we could be anywhere
volume one: the beginnings
50 piece digital series
2022
Centered around identity, overcoming, indecision, and truth, these works aren't unique to
the characters and scenes from which these stories were born from. but to all of us.
A culmination of years of my own
soul-searching, understanding, growth, and vulnerability, these works and stories are but snapshots of fleeting moments
that are now frozen in time.
click on an image to jump to the artwork and its written story
RAIN OR SHINE
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Night turned to day, and the sun began to shine down on the street, peeking through a hole in the clouds. New York City, famous for its uniquely loud and consistent bustle, was still but fast asleep. All that I could hear was conveniently all that I could see: Clinks and clanks vibrated off of the surrounding buildings and echoed throughout the gridded streets, as his cart bounced along the bumpy, poorly patched-up concrete. The sounds grew louder and louder, before an eerie silence fell again, as he had reached the corner of Prince Street and Greene Street, and set his cart down; He was finally home. But, on this morning, much to his surprise, his regulars were nowhere to be found. He momentarily abandoned his cart, and scanned the surrounding blocks for even a single hungry or thirsty soul. Confused but accepting, he returned and succumbed to the cold, metal folding chair planted beside him under the umbrella. Just as he sat, with his back to his cart, he saw me, perched up on the ledge of a storefront across the street. We shared a brief nod and a wave, like we had exchanged many times over the years. When I stood up to meet him, the sounds of the subway beneath us roared up through the ground. A smile emerged and stretched widely across his face, as he nodded to me once more, this time, fulfilled. But a few seconds passed, before one by one, they emerged, climbing the steps up from the subway underground. In their suits, ties, and long dresses, his early-morning crowd walked over, lining up to meet him again for their shared, morning routine, just as he had hoped they would. Every day, for years on end, he would be there waiting, no matter what, Rain Or Shine.
the weekly wager
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Throughout the day, you could hear the shouts and the screams, as some doubled up on their wagers, while others gambled away their share. I’ve watched them play the same games for years, yet I still haven’t come around to learning the rules. Each day, the same familiar faces appear. While some remain in the park for the entire day, others show up on their lunch break, or as they clock out from work. What always attracts me most to Columbus Park is the understanding amongst the regulars. They abide by an unspoken set of rules that each person follows loyally. In all my visits, I was never taught the order of the park, but I’ve been learning through each transgression I make; Bring a camera by the game tables, and you’ll learn, too. Along the perimeter of the front of the park, the game tables are occupied exclusively by women, who often play in the shade, under the beach umbrellas that they bring and dig into the concrete. The women keep to a low volume verbally, but their gameplay is unmistakable— if you close your eyes, you can hear the distinct sound of their cards and tiles smacking against the cold, stone tabletops. They play gracefully, but aggressively, and if you let their quiet demeanor fool you, they’ll take you for every dollar you own. On the inside of the park, the game tables are occupied by men, often in droves. You can hear their celebrations, as well as their dismay, filling the surrounding streets of Chinatown. The competition is fierce, and at many times, personal; The men tend to play against each other, just as much as they play the game itself. On this particular Friday, all eyes were on the cook, as he wagered his week’s earnings, and attracted a crowd. I couldn’t tell if those around him were rooting for him or against him at the time, as they watched along, surrounding him in rare silence. To know the outcome of his wager, you’ll have to visit the park someday and ask the cook yourself, as I’ve divulged enough. There are many unwritten rules in Columbus Park, and I’ve already broken one by sharing this story here, of The Weekly Wager.
The rally
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I was walking along on my usual route, turning off of Mosco and onto Mulberry, making my way into the southern end of the park for what felt like the thousandth time. I’m awfully consistent in my Chinatown adventures, and I often find myself at Columbus Park, a place that has always been consistent in its offerings back to me: On any given day, the front of the park is occupied by card players and gamblers, while the back of the park is dominated by ball players and jungle-gym-kids scaling the playground. On this day, though, the basketball court was uncharacteristically deserted, and the ball players were nowhere to be seen. To fill the void, I found myself peeking through the fence that peered into the playground, on the hunt for a new adventure. Guided by the sounds of a single ping pong ball being whipped across the table between the paddles of two friendly opponents, I walked around to the other side of the fence, and found an empty bench to sit on, securing my front-row seat to the rally. They must have been friends, or perhaps they just didn’t care much about winning– The game they played was less focused on scoring points than it was about keeping the ball alive. What impressed me more than their dedication to the art of the rally, was their focus, and admittedly, I was quickly losing mine; In the thirty minutes that the two of them played, tens of children zoomed through the park in unpredictable circles and zigzags all around the table. As the kids raced around, the ping pong players never lost sight of the tiny, hollow, white ball, continuing their rally. My eyes kept on shifting with the movement in the playground, yet they repeatedly landed on the same point, no matter how hard I tried to keep my eyes on the ball, too. At the jungle gym, one boy was climbing the ladder in an endless loop: He would make his way to the platform at the top of the ladder, only to come back down on the spiraling slide, again, and again, and again. While the rest of the kids played together, he played by himself, and perhaps that’s why my heart kept forcing my eyes back on to him. Each time he made it back down to the bottom, he would look up above him to the top of the slide, as if he was waiting for a friend to follow him down—but he was all alone, and I think that he knew that, too. He would pause for a brief moment there, with his feet nearly touching the ground, and he’d let out a deep breath, before continuing on his journey yet again: He’d go back up the ladder, just to come back down the slide, again, and again, and again. When the ping pong players finally called it quits, I remained at the bench, watching him, sitting in my front-row seat to The Rally.
The Flowers That Sell themselves
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This man sells beautiful flowers, full of color and life. Yet, he doesn’t pick his head up, let alone, let it hang high. His eyes, never escape the concrete. His body, glued down to the crate. I stand behind him for a moment, waiting for a nod or a wave. As the people start coming, marching through, one by one. They begin to pick his flowers, and he has not a care in the world. I think about his story, as well as the one of him that I wove. I never see his eyes, my whole vision of him is my own blur: The flower man has some life, but I don’t think he has a dream. Maybe it’s all in my head, it can’t be as bad as it seems. The Flowers That Sell Themselves.
