Yesterday in Rockaway: Cartwheel Symphony, as performed by four grown ladies who can (just barely) still perform the trick.
On Two Years in Rockaway and the Best-Ever New Year’s Eve
(I borrowed photos from Mic and Merna for this post)
As you know, a couple years ago my boyfriend and I rented an apartment in Rockaway, where we would be close to the ocean and have an escape from the city, where we also have an apartment. We’ve been here long enough now, in our floor-through apartment in a hundred-year-old house from which we interact with the ocean in silly ways, to have a general understanding of the social currents on this urban barrier island. Part and parcel to this understanding: There is a troop that has amassed in Rockaway; to call it a community might in fact be appropriate, but offends my distaste for the overwrought sentiment and forced fondness and phrases like “peace and love” that I associate with that word.
I Haven’t Spoken To Anyone in Three Days and Three Nights: A Debriefing
I shut myself in the apartment in Rockaway for three days to get through the final revisions of 10 chapters. Three entire days and nights with only my dog to talk to, which come to think of it is only different from a normal day by two or three hours.
Still, usually by the end of day two of self-imposed deadline seclusion, I start pining for the banalities of human interaction, for the 30 minutes of discussion with S. Jam Fitzgerald about where we might go out to eat before we get bored with our indecision and put in the same Seamless order as two nights earlier; complaining for half an hour before getting on the L train to visit a friend in Brooklyn, which happens with every friend I visit because all my friends live in Brooklyn; and a third social interaction that I can’t think of right now, but which I need because these things work better in threes.
S. Jam Fitzgerald made a time lapse video showing our street in Rockaway from the day Hurricane Sandy hit through to today. From disaster to recovery, makes this hardened heart tingle.
The Canals of Howard Beach, Plus a Resort that Burned to the Ground
I’ve been sick as an 18th century Parisian prostitute this week, which is my own fault, given that before whale watching for the better part of Sunday afternoon in bare feet on the cooling-quickly shores of the Atlantic, I spent two hours on our friend Jimmy’s boat in Jamaica Bay, in just a t-shirt and hoodie, sitting at the bow (that’s the front, yes?), letting water splash onto me every time we picked up speed.
Three Whales Have Been Hanging Out in Rockaway
Sunday afternoon, a man and a woman sat together on the beach in Rockaway in folding chairs they’d lugged out from home. The man put his cigar back in his mouth long enough to point excitedly out to the ocean. The woman, in response, put her binoculars to her eyes. This meant whales, one instinctively knew, and I, walking barefoot on the wet sand by the water, turned to see for myself.
Style.com Comes To Rockaway: A Cautionary Tale
(UPDATE: Here’s the Style.com feature.)
The seats we happened to choose on Saturday at Rockaway Beach Surf Club’s new bar were at the far end of the concrete lot that’s now been appropriated by a beachy, Berliny aesthetic. These seats enabled our favorite shared activity — sitting in public places talking to only each other. The bar, on Beach 87th under the elevated subway, had opened for the first time at 2pm, and it was now 4-ish, and this could be 2006 or 2009 or today, the time-as-experienced length of the years going through some sort of half-life for me, before conflating altogether sometime around 2010 into a single, laconic unit of time that stretches into forever.