Seen on the streets of Brooklyn.
(Daily photo provided by Dasco)
“NEV1 SMART Crew took it to MBW on Houston again, a month after POBE MPH first took the spot back. MBW went over a 3 year old R.I.P burner to Meghan that had been painted by BASE MPH and RSON.
NEV1 came and gave an anniversary shout to Meagan. Same person?
Either way, it is nice to see MBW and his disrespectful ass being covered.”
In a city this size somebody is bound to die at some point. If you’re lucky you will be remembered with a memorial by friends. If you live in my neighborhood you will be remembered as long as the candles stay lit and the half filled bottles of cheap liquor and backwash only previously poured onto sidewalk stay upright, not drank by the homeless, kicked over, discarded, or snowed on.
Murals in Flatbush…
Michael Mararian killed it Friday night with “Les Enfantes Diabolique” at McCaig Welles Gallery in Brooklyn. Nobody paints blood like Michael. If you missed last week’s interview with him, definitely check it out here.
Steve Lew, Michael Mararian, Laura Robertson, Kevin Bourgeois, Dasco
(Photo credits: Laura E. Robertson)
It was early last Saturday morning when I went back to visit a neighborhood I used to live in. Home was a room on the third floor of a brownstone on the corner of 116th and 1st Avenue. Its across the street from the funeral parlor and around the corner from the liquor store. My girlfriend was volunteering on East 125th St helping kids get their flu shots that Saturday. I dropped her off and walked in the rain down to a boisterous street full of first generation immigrant Mexican families. I remember eating quesadillas on the street for $3.00. As I approached the block I can see yellow tape and police cars past the produce market.
Above the street Puerto Rican and Mexican flags are still tethered like a laundry line over parked cars and busy feet.
Murals still attempt the inevitable need of equilibrium that always confronts any diaspora.
The sky is gray and the signs are even more worn down than I remember…
I see an old neighbor but he doesn’t recognize me anymore. We walk past one another. Many people have told me that New York is a world of nostalgia. An inevitable longing for a time past that is a constant notion of any city that moves as fast as this one. The now and again mention of subway tokens and days before Starbucks owned Manhattan always provide a nice moment for people to reminisce. So in the tradition of this city I bid farewell to one of the last authentic pockets in the five boroughs. Moving at the speed of light like so many I duck out of the rain and into the four train and head back to Brooklyn.
Black Diamond Bay @ Southpaw. Brooklyn
The Noisettes @ Rehab. NYC.
(Photography by Heidi Greenwood)
Its a tuesday morning on a November fourth and the skies are gray over Flatbush, Brooklyn. The community is stirred up unusually early because today is a day of a presidential election full of anxiety. Lines wrap around Public School 92. Blocks are filled and sidewalks are crowded. I shuffle my feet slowly for around forty five minutes until I part dusty black drapes and step inside an archaic voting machine. I cast my ballot for Barack Obama and Joe Biden. I run my hand down voting for anyone with the word “Democrat” next to their name. I’ve put up with too much in the past eight years. I don’t know who these people are but I am bitter, and hoping for something better.
The day tires down and I’m staring at my television back at my apartment in Flatbush. NBC switches to local news. Obama has just won Ohio and Florida is too close to call. I am in disbelief. It was in Ohio after all where I protested George Bush’s invasion of Iraq. I have been wearing the tee shirt from the art school I attended there. I wore it often while protesting. It stays on me the entire day under my jacket. The local news says there is an important announcement and then there are fireworks on my t.v. and I’m shaking my girlfriends leg saying: “Baby, baby! are you awake for this? Do you see this?”
There is shouting in the halls of my building. I can hear shouting from the street. People walk into the hallways and began slamming their doors repeatedly. People are grabbing anything… anything to make noise. The streets roar. Old ladies scream “We Did It! Oh My God We Did It!” from the floor above. Friends tell me there were gun shots over Bedstuy. I’ll tell you those gunshots echoed over Crown Heights and came my way. The television reads “Barack Obama 44th President.” A tat tat ta rings out from the hall. It sounds like someone is shooting in my lobby. Tat tat ta again from the street. I’ll tell you I never understand why people fire guns in celebration but I heard three guns fire over Flatbush that night. An emotion sweeps over my community. Fear is not even possible to feel now. The gun shots go unnoticed. I tell Brooklyn its okay. We forgive your ignorance. We’ve got more important things on our mind. Tonight is a night of celebration. Tonight is like a night I have never seen.
When I finally come to my senses I feel like I have just woken up from a dream. This has got to be a dream. All of the ignorance under the reign of Bush is coming to an end. All of the violations of civil rights and the constitution is coming to an end. All of the harassment ensued while protesting Bush’s war feels like it is vanishing. I feel dignified again. America feels dignified again. I have never been more proud to be an American. Quote me on that. Soon I know a new mural will be added to PS 92 in Brooklyn. We need this…