The dark would turn to light
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She left the house a week ago, and he hadn’t left since. It wasn’t just the absence of her that kept him in their bed, but the fear and understanding that he’d have to relearn how to live. Again. Thirty three years. Twelve thousand and fifty three days. Endless memories that might not ever be experienced together again, that he knew would appear at the randomest times, as real as can be. With the shut of a door, what felt like a lifetime, vanished in a vacuum. Moments, Meals, Memories: Poof. Rambles, Rides, Rants: Poof. Life As He Knew It: Poof. Poof. Poof. A week had passed, and the newspapers were piling up against his door. The fridge was empty. His heart and his stomach, too. Blue pants, a gray shirt, and a hat that was wide enough to shield his face, not just from the sun that beamed through the clouds, but from everyone else, too. He wasn’t ready, and he knew it— but he also wondered, “Would I ever be?” He walked slowly down a few flights of stairs, one anxious step at a time, and made his way out into the world for the first time in a week: One hundred and sixty eight hours. Ten thousand and eighty minutes. All on the promise of what could be. Leaning against his cane, but a piece of wood and a rubber handle, keeping him from falling flat on the concrete. All because somewhere deep inside, he hoped: The Dark Would Turn To Light.
What you fear
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They met once again, on their bench to share a smoke. Dragging on the cigarette, that’s kept their friendship afloat. Once a week, for nearly twenty two years, two brothers, torn apart, work on a relationship that’s been shifting gears. Where one looked inside as a kid, and found himself with God, the other tried the same, but ended up thinking his brother a fraud. So as you can imagine, these days, they can’t seem to agree on very much, and when times get tough, they bear their weight on a different crutch. It took a long while, just for them to meet here. But each week, over a smoke, they try to make their broken past more clear. Their mother would tell you that her boys are two in the same, but she doesn’t see them sharing their cigarette, mending what’s left in pain. The question now is, how will they grow together, and who will they become, will they lean into their differences, or will they try to overcome? From the outside looking in, I see it all so crystal clear, it’s better to try, than to live in the reality of What You Fear.
Wash away the pain
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When he was a kid, he was certain that he would be a chef. Now, instead, he delivers fruit to the restaurants that he thought he would one day run. As he’s grown older, he thinks about those dreams less. But he’d be lying if he said that those thoughts don’t ever creep up, one by one. At the end of each day, he stacks up empty boxes on his cart. And over the years, he’s mastered the task, balancing them into an ever-changing work of art. At first, this job was nothing more than a means to an end. It put food on the table, so what more was there to comprehend? What he never imagined was just how much this job would give to him, and if he had accomplished his dreams, perhaps being walled off in the kitchen would prove to be grim. So now, those hopes from the past simply didn’t matter as much, because he got to see with his eyes, the lives that he would touch. There wasn’t a kid in the neighborhood who didn’t know his name. It wasn’t a part of the plan, but now the fruit delivery man had his own local fame: For every Friday, the kids would line up by his truck, as they waited for a piece of fruit, which they knew he always snuck. Perhaps against his morals, but for all of the right reasons, one piece of fruit from each box, he’d take, no matter the season. Good or bad, how things went, his weeks would always end the same, he could trade some fruit for a smile, and Wash Away The Pain.
The inner circle
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You could hear the whispers if you stood close enough, but stand too close, and you’ll be quickly shooed away. Anyone who frequents Columbus Park knows better than to try, but I still get closer in each visit, all the same. No one dares to truly interrupt, even though the tables are generally reserved for games. Some people look on in confusion, but those who know, glare over with a jealous gaze. Umbrellas lie haphazardly on the concrete, but they’re not as random as they may seem. They don’t serve just to shield from the sun, they’re there to block out curious people like me. Because inside there’s a meeting of the minds, a meeting that’s as secret as can be. I’ve spent years trying to figure it all out, but I often end up being forced into taking a seat. Each time in the past that I’ve pried, I’ve been reminded that it’s not my place to be. So I comply and sit on my bench from afar, watching The Inner Circle go on with its meet.
the unplugged keyboard
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He tapped, and tapped, and tapped. Tapping away on the keys of a keyboard with no sound. He was putting on a show for an audience of none, and over time, I learned that he couldn’t care less about who was listening. Lost in a sea of old toys, kitchenware, clothing, and everything in between, the flea market salesman kept one hand hovering over the keyboard, while the other wrapped around the strap of a bag sitting at his feet. For a few days straight, I visited the same market, wondering if his performance was a one-off show that I was just lucky enough to witness. Each day, though, he was there. He sat in the exact same spot I left him at last, tapping away at those same keys of the keyboard with no sound. At first, I kept my distance. But each day, my curiosity grew, and I inched closer and closer, until one morning I finally found myself right in front of his table: “How much for the keyboard?” I mustered up the courage to ask, inquiring about an instrument that I was certain was broken, about an instrument which I didn’t even know how to play. He barely acknowledged my presence, let alone my question, but as I started to retreat, I heard his faint whisper and turned right back around. For the first time in days, his fingers stopped tapping on the keys, and he motioned for me to come closer. In broken English, he said, “Today, the keyboard isn’t for sale, but maybe tomorrow. I’m finishing my performance, and I still don’t know when it will end.” I smiled at him, and in his native Hebrew, I replied, “I’ll be back tomorrow,” although I knew that I’d never step foot in the market again. His concert of none, was now a concert of one. Who am I to take away the keys? The Unplugged Keyboard.
The librarian
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It takes an hour to load the van, another to drive into the city, and one more hour to set up shop. Day in, day out, the table is set, rain or shine, seven days a week, hundreds of books, organized row by row. A book for every person, a story for every feeling, and the librarian is the key to it all. It doesn’t matter much what you are hoping to find, because this isn’t just any library, and he isn’t just any librarian. In but a minute of conversation, he’ll have you all figured out. Each person who stops by his table to buy something to read, is read themselves, too. He has a knack for understanding, and this effortless way of letting you know: You ask for one book, but he gives you another. He acknowledges that it‘s not the book that you want, but rather the book that he knows you may need. In the most difficult times of his life, he found solace in the books that he read: In others’ stories, he could escape, in others’ stories, his own became more clear. So he took it upon himself to share those lessons with the world, one book at a time, giving people the chance to find clarity in their own stories, too. The Librarian.
