Michael Hearst’s book for children—a collection of profiles of odd animals—is as unique as its title suggests. The format, Hearst says, is a less dry form of the mail order Safari Cards sold on TV when he was a kid. Each profile tells us the Kingdom, Phylum, Class, Order, Family, Genus and Species of the animal, the geographical location, and just what makes it so unusual.  For example, the Hammer-headed is a loud-mouth and has a honk that rivals most car alarms. While Unusual Creatures is loaded with information, Hearst’s writing style is clear and easy to understand. It’s perfect for a young audience, and yet if you read the other essays he’s written for grown-ups, you’ll see that he hasn’t really changed his natural voice all that much. There’s no condescension, but there are plenty of jokes—fart jokes, poop jokes, vomit jokes, all the requisites for nine year olds.

But none of the joking around gets in the way of all the cool information. Despite his insatiable creative urge, and his editor’s initial reluctance, Hearst had no interest in making anything up. The truth was far too interesting. “I don’t want to make up a fake animal. I don’t want to have a real animal and make up fake information about it. That’s just not cool!” He promised his editor that a purely factual book, presented imaginatively, would be far more interesting. And he was right.

Unusual Creatures is fun nonfiction, which is in high demand right now. Its release this past fall was perfectly timed with the implementation of the Common Core Curriculum in New York. I’m sure lots of people will approach the book with this in mind. But after meeting Michael Hearst over coffee at Red Horse Café, I felt that considering this book merely in light of the newest education trend is missing the point. Michael Hearst is an unusual thinker. A creative thinker.

According to Hearst, growing into his imagination wasn’t always easy.  When he was in High School his attention started to drift and he was having trouble in school. “My parents sent me to a therapist and they put me on Ritalin,” says Hearst. “I was constantly drawing in my notebooks instead of paying attention in class. After I started taking Ritalin my drawings became much more elaborate. That’s just what I wanted to be doing!” You can stick a kid in the classroom, but you cannot make him think about what is on the board. But in Michael Hearst’s case, that wasn’t such a bad thing.

Hearst did not illustrate his book, despite the drawing anecdote. He is known for being a composer, musician and a founding member of the band One Ring Zero, the house band for McSweeney’s, whose albums include As Smart As We Are and Songs for Ice Cream Trucks. He’s also written and published essays and articles in addition to his book Unusual Creatures. He draws mostly for fun.

“You’re creatively omnivorous.”  I said.

“Yeah, that’s my curse.”

It’s clear from Hearst’s description of his childhood that his parents were very engaged. They didn’t let their son slack off.  But it seems like they also understood him.  Several times as we spoke he indicated that his mother “forced” him to do one thing or another:  take piano lessons, go to college….But he said it gratefully—glad that he wasn’t left to succumb to his own lack of will or inclination.

He was eventually allowed to stop taking piano lessons, but the damage was done. Two years of piano was enough to plant the seeds for a lifetime of making strange and beautiful sounds.  Piano led to guitar which eventually returned to piano when he studied composition in college. After college Hearst started to branch out even more. While working at Hohner as a harmonica technician he was introduced to the Claviola, a strange, short-lived take on the accordion. This odd instrument, along with many others such as a theremin, glass harmonica, stylophone, Daxophone, LEMURbots, polyphonia,  bass harmonica, and toy piano comprise the Unusual Creatures sounds.

Michael Hearst’s Unusual Creatures project is a convergence of his varied interests. Perpetually fascinated by Camille St. Saens’s Carnival of animals, Hearst had long wanted to create his own musical menagerie.  “[St. Saens’s Suite] wasn’t really meant for kids, but kids love it. I love Program Music…the idea of music representing something else.” But where St. Saens covered the familiar members of the animal kingdom, Hearst wanted to celebrate some of its unsung heroes. He started with the Blue Footed Booby who, Hearst says, does a funny mating dance that looks “kind of like the hora.” While The Weddell Seal makes an appearance on the album, a lot of these animals don’t even have known vocalizations. It’s fun to close your eyes and imagine the animals in concert with their themes. “I love They Might Be Giants and I love Dan Zanes. What they do is great. But I wanted to do instrumental music. And kids have imaginations! They can use them!” He points to the scene at the beginning of Moonlight Kingdom where the kids are lying around listening to Prokofiev and St. Saens on a little record player. “That’s what I grew up listening to.”

But Hearst’s fascination did not end with the music. The book came next: a fresh take on a retro schoolbook format—distinct, nostalgic and… unusual.  There are jokes, quizzes, and sidebars to break up all the information and, as I’ve mentioned, there’s plenty of information. Hearst’s website has videos of interviews and presentations that further expand on his Unusual world.  The varied media gives his audience multiple ways into his subjects. A child may hear a piece from the CD and say, “Whoa, what made that noise?” and discover more about a Polyphonia. Or he may read a profile and wonder “How slow is a Slow Loris?” then look for video online.  At schools and other venues, Hearst does what he describes as a TED talk for kids “I play video of the animal, I talk about the animal. But then I’ll show them a Theremin and say ‘this is an instrument invented by Leon Theremin.’” Then he plays and even lets the kids try out the instrument. No one has to force this kind of lesson on a kid.

