nothing wrong and is charmingly baffled as to why is he is here.
He grins, seductively looks me in the eyes and says,
"Pffttt! - there is nothing here. I don't know what they see but I see nothing."
I resist swooning a little mostly because when Francisco beams, his smile says, go ahead, swoon! everybody does, I enjoy it - so swoon!
I call Mary over and ask her to describe to Francisco what Miss Bessie had shown her. Mary and Francisco examine my feet like they're staring down a deep dark hole trying to make out if something's actually down there.
Mary passively points to a few places but looks uncommitted.
I look ahead of me at nothing, as if my feet had little interest to me but if they do for you, I'm willing to let them out.
"I see nothing" Francisco repeats - but he says he will return one more time, next week.
Before he goes, I can't help it, I gotta know where he's from.
Francisco releases the grin and says, "Brazil! But many people guess Sweden- the cheekbones. "
He's loving the attention.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
POTTED PALM
I fall out of my new hospital bed and land on the hard parquet floor.
I'm not hurt but I cant' move. It's clear to me that my progression is moving because I can't really even sit up or pull myself along the floor to get to a phone.
I have to get to the bathroom.
I have rolled under a very large potted palm leafed plant in a big fat terra cotta container.
There is my emergency button - hanging around my neck - a sexy pendant , a necklace.
But I don't want to use it because I don't want to experience what I know will be the ensuing drama.
I lie there. It's around eight in the morning. I make various attempt to save myself. I can't move.
I push the button.
Ten minutes later the ER crew is in my apartment, commenting on my nice view, playfully chastising me for not wearing a seatbelt.
And I openly weep. Because I have no control and there are strangers surrounding me in my apartment at eight in the morning. Thirty minutes earlier I was dreaming about summer stock.
I'm not hurt but I cant' move. It's clear to me that my progression is moving because I can't really even sit up or pull myself along the floor to get to a phone.
I have to get to the bathroom.
I have rolled under a very large potted palm leafed plant in a big fat terra cotta container.
There is my emergency button - hanging around my neck - a sexy pendant , a necklace.
But I don't want to use it because I don't want to experience what I know will be the ensuing drama.
I lie there. It's around eight in the morning. I make various attempt to save myself. I can't move.
I push the button.
Ten minutes later the ER crew is in my apartment, commenting on my nice view, playfully chastising me for not wearing a seatbelt.
And I openly weep. Because I have no control and there are strangers surrounding me in my apartment at eight in the morning. Thirty minutes earlier I was dreaming about summer stock.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
MARY
Mary is my new (and my first) health aide, and today was her first day.
As we were folding laundry, she told me she prays G-d allows her to follow her purpose - helping people. She talked about "land marking" which has something to do with connecting to as many people as possible.
"In a positive way, I assume?"
"Of course, yes."
"And what happens if G-d doesn't allow you to fulfill your purpose?"
And Mary's answer is the hub to which all questions like that are sent.
"Only He knows his reasons, only He knows why."
Mary works hard and has a meek smile.
When she listens to my orders, I suppress a grin because I enjoy playing out the role of Lord of the manor. I am so excited to have someone do things for me and ask me what they can do next!I can't believe my good fortune!
Mary's from Trinidad and so I'm looking forward to funky eggs and Trinidad fried rice and macaroni pie. (She suggested these as possibilities).
Mary's from Trinidad and so I'm looking forward to funky eggs and Trinidad fried rice and macaroni pie. (She suggested these as possibilities).
As we were folding laundry, she told me she prays G-d allows her to follow her purpose - helping people. She talked about "land marking" which has something to do with connecting to as many people as possible.
"In a positive way, I assume?"
"Of course, yes."
"And what happens if G-d doesn't allow you to fulfill your purpose?"
And Mary's answer is the hub to which all questions like that are sent.
"Only He knows his reasons, only He knows why."
LAKE GEORGE "BLU" (2)
We elevator down to the new restaurant at the bottom of my building.
The restaurant is called "Blu", that's blue without an "e".
"Blu" is the fourth go for a restaurant in this particular space. But Blu is more upscale than the others. You can tell it's classy because The "B" in Blu (on the sign and menus and matches) is artistic and inky and blotty. It's terrifically artisian and spontaneous. And the waiters at "Blu" have accents and toady about like the place is venerated.
"Blu" is the fourth go for a restaurant in this particular space. But Blu is more upscale than the others. You can tell it's classy because The "B" in Blu (on the sign and menus and matches) is artistic and inky and blotty. It's terrifically artisian and spontaneous. And the waiters at "Blu" have accents and toady about like the place is venerated.
Blu is mostly empty because it's really at the end of nowhere. The whole block at the end of west 42nd Street has been reinvented - with glittering highrises and fancy parks. But the area doesn't lure the kind of New Yorker who want to blow big money on fancy Steak and Formaggio e frutta . People around here are looking for burgers and fries before they ride the Circle Line or tour the Intrepid.
But the owners of "Blu" were smart to put tables outside. I pass these tables every day (in my wheelchair) and I often feel I should divert my path away from the one or two outside diners so that they won't have to take in the sick and disabled as I wheel by).
Tonight, the outside tables are tempting and I suggest them to Car but we forgo them (too noisy and windy) - "the light's no good," and pick a table inside.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Monday, August 2, 2010
Saturday, July 31, 2010
LIKE A CAGED ANIMAL
Last night I nearly couldn't get in bed.
My right leg is shot. I managed to swing my legs onto the bed by yanking them up with the chord from my emergency help necklace. But they landed on headphones lying randomly at the end of the bed. I slept with my feet on the headphones because I couldn't move the headphones and I cant' move or adjust my legs, anymore.