Walk the line
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It’s been a long day and an even longer trek for the Simitci, who has been walking his route along the Bosphorus Strait for his entire life. When he was a kid, he would go to work with his father, who sold simit, just like his father before him, too. His day started when the sun came up, and he’d be at the bakery picking up a batch of simit for the first time at around seven in the morning. By noon, on most days, he’d be back again, and on the best of days, he’d have to stop there one more time to replenish his stock sometime before four in the afternoon. Evidently, today was a good day, as he had a full and fresh selection for sale when we crossed paths near Bebek; The sun was starting to set, and he still had another five miles to go back towards his home, near the bakery in Yenikoy where his day began nearly twelve hours ago. The life of a Simitci is often consistent, and his was no different: He’d sell simit to the same fishermen, the same grandmothers who sat on the same benches, and if he was lucky, to a few random visitors walking the Bosphorus Strait, like me. With one hand wrapped around the leg of his small selling table, he’d walk up and down the Strait multiple times a day, balancing the simit atop his head, looking for mouths to feed. For under a dollar, a simit was yours, and I was quick to grab a few from him as I peered out into the water. When I started walking towards the Bosphorus Bridge, he crossed me in the other direction, this time, with a few less simit atop his head, as he was beginning his journey back towards Yenikoy yet again. As the distance between us grew, I could still hear him shouting, “Taze Simit!” (Fresh Simit!) as he would Walk The Line, closing out one day and heading home to prepare for another.
the high ground
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Jerusalem is split into four quarters, and I couldn’t say for certain which one he hailed from. A city populated with Jews, Muslims, Christians, and many others, too, each of these communities have been finding their own ways to coexist together within the city walls. The air in Jerusalem is often filled with tension, marked distinctly by a long line of history, struggles, different religions, and varying ideologies. But you wouldn’t know it if you had been there in that moment, too. I spotted him from a ways away, as he had been kicking a soccer ball atop the infamous Jerusalem limestone pavers. With no one else in sight, he played on his own, keeping busy as the summer sun beat down strongly on us both. In that moment, it was as if all of the differences that generally tear the people of Jerusalem apart didn’t exist. In that moment, it was just us, two people, from who knows where, occupying the same stretch of the road on our own respective journeys. When he reached me, he was quietly tip-toeing along the thin wall of a random concrete barrier in the city, searching for his soccer ball that he booted too far, too high, and out of sight. He was carefully looking down into the dumpster from his vantage point on The High Ground, hunting for the ball, when he should have been looking up ahead towards me, as his soccer ball was sitting still at my feet. When he finally realized, he jumped off the wall of the barrier, and onto the elevated steps beneath his feet. Then, he made another jump down, reaching the pavement on the ground, and I gently passed the ball back to him. With the biggest smile spread across his face, he kicked the ball down the road past me and continued to run along. As he flew by, he shouted, “Shukran,” which means, “Thank You,” in Arabic, and I shouted back, “Bevakasha,” which means, “You’re Welcome,” in Hebrew, and the day was suddenly complete.
through the times
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He was walking through the City of Tzfat, making his way back home. A devout man listening to music, with earbuds plugged into his phone. It was Sunday afternoon, and though the week was anew, What would ensue in the days ahead, he didn’t yet have a clue. Even if for him, most days were all the same, life was always moving, and he was expecting some welcomed change. In a City marked by history, where mysticism and art hold all the fame, in Tzfat, the lineage of religion runs deep, and that’s from where he came. He was born into it all, like many others, too. His family’s history cemented there, since the Inquisition in 1492. A black hat, black clothes, and a pair of black shoes. He wanted so badly to get back, as he was awaiting some news: His wife was pregnant again, and another baby girl was on the way. So he walked, and walked, and walked, and along the road, he stopped to pray. For his wife, for his children, for his daughter, still unborn, without a name, thinking back on those who came before him, and all that they overcame. Through The Times.
The Man and the Mini
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They’ve all seen the man and his car, but not many know his name. He barely fits inside the mini, with his broad shoulders and his big frame. A cigar perched between his lips, as old tunes roar out from the car. The stories of the man and the mini, circulate the city of Tel Aviv, both near and far. The mini could use some care, as he often learns from the honks. They think he’s moving too slow, but to him, the mini is free of faults. An urban legend of sorts, the man and the mini have garnered fame. And it’s all so funny to me, because I actually know the man’s name: His name is Uncle Ely, and he always calls me, “Kid.” Together in the mini, we’ve covered so much of the grid. We’ve jump started the tiny blue car, more times than I can count. All the times I’ve squished into the back seat, I rather not recount. Sometimes people curse us off, while others smile and wave, no matter what it is, The Man And The Mini warrant a worthy exchange.
From the Ruins
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The neighborhood is often deserted, and the few who live there tend to hide in the shade. Tucked away above the town of Taormina, Castelmola is a commune where a lot of history was laid. For the thousand or so who call it home, perhaps they just want to catch a break. Because up there, lost in the hills, there isn’t much at stake. I think I’ll find my way back there, I’d love a week, just to paint. On the hilltop of Castelmola, existing with little restraint. Living how I do, it’s so easy to forget, that there’s more to life than the hustle, and Castelmola reminded me best. What’s it all worth, if at times, you can’t even catch your breath? Then you sit on the edge, overlooking the water, take a break, and reassess. When I made my way back down, I vowed to not forget, how sweet life can be, if you leave behind all the rest. From The Ruins, Castelmola lived on, so I will do the same, and keep on pushing along, no matter the time or the place.