From here a child may want to invent his own instrument or create an Unusual Creature profile and, indeed, Hearst receives lots of fan mail along these lines. The reader/listener’s knowledge grows web-like, organically. So, the effect of the project on its audience mirrors the way it was created—the magical combination of following one’s natural inclinations and being forced to stay with certain pursuits. It was only completed with so much care and infectious energy because Hearst remained interested, and his interest branched out in new and sometimes unexpected directions.

In reference to his earliest misadventures with piano, Hearst says, “I guess as a parent you sometimes have to….force.” It’s true. But sometimes you also have to know when not to force, and let a kid follow his imagination.

I know you’re not a therapist. I’ve been reading your column for six years and every time you answer a letter you restate that you do not have any professional credentials. I thought I’d go ahead and get that out of the way for you. I so happen to be a therapist—I work with families dealing with physical and emotional abuse. I envy that you’re able to offer advice without the weight of accountability. If I imagined a career like yours before I went to grad school, I think I would’ve taken a different road. But, as you’ll see when I get to my reason for writing, I’m quick to envy the lives of others.

First, let me give you some background.  I’m a single mom, though I share custody of my two kids with my ex.  I live in North Slope on the second floor of a brownstone just off Flatbush Avenue.  It’s a big one bedroom.  I let my kids have the bedroom and I sleep on the foldout couch in the living room.   It’s a warm, cheery home.  We feel very safe and have a good relationship with our landlord. 

The problem?  I spend an inordinate amount of time, like most Park Slope parents, pushing a stroller around the neighborhood.  And for the past year or so, as I walk the sidewalks, I invariably begin to obsess over real estate.  I study every house and building I pass, imagining the carefree lives of those homeowners inside. Surrounded by the vast amount of keepsakes that their spacious abodes allow, they sip tea from cups passed down from their grandmothers and are content knowing that they are living in an investment.  I picture them up in their attics searching for holiday decorations or old photos of the family.  In the spring, I visualize them going down into the basement to bring up the bikes for their first park ride of the season.  All of this creative imagery has left me feeling very resentful towards my neighbors who own.  It’s gotten to the point where I ignore them when I pass them on the street.  It’s juvenile, I know.  But I can’t help myself.

There’s more.  I agonize over squandered opportunities to buy in the ‘90s. Why didn’t we buy that duplex on Carlton?  We could’ve found the money for that three bedroom on Eighth Avenue.  At bedtime, I tell my kids stories of traveling back in time to fight alongside knights and cast spells with sorceresses.  When my kids fall asleep, I tell myself stories about going back to the early 1900s to buy the building that is now the Society of Ethical Culture when it was up for sale.  (Did you know it was originally a single-family home owned by William Childs, inventor of Bon Ami Cleaning Powder?) I bet I could’ve nabbed it for eight bucks.

It’s affecting my job.  Between the appointments and paperwork, I slide down the wormholes that are Trulia and Zillow.  On the weekends, I drag the kids by the real estate office windows on Seventh Avenue in order to stay current with the listings.  I feel confident in saying that I know every property available within a fifteen-block radius of the Park Slope Food Coop.  

I need help.  This obsession is taking up time and energy and is making me feel ashamed and miserable.  I haven’t brought it up with my own therapist because she owns a home in Park Slope.  She’s going to want to discuss how I feel about her, and I’d rather not.  (I resent her, of course.)

Signed,
Green Monster in North Slope

Dear Green,

Some thanks are in order.  Thanks for getting my non-therapist disclaimer out of the way.  It really is a burden for us uncertified, free of charge, hypocritical life coaches.   Sometimes I think it’s all I do all day —tell people that I’m not a therapist.  And thanks for referring to what I do as a career.  That made me feel good.  And six years?  Have I been hacking out this column that long?  Good grief.  Well, thanks for reading.  I hope what I’m about to say helps you.

First of all, you are not a terrible person.  From my vantage point, you are a very decent person.  You sleep on the sofa, for crying out loud.  And you do good work by helping people who can’t help themselves.  You will surely get a choice condo in heaven.  But in the meantime, there’s no need to feel ashamed of your problem.  I’m big on envy.  It keeps the blood pumping.  Personally, I envy people who know how to dress, have good hair, have a healthy relationship with alcohol, and have parents who are spry and able to babysit.  My, I just disclosed a great deal of information about myself.  Let’s quickly move on.