I spend my days in the wheelchair. The wheelchair is a curse. I can get around with ease now, but my legs get weaker and weaker because of it. My lower back is becoming mush.
Today, like most, I wheelchair to the new pier across from 26th Street on the West Side Highway along the dazzling Hudson River Park - suddenly transformed to a sail boating, pink and green, Eden. Men in flat front shorts (peach) ribbon belts (red) French checkered shirts (blue), topsiders (green), and boyish haircuts (all so dandyish- have they no shame?) Wheeling there with my drastic cranky disability, my days apparently numbered, I stare down the young lovelies, as if I were a jealous ghost -invisible - gone, - still lumbering about the edges of the city. (Where did MY time go- where did MY opportunity go?)
I put my feet up on a long wooden bench that runs the length of the new peninsula.
I bask in cool air from the newly planted greenery and the murky river.
I read about the Beat writers. (Their lives, I suspect, more fabulous than their writing).
"That's not writing, that's typing" said Truman Capote reading "On the Road".
I am envious of their travels, and their artistic support, their sex. I craved that. I wanted to be in a group of creative types that said- "wait- no- you gotta use Charlie, we gotta get Charlie in this".
Suddenly, the iPhone beeps. I pick it up and put down my Beat book.
I hesitate to speak because the wreckage to my voice weighs me down. I expect to hear my vital voice piping out, but at "hello", I struggle with my new withering sound (weak, breathy, high, muddled). This new sound demands a character on his last legs - sad, sweet, ancient, ill. I don't want to hear it, don't want to play that part, but CAR is coming to New York to pick me up to drive me (in a rented handicap van for $100 a day) to Lake George. We picked Lake George arbitrarily. We must talk. I must answer my iPhone.
"I'm going to be late, really late, I'm sorry I always disappoint you."
"Car, I'm sitting outside reading. I couldn't possibly go today. Don't worry about it."
"You sure?"
"Yeah"
"Well, the van is pretty cool. We're going to have stop everywhere to show it off. Get the little remote out - make the ramp shoot in and out - impress random strangers. The only problem with the van, is you have to ride... four feet behind me- like a caged animal. I have to chain you in." Car's voice weakens with laughter at the image and I fall in too. It IS pretty funny.
"Car"
"Yeah"
"You have to get in the right mindset for this trip. I'm not easy. I'm in pretty bad shape. So prepare yourself."
"Don't worry. I'm totally ready..."
Car goes on, but I hang up. I push the off button clumsily. My lousy voice allows for lack of grace with no penalties. I've given up on smooth communication. All the angles of my physical self are battered and I surrender to it. The disease and its silent path, is becoming known to me.
My right leg is shot. I managed to swing my legs onto the bed by yanking them up with the chord from my emergency help necklace. But they landed on headphones lying randomly at the end of the bed. I slept with my feet on the headphones because I couldn't move the headphones and I cant' move or adjust my legs, anymore.
(And because my disability is so new, my sense of myself hasn't really caught up- like I'm play acting - like I'll wake up to everything being normal).
When I DO wake up in the morning, I feel like hell. I cough and sputter and shake it off- an indecent hangover. I moan (involuntarily). I make coffee.
I spend my days in the wheelchair. The wheelchair is a curse. I can get around with ease now, but my legs get weaker and weaker because of it. My lower back is becoming mush.
Today, like most, I wheelchair to the new pier across from 26th Street on the West Side Highway along the dazzling Hudson River Park - suddenly transformed to a sail boating, pink and green, Eden. Men in flat front shorts (peach) ribbon belts (red) French checkered shirts (blue), topsiders (green), and boyish haircuts (all so dandyish- have they no shame?) Wheeling there with my drastic cranky disability, my days apparently numbered, I stare down the young lovelies, as if I were a jealous ghost -invisible - gone, - still lumbering about the edges of the city. (Where did MY time go- where did MY opportunity go?)
I bask in cool air from the newly planted greenery and the murky river.
I read about the Beat writers. (Their lives, I suspect, more fabulous than their writing).
"That's not writing, that's typing" said Truman Capote reading "On the Road".
I am envious of their travels, and their artistic support, their sex. I craved that. I wanted to be in a group of creative types that said- "wait- no- you gotta use Charlie, we gotta get Charlie in this".
Suddenly, the iPhone beeps. I pick it up and put down my Beat book.
I hesitate to speak because the wreckage to my voice weighs me down. I expect to hear my vital voice piping out, but at "hello", I struggle with my new withering sound (weak, breathy, high, muddled). This new sound demands a character on his last legs - sad, sweet, ancient, ill. I don't want to hear it, don't want to play that part, but CAR is coming to New York to pick me up to drive me (in a rented handicap van for $100 a day) to Lake George. We picked Lake George arbitrarily. We must talk. I must answer my iPhone.
"I'm going to be late, really late, I'm sorry I always disappoint you."
"Car, I'm sitting outside reading. I couldn't possibly go today. Don't worry about it."
"You sure?"
"Yeah"
"Well, the van is pretty cool. We're going to have stop everywhere to show it off. Get the little remote out - make the ramp shoot in and out - impress random strangers. The only problem with the van, is you have to ride... four feet behind me- like a caged animal. I have to chain you in." Car's voice weakens with laughter at the image and I fall in too. It IS pretty funny.
"Car"
"Yeah"
"You have to get in the right mindset for this trip. I'm not easy. I'm in pretty bad shape. So prepare yourself."
"Don't worry. I'm totally ready..."
Car goes on, but I hang up. I push the off button clumsily. My lousy voice allows for lack of grace with no penalties. I've given up on smooth communication. All the angles of my physical self are battered and I surrender to it. The disease and its silent path, is becoming known to me.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Thursday, July 29, 2010
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