The City's Sanctuary
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Where else could you go, in New York City to find some peace? I’ve searched far and wide, but replacing Minetta Lane is no small feat. Once you turn in, from where Sixth and Bleeker meet, you’re met with the facade, of the buildings that wall off the street. I often find myself there, sitting on the same stoop, burning one down, working thoughts through. The silence is special, the silence is rare. In the City that never sleeps, Minetta Lane remains quiet and bare. The first time that I visited, I was in company of the late and great Rickster, who left us too soon, but through this, he lives on with us. I’ll never forget, the exact words that he said: “Minetta Lane is The City’s Sanctuary,” and in my visits, I try to honor that. So each time I go back, I sit on that same stoop, reflecting on life, and all there is to do. Then I quickly remind myself why I turned onto Minetta in the first place, I take a deep breath, Keep it Moving, and shift perspective with a new grace.
A Distant Past
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From where he stood now, all he saw was what had passed: A life long lived, but what kind of life was that? He hadn’t been around, not nearly as much as he would have liked, but if he didn’t want this present, why didn’t he stay and fight? The questions he was circling, served him so little now, as he was diving back in time, fixating on things that were no longer about. By the time he picked up the pieces, the life he knew was so far gone. Meddling with lost time, and he didn’t know how to keep on. His kids, moved across the sea, his wife, laid in her grave, his friends, they moved on, the man had lost his whole way. So he stood there all alone, praying for a better day. But he had brought himself here, the result of the choices he had made. Looking back now, he would do it all so different. How clear it all became, as he peered out into the distance. A Distant Past.
Into The Unknown
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From where he stood now, all he saw was what might be had: He had no clue where to begin, but what other choice did he have? He spent too much of his time lately, thinking about the past. But now it was time to move on, and pave his new path. For the first time in years, he was starting from scratch. But he didn’t feel as excited, by the opportunity to patch. To patch up all the holes, that weighed him down everyday. Healing from what had passed, he had to find a way. Perhaps he’d love again. Perhaps he’d see his kids. Perhaps he’d find joy. Perhaps he’d be fulfilled. Staring out into the field, it all still felt so dim. But all he had to do was walk along, and put himself out on a limb. Vulnerability isn’t easy, especially all alone. But that’s the walk of life, when you’re walking Into The Unknown.
Odd Man Out
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He made his way down the road, and brought his scooter to a screeching halt. He set his helmet down on the bench, and sat alone in the park. With his hands on his lap, feet dangling in the air. He tilted his head down, looked forward and stared. I know what it’s like, to be the odd man out. But he had to learn for himself, what it’s all about. We all go through those moments, of confusion and despair. Where nothing feels right, and unanswered goes every prayer. Those times are never easy, and as permanent as they may seem, being the Odd Man Out is but temporary, fading fast like a bad dream.
his own world
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He knew what it was like, to be all alone, but since then, he’s grown up, and found himself on the throne. It might not look like much, but to him it’s quite great. No neighbors, no favors, he chalked it all up to fate. So he rules this small land, running it all on his own, a beat down truck on the grass, but a place to call home. Just behind him in the distance, all the waves of the deep blue sea, but he never glances back, looking forward at all that could be. The past is the past, and what hurt, should never again be. He promised himself that, from his throne, in his new seat. His Own World.
amongst friends
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They’ve been friends since before they could walk, and together they’ve walked through life. These two have always been inseparable, except for that one big fight. The fight was a whole lot of nothing, but back then it set off waves. As a result, their mothers stopped talking, and the two boys weren’t allowed to play. For the first time in their lives, they had to figure it all out alone, and for all the wrong reasons, they had to endure it on their own. But amongst friends, there’s always hope, and amongst friends, there’s a time and a place. But amongst friends, it hurts the most, and amongst friends, the greater the pain. Perhaps it doesn’t matter now, but looking back, it’s still such a shame. They let their differences tear them apart, and for that, they’re both to blame. Amongst Friends.
the road less traveled
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For the first time in their lives, they both left home. So who with, but with each other, to travel the globe? Their friendship began, before they could walk. Along the way there have been challenges, but not enough to tear them apart. Not in permanence anyways, even if there was once a scare. On The Road Less Traveled, they’d be forced to prevail. Together they explored, venturing into the unknown. Out there, they found themselves, out there, they had grown. The two kids walked on, towards a fork in the road, and they decided to go left, against what their map showed. Both roads were undefined, but to them, they were one and the same. And no matter the route they took, they’d only have themselves to blame. What happened next, I can’t be trusted to tell, because trailing behind them, I went right, journeying into the unknown, as well.
Audience of None
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Nearly fifty years ago, he was the star of the school band. Ever since he could remember, he held the first chair. The highest honor bestowed, for the musician who played best. The seat was always his, reserved for the man and his clarinet. As he grew older, he played his tunes all the same, but the crowds became smaller, and he failed to find his place. He practiced and practiced, he played and played, but one day he started to feel, that it was all just a big waste. He often found himself wondering, how much more could he try, to share his music with the world, while they paid him no mind. Then one day he remembered, all the reasons for which he did play, and when he sat again in his chair, out the music came, For An Audience of None.
Audience of some
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Nearly fifty years had passed, since he held first chair. When he was young, he was a star, and the leader of the band. In between, it all faded, his dreams, they fell apart. He grew tired of playing alone, for but an audience of none. Then one day he took the leap, went to the yard, and grabbed a chair. He packed his bag, his clarinet, and set up along the stairs. Deep in the streets of Jerusalem, he thought he’d give it all another try, playing for the many people, who might just happen to walk by. Here out in the world, thousands passed by him as they explored. Once in a while a person would stop, and that’s when the man felt at home. Perhaps it wasn’t much, but to him, it was a dream. With an Audience of Some, the man once again felt free.
Judgment Day
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At the gates of heaven, the angels know no face, and from the comfort of his seat, the man was set to be judged. With one hand on his lap, he leans to the side while he waits, while the other hand wraps around the handle of his umbrella, through which his weight firmly presses into the cloudy ground. Judgment Day was here, and with the grace of God, he’d find his way home. And if his own judgments of those that he lost were correct, through the gates, he’d be reunited with those that he loved. A life long lived was to be assessed at once, in a vacuum, and the longer he sat there, the more he found himself wondering if he had done enough. It was of little use now, as it was all out of his hands. So he sat at the gates of heaven waiting, seated firmly in his chair.
