9/11, 10 years later

I wrote this in 2011. I was living through an infestation. I was never comfortable or at peace until I looked at the window of my soon-to-be home and let go of the fear of what I would bring with me. I wrote this that evening, Frankensteined together from various blogs entries over several years.  They travel with me, like baggage.

I post this in remembrance of that day and this city of people.

I’ve just moved into grad housing at New School in the West Village a month ago. My apartment faces South down 7th Ave. I have the perfect view of WTC and have opted to give up my a/c in favor of the view. I frequently sit at my window and stare out, marveling at the fact that I live in NYC, and am actually studying dramatics. The towers fascinate me because they are so large I can’t believe they’re real, and yet they are. Frankly, I’m fascinated by skyscrapers, they are like manmade mountains to me, and make me feel impossibly small and frail.

In the week afterwards, I lived with a friend on the Upper West Side. I would go grab a cup of Joe at a local coffee shop, and chat. One morning, I ran into an old guy—a dyed-in-the-wool New Yorker. The Towers came up and he let off a speech of absolute rage that they had been built. He’d actually been really active in the fight against building them in the late 60s, and he hated those Towers. They were “an architectural crime, and empty much of the time.”

Monday, September 10th, 2001 is the first day that my mind has started to leap across the space from my window into them. I wonder who goes to that building and why. I look through the cloudy, gray mist of that day and wonder if anyone is looking back at me. Are they happy to make scratch or do they envy the freedom others have to be about and not in an office? The North Tower looks like a ship’s mast when it first breaks through the fog. I promise myself I will visit the top soon, as I frequently do with the Empire State Building.

So I said, “I guess you’re not wanting to see them rebuilt then.” Continue reading “9/11, 10 years later”

Jill Soloway adapts “The Rules” for women directors in Hollywood: you must cry at work

I love this statement and want to marry it and make manifesto babies with it. Then I want to lick it all over like the Jello Pudding Pops that Cosby ruined for me until they are restored to their former mass consumer dessert glory. After that, I’ll set fire to all the things I believe I can’t want because I’m not allowed to have them, and end it all with a GIANT FUCK YOU, I CAN.

The Soundtrack of My Soul – 101

Write about the three most important songs in your life — what do they mean to you? 

My Girl

I grew up in the D. Detroit. The Suburbs of Detroit. This was the music of my home, of the city, of my father’s generation. Bill Stewart. Not the singer. My dad loved Motown. He loved the 80s; he was less enthusiastic about 70’s funk, but he could dig it. However, what really jazzed his beat was classic Motown. He listened to the stuff everyday and since I rode with dad, so did I.

Motown is what my childhood sounds like.  I grew up on the 60s stuff that came out of Hitsville.  It is the soundtrack of a clean house, a dance shared with all the members of my family and our dog, it’s what was playing during my first slow dance. 

Dirty Dancing, the movie and the dance form, was popular as I prepared for junior high. It never dawned on us kids the significance of the lack of Motown on the soundtrack. We simply put those into rotation at my first big kids party. I was 11 and I tried a stiff box step with another 6th grader. He stared at his feet. My Girl was playing on the radio. 

White kids can’t dance to it. Can’t find the rhythm off the downbeat.

Silent All These Years 

During my teen years, Tori Amos saved my soul. She was the soundtrack to my salvation. I played her albums over and over, but this was my anthem. To me, this song was to be song out loud and clear and proud, like you were sending it to Jesus. 

When I hear the lyrics, I hear a meditation on don’t make waves, don’t upset anyone. Be good, little girl, keep your pain to yourself. No one cares. no one understands. 

Tori did. She wrote it, so she felt it too. I was alone with her voice, but not alone in my pain.


Sara Bareilles’ song is one of my faves.

It reminds me of the moment in Pollack right before Pollack begins to paint a canvas. What will it become? Where will the creative urge lead the artist?

This song is the soundtrack of the most difficult moment–the moment before creative impulse. 

All I know is I want to go somewhere new. To me, to my audience, to my art. 

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