John Kennedy, Thanksgiving & a Pick and Choose Gal Named Sandy

Hurricane Sandy was the storm that changed the beach. I remember sitting under the boardwalk. How it took a long time to reach the shore. Today at Coney Island, the sea has wiped the distance away. There is no more shore line. In a few more hurricanes, there will be no beach. Maybe no people. New York is going under the water from which it came. Haron and I, strangers, sat on a log until the sea came to our feet. He is from Trinidad and, like me, sees the signs. "The sea is angry," he said. But I disagreed, somewhat. "The sea only takes orders," I said. From the tides, from the winds, from a master magician who likes to change our lives at its whim. This was a pick and choose event. In one house, in Woodmere, there was not a closet stirred. Next door, the house with a level garage had two cars flooded and his house stinking of, and inhabited by, ocean fish. Haaron is going back to Trinidad. He has lost his job in the produce department of Key Food. There is no produce department anymore. There is no Key Food. We agreed it was all over, over here, but the shouting. Like war in the trenches, dugouts were drawn across the sand, and the boardwalk at Coney Island flip-flopped as the sea erupted and the sand and mud, like brothers joined siameasily, rose in defiance of the customs and turned our blessed walk path into dirt. Branches, twigs, logs dot the little beach that now remains. There are whole couches, cots, artifacts of the beaches across the way that have already been obliterated. Like accordions, pieces of boards trip the dead barnacles, and play macabre music to the deadened or oblivious souls who come to watch the new normal. Some are ready. They already have no memory of the disaster to their own or others' lives. Two share a make- out session on a bench. Others stroll, jog, walk, go on with their lives. Some were not affected.

Others disaffected; alienated by fate and circumstance. The handball court is an old staple of Coney. I saw Dennis Hopper and John Malkovich film a move there. I saw Sandra Bullock too, and others. Now it's just bizarre. The game goes on in one court while in the other, a bulldozer gobbles the huge sand dunes that have been placed here when the sand spilled over. A crew of Black men wear masks and sift through the toxic debris. In my apartment house that still has no light, there is a little parakeet who chirps. As long as she lives, I believe, though I suffer from coldness and a chill that has gripped me, I believe, yes, we will live. The Mexicans who walk with rakes and shovels and have gathered the poisonous waste to earn their daily bread are like that parakeet. In my favorite place near Gallop, New Mexico, and in Los Alamos, the Native Americans were that parakeet and the waste was atomic. Life s full circle to pick and choose. Yesterday, we buried an uncle, a blessed man who in his day was a Seebee. And worked on the loading of Little Boy on the island of Tinian in August, 1945. He was witness to the launching of the Enola Gay and the beginning of the Atomic Age. "You are obligated to find piece of mind," said Haaron. Well, some do, some don't. Meanwhile, my memories are shaken. I remember when we had a beach and there was laughter at the shore. I remember swimming in the ocean two days before the demon Sandy struck. I remember no more. I can't even watch a football game anymore and snap at my companion pal who snaps at me. "Next time, oh Lord," I say to Haaron, "pick and choose someone else." He says, even if we have to crawl, we must go on. I don't know if I have the will, and Sandy, like an unkind dominatrix, has taken much of my desire. "It's the new normal. Orwellian, like Thanksgiving celebrated on the 49th anniversary of our beloved president, John Kennedy. He nods and doesn't know what I am talking about. And what am saying, I am not saying to him, but aloud, as I have now taken to talk aloud like the crazies do. It's just Haaron and me, sitting on a log as the water begins to rise again.Hurricane Sandy was the storm that changed the beach. I remember sitting under the boardwalk. 

How it took a long time to reach the shore. Today at Coney Island, the sea has wiped the distance away. There is no more shore line. In a few more hurricanes, there will be no beach. Maybe no people. New York is going under the water from which it came. Haron and I, strangers, sat on a log until the sea came to our feet. He is from Trinidad and, like me, sees the signs. "The sea is angry," he said. But I disagreed, somewhat. "The sea only takes orders," I said. From the tides, from the winds, from a master magician who likes to change our lives at its whim. This was a pick and choose event. In one house, in Woodmere, there was not a closet stirred. Next door, the house with a level garage had two cars flooded and his house stinking of, and inhabited by, ocean fish. Haaron is going back to Trinidad. He has lost his job in the produce department of Key Food. There is no produce department anymore. There is no Key Food. We agreed it was all over, over here, but the shouting. Like war in the trenches, dugouts were drawn across the sand, and the boardwalk at Coney Island flip-flopped as the sea erupted and the sand and mud, like brothers joined siameasily, rose in defiance of the customs and turned our blessed walk path into dirt. Branches, twigs, logs dot the little beach that now remains. There are whole couches, cots, artifacts of the beaches across the way that have already been obliterated. Like accordions, pieces of boards trip the dead barnacles, and play macabre music to the deadened or oblivious souls who come to watch the new normal. Some are ready. They already have no memory of the disaster to their own or others' lives. Two share a make- out session on a bench. Others stroll, jog, walk, go on with their lives. Some were not affected. Others disaffected; alienated by fate and circumstance. The handball court is an old staple of Coney. I saw Dennis Hopper and John Malkovich film a move there. I saw Sandra Bullock too, and others. Now it's just bizarre. The game goes on in one court while in the other, a bulldozer gobbles the huge sand dunes that have been placed here when the sand spilled over. 

A crew of Black men wear masks and sift through the toxic debris. In my apartment house that still has no light, there is a little parakeet who chirps. As long as she lives, I believe, though I suffer from coldness and a chill that has gripped me, I believe, yes, we will live. The Mexicans who walk with rakes and shovels and have gathered the poisonous waste to earn their daily bread are like that parakeet. In my favorite place near Gallop, New Mexico, and in Los Alamos, the Native Americans were that parakeet and the waste was atomic. Life s full circle to pick and choose. Yesterday, we buried an uncle, a blessed man who in his day was a Seebee. And worked on the loading of Little Boy on the island of Tinian in August, 1945. He was witness to the launching of the Enola Gay and the beginning of the Atomic Age. "You are obligated to find piece of mind," said Haaron. Well, some do, some don't. Meanwhile, my memories are shaken. I remember when we had a beach and there was laughter at the shore. I remember swimming in the ocean two days before the demon Sandy struck. I remember no more. I can't even watch a football game anymore and snap at my companion pal who snaps at me. "Next time, oh Lord," I say to Haaron, "pick and choose someone else." He says, even if we have to crawl, we must go on. I don't know if I have the will, and Sandy, like an unkind dominatrix, has taken much of my desire. "It's the new normal. Orwellian, like Thanksgiving celebrated on the 49th anniversary of our beloved president, John Kennedy. He nods and doesn't know what I am talking about. And what am saying, I am not saying to him, but aloud, as I have now taken to talk aloud like the crazies do. It's just Haaron and me, sitting on a log as the water begins to rise again.