At The Devil's Door
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At the devil’s door, the demons know no face, anxious but strong in his seat, the man was set to be judged. With one hand on his lap, he leans to the side while he waits, while the other hand wraps around the handle of his umbrella, through which his weight firmly presses into the cold and hellish ground. Judgment day was here, and with any luck, eternity would look nothing like this scene. And if his own judgments of those that he lost were correct, through the devil’s door, waited no one that he loved. A life long lived was to be assessed at once, in a vacuum, and the longer he sat there, the more he found himself wondering if he had done enough. It was of little use now, as it was all out of his hands. So he sat At The Devil’s Door waiting, seated firmly in his chair.
Early Dismissal
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The best gifts are unexpected, and an unplanned Early Dismissal takes the crown. Their parents had no idea that school was out, and for the first time, they’d be free, with no one around. They grabbed the loose papers that lay scattered across their desks, fitting all that they could into his backpack, carrying in their hands all the rest. The entire class flooded out of the room all at once, and the three of them made their way into the long hallway that was just beyond the door. Walking along, between the rows of lockers that lined both sides, they jumped from tile to tile, laughing aloud, as they were only now beginning to comprehend the unusual reality they now found themselves in. When they reached the end of the hallway, they stopped in their tracks, looking at each other, with the silliest smirks spread across each of their faces, just before thrusting open the school’s front door. Far too young to have much of a clue, the three boys went on their way, unsure of what to do.
field trip
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Freedom is an awfully grave responsibility, and the three boys took it upon themselves to make the most of their newfound independence: School was out, their parents had no clue, and suddenly the world was theirs for the taking. They spent so much time dreaming about a situation like this, and now that it was here, it quickly became evident that they never thought about what they’d actually do when the opportunity arose. Just a few blocks away from school was Jerusalem’s Yehuda Market, and that’s where they chose to go. In the market, they pooled together the little lunch money they had, and as unsupervised kids do, they spent it all at the candyman’s table. They drafted their choices, one by one, until they filled the clear, plastic bag that the seller gave them. With a proper sugar rush and a mighty stomach ache weighing each of them down, they walked on, slowly making their way to the other side of the market. With all of Jerusalem ahead of them to explore, at the exit, they faced a problem they were becoming all too familiar with at this point: Now what? They didn’t have a plan when they left school, and still they made it all the way to and through the market, so they thought it might be best to stay the course and continue to explore. They wandered aimlessly, crossing into neighborhoods they didn’t know well enough, linking arms, marching along, celebrating the unbelievable day of freedom and adventure that they shared together. Then suddenly, one of the boy’s phones started to ring, and before he answered, he looked over to his friends, and together they all accepted that their Field Trip had come to an end.
the Sunday Paper
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His Sunday routine was particularly consistent, and today was no different than usual. Not yet, at least. He made his way down the stairs from his apartment and walked to the bodega around the corner. There, he was greeted, as he often was, by the bodega cat that was sprawled out on the floor near the door. He made his way to the back of the store, poured a fresh cup of black coffee, chased it with a splash of milk, and grabbed The Sunday Paper. After settling up at the counter, he pulled his cart out the door, and his day was set to begin. As always, though, he stopped for a moment to flip through the pages of the paper, seeing if anything would catch his eye, and on this Sunday, he wished that he would have broken that routine. On page eight were words printed that he hoped to never read. When he first moved to the States, he worked at “Robert’s,” just as the rest of his friends did. To some, perhaps it wasn’t much, but to him, it was a new chance at life. He spent fifteen years there, slowly rising through the ranks, while simultaneously assimilating to his new country, finding community, seizing opportunity, and earning an honest living. Over the years, he and Robert became closer and closer, and the day that he told Robert that he was moving on to a new job was the most difficult day he had faced since he decided to leave his family, his country, and his home. Until now, that is: “Neighborhood fixture and “Robert’s” owner found dead in his Chinatown apartment,” read the bolded words on page eight. So much for consistency, Sunday.
Silence In The City
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The man read the bolded headline printed across page eight of The Sunday Paper nearly fifty times, but no matter how many times he read them, the words wouldn’t change; Robert was gone. The tears rolled down his face long after he put the paper down in his cart, and they would continue to pour out from his eyes for weeks to come. The first location of “Robert’s” was the last place he wanted to be, but before he could justify to himself why he should just go home, he was already boarding the J Train heading towards Canal Street, just as he did thousands of times over the fifteen years that he worked there. When he emerged from the stairs of the subway station and out onto the street, he instantly slipped back into the past, replaying better days in his mind, the days where Robert would be standing outside of the restaurant smoking a cigarette, asking him, “Why are you late?” no matter what time it was. In that memory, he escaped the heavy present, but that moment of deja vu was fleeting just as fast as his heart was beating, and so he carried on towards the last place he wanted to be. He walked down Centre Street, paying the man who changed his life the respect that he deserved. When he arrived, he reached into his cart and opened The Sunday Paper to page eight one last time. When he read those words again there, he found himself in an odd state of peace, a feeling that felt both improbable and impossible since the moment he walked out of the bodega earlier in the morning with his coffee and paper. Not a single car or cab drove by while he stood there, and the sidewalks that were so often filled with people were uncharacteristically empty. An unplanned and unexpected moment of silence rang through the Chinatown streets in honor of Robert, and suddenly there was Silence In The City.
A Heavy Heart
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Every morning when she walked out the door, his worry would begin anew, and in the last few weeks, that worry grew and grew. Each day was a bit different, as the information steadily changed, but she had a job to do, and wouldn’t let anything stand in her way. She’s been a doctor in the city, for nearly twenty years, but for the first time in her life, she went to work in fear. Her duty was to heal, her job was to save, but he struggled to accept how she risked her life now every day. Then just a few hours ago, he got the call he hoped to evade: His wife had gotten sick, and they didn't know if she’d be okay. He knew he couldn’t help her, and that was the worst part. So he packed her a small bag, and walked to the hospital with A Heavy Heart.
Memories From Home
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He was walking down the streets of the Two Bridges Neighborhood holding back the tears with each step that he took, as his wife lay sick, all alone in a hospital bed. The one thing that kept him calm, was that he knew that she was in good hands, since she was admitted as a patient in the hospital where she usually received care. A doctor of twenty years, and now the roles were suddenly reversed, as her colleagues took care of her, and in them, he put all the trust in the world. But still that wasn’t enough, and he worried that she was in pain, so he journeyed to the hospital, hoping to see her once again. He held a bag close to his side, and inside were gifts for her. He knew they wouldn’t fix her, but he wanted to bring her comfort with Memories From Home. When he had finally arrived, his vision began to fade to black, as the stress ramped up, and all he thought of was how he’d give her his hand. Just as quickly, though, he forced himself to overcome, and when he reached for the door, he was stopped by a security guard in a mask. The guard calmly but firmly told him that no visitors were allowed, since the virus was spreading fast, and things were getting out of control. He fought and made a scene, screaming while he pleaded his case, but behind him was a line of concerned people, who were turned away and told the same. Against his wishes, he was forced to leave the bag for his wife at the door, so he started to make his way back, praying for his wife’s return home.
The Escape
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For the entire last year, nothing felt right. Since Mom and Dad disappeared nearly eleven months ago, the two brothers have been trying to piece together even the smallest bits of truth, and at the foster home they were sent to, no one ever cared to explain. The master plan was devised by the younger of the two, and surprisingly, the older brother approved of the plan. They vowed that if they made it out, they would look for the answers to the questions that consumed them for so long, but they’d find the time to enjoy their freedom along the way, too. Young, but ahead of their time, they seemed to think that they had it all figured out, and as I soon would learn– they did. On one rainy night in May, after two months of planning, they each slipped out the back door separately, meeting together at a park just down the street. It was four in the morning, the sun would soon rise, and they had to find their way out of the neighborhood before they would be found and brought back to the exact place they had worked so hard to escape from, or worse. Their adventure was only now beginning, and they knew they’d eventually leave Israel if they couldn’t find any clues. If their hunt proved to be unfruitful there, they planned to head towards Turkey, where their father was born, in hopes of solving the mystery, or at the very least, inching closer to the truth. What ensued in the months ahead for the two of them was nothing short of absurd, and though I could only account for a few moments along the way, I would hear stories of the two brothers in all my travels, as our paths seemed to be deeply intertwined. The first time I spotted them was in a schoolyard in Yafo just a few weeks later, when I didn’t yet know who they were. But it’s best that I save that story for another day, as I continue to mull over The Escape.
Dream Bigger, Reach Higher
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I heard the shouts from a few blocks away, and I followed them all the way to the open gates of the neighborhood schoolyard. I thought I’d walk in and find a crowd, as from afar, I heard the voices of many, but when I arrived, there were only two. They were brothers, dressed nearly identical, with but a few years in age and inches in height setting them apart. As I sat on the ground, toeing the baseline on the other side of the court, I quietly watched as they ran imaginary plays, commentating their every move. They were playing a game of basketball, but there was no ball in sight. After a few minutes of running around, laughing, and screaming some more, the younger of the two abruptly hurled up a shot and yelled out to his brother as he circled the court victoriously. They were celebrating a victory the world would never know about. Winning a game that never truly took place. And without a word or a gesture, the brothers made their way to the middle of the foul line, interlocking their fingers with one hand, while shooting the other straight to the sky, pointing up at something that only they could see. As they stood there, with their feet planted, exchanging whispers I couldn’t hear, I slowly got up, turned around, and made my way back out of the schoolyard and into the busy streets of Yafo. Like the two brothers, I’ve been playing a game that I don’t have the ball to, either. They seemed to have found a reason to celebrate, though, and perhaps it’s time I do the same. Dream Bigger, Reach Higher.
The Bosphorus Blue
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They finally arrived to Turkey, and I’m still struggling to imagine how. The last time I saw them was in a schoolyard in Yafo, and by now, the whole country was searching for them. And still, there they were, right in front of my eyes, in a different country than where I saw them last. Admittedly, when we first crossed paths, I didn’t even know who they were, and ignorance absolved me of guilt. But I soon learned of their escape, I learned of their story, and this time, from a boat sailing along the Bosphorus Strait in Istanbul, staring right at them, I was complicit as ever. They stood on a shallow and small patch of concrete that sprouted with bits of grass, with an entire waterfront town up ahead to explore, bringing their journey to a new phase that would hopefully yield more information, too. They evidently learned little about their parents' disappearance while they explored through Israel, and had moved on to Turkey, as they always planned to, to see if their parents retreated to the country where the boys’ father was born. The boys’ faces were shared on every screen across the Middle East, and in all of Europe, too, and those constant reminders did make me feel a small bit of shame for not reporting my sighting after coming to know their truth. But really, who was I to take them off their path? Admittedly, I did hear rumors of their near capture before I left Israel for Turkey, too, but near is all that it ever was, and the proof was right in front of me. My lack of action didn’t mean that I didn’t worry, though, as I knew that the two brothers had quite the journey ahead, venturing through a country they never visited, where people spoke a language neither of them knew. I started to wonder if my evaluation was all wrong– perhaps their adventure needed to be put to a stop– but honestly, no matter the ration or the reason, I couldn’t bring myself to make the call, and when our boat continued to travel down the Strait, I convinced myself that I was in the right. I wondered if I’d ever see them again, but history proved that I most definitely would. So I absolved myself of guilt yet again, and left them to explore the land along The Bosphorus Blue.
Judah
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Judah went on and traveled the globe on his own, No older than seven, he marched on, all alone. Black pants, a blue shirt, and a kippah on his head, God was always with him, no matter where he went. A curious mind, he knew he had to leave home, as he was searching for truths, that led him into the unknown. It wasn’t easy to leave behind, all his family and friends. But he was looking for answers, and one day he’d make amends. When we first crossed paths, I spotted him on Rabbi Akiva Street, making his way through Bnei Brak, but we didn’t yet meet. I had a lot of questions, that I chose to hold back, as it didn’t seem fair, to interrupt the boy on his path. Our story was far from finished, as in the next week I would learn. We’d cross paths a few more times, as his story would continue to turn. In Bnei Brak I’d see him soon, Then again, lost in Sicily. Judah always stayed true, as he continued to unravel his mystery.
The Only Way Is Through
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The older one buried his head in a book, while the younger one walked the city streets with curiosity. Where one found familiar comfort, the other journeyed on. The minutes passed, but neither of them changed their course: the reader read, and the explorer explored. Just as the reader turned to the final page in his book, he glanced over at the clock hanging on the school building across the street, and his face suddenly flooded to white. Not a second later, he let the book that he was holding up between his hands slip right through his fingers. And in an instant, he was gone. The reader was sprinting down the street but a few blocks away when he blazed past the explorer, who was entirely unphased. The explorer maintained the same slow and steady pace that I saw him walking along with just before. While the reader may have gotten ahead, he was really just catching up from behind. In my time, I have been both the reader and the explorer: The reader in me fears the day when I put down my book and realize just how far the world has moved along without me, while the explorer in me moves along with the world. There’s a balance to be found between the two, but for now, these kids made it quite clear: The world never stops moving when we do, does it? The reader never even got to finish the last page of his book. The Only Way Is Through.
A Day In Savoca
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You could hear a pin drop, but soon I heard footsteps: In the quiet village of Savoca, even footsteps sounded like a stampede. He turned the corner, clutching a bag in his hand, and headed towards a bend in the road that led deep into the village, to an unknown which my eyes simply couldn’t see. I had no idea where he came from, and I had no idea where he was going, but as the villagers closed the doors to their homes, and the few shop owners in the neighborhood turned out their lights, he blazed on through the street. Everyone folded one by one, yet he pushed on, creating echoes that bounced off the walls of the town with every step he took. I saw a shadow of myself in him. But there I was, watching idly, standing still. I was nearly twice his size and more than three times his age. He was a shadow of myself that I once knew. When he faded into the distance, those footsteps somehow grew louder and louder, screaming at me. And before I knew it, I was walking again, too, deep into the village where my eyes couldn’t see. Thanks for saving me, me. It was just A(nother) Day In Savoca.
lost in sicily
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By now, we had come to know each other by name, as our paths had become so deeply connected. Our similar journeys began in Bnei Brak, and fate brought us together more than once along the eastern coast of Sicily. So while I was traveling through Forza d’Agro, I wasn’t surprised to see him again there, too. Over the last few months, the two of us embarked on mirrored treks, hunting for truth. I prayed that one day we’d met again to share all that we learned on our respective adventures, but as I felt in our prior run-ins together, now just wasn’t the time– as we both were still well on our way. In this latest meeting, I took the time to reflect on both his explorations as well mine, though my perceptions of his growth perhaps reflected my own more than they did of his, as we hadn’t yet had the time to talk it all through. But still, I reflected all the same: When the Reader blew past him on the streets of Bnei Brak, he didn’t bat an eye, and he kept his pace. When he ventured through the village of Savoca, he stayed true to his commitment of exploring the unknown. Here, though, Lost In Sicily, I got the feeling that his journey was beginning anew, and I wondered where and when I’d see him again, in the future, too.
From Ravello With Love
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Just outside the window, swimming in the Tyrrhenian Sea, was her whole life’s path, laid out for her to see. From childhood memories, which she was certain were long gone, to mistakes that she’s made, and the moments where she pushed on. Her husband and her kids, waded in that water, too. Far beyond, the sharks circled, out in the ocean blue: All that she never accomplished, all that she hoped she would get to. From the window up on the cliffs, she got to see how fast life flew. She could always do more, and that’s a feeling we all share, but in life, ticks a clock, to which we’re hardly aware. From Ravello With Love, it all became clear, and now it was time for her to start, connecting again with all that she holds dear.
Smoke Break
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Two buses, one train, and a long walk, just to get to work. When he’d clock out, he’d do it all again, but this time, in reverse: A long walk, one train, and two buses, just to get home. Each day, his routine was the same, six times a week, year after year, steady with no change. His only true break, came over a smoke, and though several times a day, he was allotted no more than five minutes per toke. He often lit his cigarette, in sync with the first ring from his phone, spending that time making calls, talking with anyone who would fill the void of being alone. For twelve hours straight, he stood on his feet, working away there, just to make ends meet. I came to see him a few times, over the years, and once, we even shared a cigarette, never exchanging words, while we smoked away our fears. Smoke Break.
Between Two Worlds
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Where the smooth square tiles met the stony steps, he could take the leap if only he tried. He could shift so seamlessly into a new world, but only if he found purpose in making the stride. For years he brought himself to that same point, teetering between what was and what could be. Weighing all that he’d have to leave behind, in exchange for finally being free. A cigar sat lit in his mouth, and with every step, out came the smoke, as he tip-toed along the line, fighting between the slumber and being woke. Woke to all of the truths, of all the feelings that stirred inside. In the pits deep in his stomach, where he knew those thoughts were rarely lies. But still he asked himself, “If not now, when was the time?” All his life he ran away, But would he ever face the truth and make the climb? Easier said than done, but when did he ever find meaning in moments of ease? For how much longer could he live in doubt? For how much longer would he hide in fear? Between Two Worlds.
Sundays In The SHuk
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They lived on opposite ends of the country now, but once a week, they’d meet together here. Money was never the goal, and thankfully so, because they never made much, anyways. The Shuk was a place that they both held close to their hearts, and it served as a memory of their shared past: As kids, they used to run through the market together, sifting through everyone else’s junk, buying up all that they could. In truth, their purchases held little purpose, and they would stash their treasures away in their grandfather’s apartment, forget all about them, and come back again the next week to do the same. Over the years, their collection grew and grew, and nearly thirty years later, all of their purchases found utility for the first time: The two of them decided to set up shop in the market themselves, with all of the items that they collected in the past. Sundays In The Shuk meant time spent together, healing and renewing a friendship that had long gone astray; If even one kid stopped at their stand, just as they stopped at seller’s tables as children themselves, their long drives to Yafo to set up shop together were well worth it. So every Sunday they showed up, giving life to the past that they once shared, and sharing with the kids who came to browse their collection, that reminded them so much of themselves.
The Alleys Of Florentine
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Hidden throughout the neighborhood of Florentine, deep in the depths off the beaten path, are tens of abandoned alleys frequented by so few. Nestled between the low walls of the decrepit buildings, just a short walk away from the Mediterranean Sea, he walked the graffiti-filled alleys on his own. Dressed in all blue, the young man, no older than thirty, placed his hands in his pockets, and ventured the dirt roads in solitude. With so much of his life still ahead of him, he found himself reflecting on all that had passed. Things in his present were just fine, and his priorities set for the future were well aligned. In that moment alone, though, he dove back, picking apart the pieces of his past that he could no longer change. As unhealthy a habit as it may seem, looking back helped him come to terms with the time that had elapsed, the mistakes he made along the way, and how he could improve as he would try to pave a new and meaningful path. He had everything that he needed, but still he had holes, because even when you have it all, it doesn’t mean that you won’t want more. On his walk through The Alleys Of Florentine, he weighed it all out on the scale, finding meaning in what was long gone, balancing it out with how he’d choose to prevail.
Traversing A Foreign Land
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They placed themselves so strategically, as if they were manning a ship. The captain stood tall in the front, barking orders to the team behind him that was pushing their vessel along. The smallest of the crew held on tightly to one side, trying his best to steer the ship’s direction, adjusting course quickly each time the captain ordered him to. In the back, stood the anchors. They dug their feet into the concrete with all their might, and while they worked the hardest, they laughed the loudest, too. There were seven of them in all, seven kids from Jerusalem. They were dressed in their best Friday clothes, venturing through unchartered territory along the streets of Manhattan’s Chinatown, alone. They had no interest in familiarity, willingly turning corners leading them to backstreets of endless unknowns. Intrigued, I rode the waves of their ship, following along from a distance as they waded through the New York City streets that I knew so well. In an instant, though, I became one of them: A stranger, Traversing A Foreign Land.
His Own Mirror
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Walking amongst the sequoia trees that stretched over twenty stories high, he humbled himself against the forest’s eerie yet soothing silence. Having escaped the big city and all of its noise, he forced himself to take a few hours to retreat in peace. Standing just a few inches shy of six feet in height, he was but an ant, marching through the towering green terrain, consciously losing himself in nature. Coming here was a part of an intentional escape, and he got all dressed up accordingly to fit the bill. With a washed out bucket hat shading him from the sun, and a giant canteen in his hand, he ventured deeper and deeper into the park, interrogating truths the further he trekked on. He came to explore with an open mind, and for the first time in years, he was accepting of all that he would come to realize. With a few necessary breaks along his adventure, taken to let out and wipe away the tears, he faced himself In His Own Mirror, and one by one, overcame each and every fear. The journey to confront truth, rooted in the most honest depths, wasn’t for the faint hearted, and over the years, he’d come to learn that best.
The Prince Of Prince Street
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He had been smoking cigarettes on the ledges of Soho buildings for decades, long before the days where luxury reigned there. He so vividly remembered the grit that the neighborhood once embodied, and admittedly, he’d trade that, for this, anyday. Aside from the few artists that still lined up along Prince Street to sell their works, he came to terms with the fact that his favorite city blocks had lost their touch. And even though Fanelli’s still held the corner of Prince and Mercer, to him, nothing felt the same: The Soho that he remembered had soul, and through the decades, the neighborhood seemed to root itself in all the wrong fame. Still, The Prince Of Prince Street felt the need to show up, all the same. While the days that he cherished from the past were long gone, the prince came around once in a while to smoke a cigarette on the ledge, reflecting with a black beanie on, in place of a coronet on his head.
The Lines Blurred
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They walked right on by, past younger versions of themselves, and if they only stopped and looked to the side, they’d see it all so well. It wasn’t so long ago, that the two of them were but kids, though now the world looked so different to them, on account of all of the experiences through which they lived. At the root, the older and the younger, the four of them were quite the same: They hailed from the same neighborhood, growing up under a similar frame. The younger of the four, appeared to be more devout, but it was in fact Purim, and that instilled some doubt. I couldn’t make it out, from all the way across the street. What was all the rage? Who were they off to meet? On the holiday anything goes, no matter what the age. and as the older two went on their way, the younger two stayed on the rides and played. The laughs roared over the music, that filled the streets of Williamsburg, where at times it’s hard to feel anything but religion, but today The Lines Blurred.
Known To Bluff
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Their tradition held strong, and every week they’d meet at the park. The same old crew, that often played until dark. Many of them had been friends, since the childhood years, and they’d gotten to know each other’s tells, but his, they always feared. When he lit a cigarette, and made a fist with his left hand, they all knew they were in trouble, and it was best to change their plan. He kept them all on edge, as once in a while, he was Known To Bluff, lighting a cigarette just because, making a fist, and looking tough. I’d come to know his tell, too, and over the last few weeks, I watched him dupe them time and time again, while they’d scramble for new techniques. The best part about his play, was that this time, he really had them won, and they didn’t know what to trust, as he smiled widely, laughing, knowing the game was done.
The Family Business
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I heard the rumors about the man, but I had to see him again for myself. He kept The Family Business alive, pushing aside everything else. In his own right he was accomplished, educated with a few degrees, but when his father passed away, he made the decision with unexpected ease. He had traveled the whole world, and though he thought he knew a lot, in the storefront out on the street, that’s where he was truly taught. There he learned about people, there he learned about life, there he sharpened all of his tools, and out there, he learned to fight. To fight for his family, for all that he knew to be true, in the most unlikely place, he grew, and grew, and grew. It never was his dream, as they all always knew, but when that day came, he knew he had to do. So every day in Yafo, he’d come and open up the shop, Except for on the Sabbath, just as his father would want.