Everyone has or has had an online obsession:  Facebook, Twitter, Gawker, Geneology.com, Reddit, Xtube, you name it.  Your obsession is founded on your desire for permanence and is completely understandable.  You want a cave your kids will inherit when you get picked apart by vultures.  You’re not the only one who feels this primal urge to own.   Because your neighborhood is stupid expensive, I imagine real estate obsession is pretty common in your parts.  So, it’s time to stop beating yourself up.

As I see it, you have two choices.  Which one you choose depends on the feasibility factor.  Are you really in a financial position to own at this time,or are you indulging in fantasy? If you think you could fork over a robust down payment, then choose option one.   If you’re worried about how to pay the babysitter, then look into option two.

Option one: Get practical about it. Form a relationship with a realtor and tell all—what you’re looking for, how much you can afford, where you want to live.  And then pour yourself a glass of pinot, pick up a novel, and let your realtor do the obsessing.  When you finish the novel, pay a visit to your bank and get a mortgage pre-approval letter.   It’s not as easy as it used to be, but so what? You need to know if you’re being realistic about this dream of yours, or if you’ve been getting high from the second-hand ganja smoke you’ve been inhaling walking behind the high school kids on your way home.

Option two:  If you know there’s no way you can afford a place in your neighborhood, quit this obsession cold turkey.  Don’t look at another listing.  Stop being a slave to “what if?” and move on to “what now?”  (Ooooo, that’s good.  Watch out Suze Orman!)  There are lots of tricks that can help in breaking compulsive habits.  Some involve snapping rubber bands on the wrist, journaling, or enlisting friends and coworkers to help you.  Be wary of replacing one obsession with another.  Giving up cigarettes for ice cream produces a whole other set of problems.  (Ooooo, nicotine-infused ice cream… Look out, Ben and Jerry!) Once you do give up your real estate obsession, you will find yourself with more time and energy, and it’s important to find healthy ways to spend them.  Reconnect with old friends.  Take a class.  Plan a trip.  Do what makes you feel good—only you know what that is.  And while you might not be able to afford a new place to live, you can make some changes to your current home.  Buy your dream couch or paint your living room a new color.  If you can’t lose the weight, at least get a good haircut, right?  I would never do any of this, but you should.

Green, I hear you.  I’m sorry that you’re going through this.  But let me offer a little perspective.  I once traveled to Turkey on my own for a month.  One night, I ate dinner with a man who worked in a souvenir shop near my hotel.  At the end of the meal, I told him I would visit him the following afternoon.  Early the next morning, I got some news that resulted in me having to leave immediately.  I went to say goodbye, but his shop was closed.  I asked a man sweeping nearby, and he pointed to a bungalow behind the building.  I walked down the alley and entered the bungalow, where I found my friend sleeping in a queen-sized bed with five of his brothers.  Six spooning, grown men in one bed.  We often compare ourselves to our neighbors, but the world is filled with people who live in many different ways.  Try comparing yourself to people not as fortunate as you, and you will be humbled.  Don’t get me wrong, it’s completely natural to want more out of life.  I can guarantee you that those neighbors drinking tea out of their grandmas’ cups want more too.  Maybe they don’t want bigger brownstones, but maybe they want their grandmas back.  Green, stay in the moment and appreciate what you do have.  And things will change if you work hard to make owning a reality.  In five years, you could be paying your mortgage instead of your rent.  I sincerely believe that with sixty-five percent of my heart.  So, until then, quit obsessing about what you don’t have, and enjoy your kids.  They grow up so fast. One day your home will be too big.

Butter and Scotch

Allison Kave and Keavy Blueher were following parallel paths before ever meeting each other and teaming up to create their boozy baking business, Butter and Scotch. As Blueher was working towards her degree in Illustration from Parson’s School of Design, she was working in bakeries and restaurants. “My unhealthy obsession with creating the perfect cupcake developed during this time,” she says. What started as a hobby wound up taking over her spare time, and she began to sell her creations at markets like Artists & Fleas and Brooklyn Flea. The Kumquat Cupcakery was born. Meanwhile, Kave was reevaluating her career as the recession hit the art world hard. Throughout her years spent as a gallery director, curator, and writer, she found herself growing increasingly fixated with the food scene in the city. And it’s no surprise, since it seems to run in the family; her mom owns Roni-Sue’s Chocolates, and her brother is a chef. She had been spending Sundays baking pies and experimenting with recipes for fun, and a year after she found herself out of a job, she ended up winning first prize at the inaugural Brooklyn Pie Bake-Off Benefit. Kave started selling her first prize pies at her mom’s shop and in markets.

Blueher was introduced to Kave the same way we all were—by trying a bunch of Kave’s pies at Smorgasburg last Spring and becoming obsessed with them. She hit a lull with Kumquat Cupcakery and imagined opening a place where people could enjoy cupcakes, pies, and wine in one setting—a more grown-up version of the traditional bakery. She approached Kave with the idea of teaming up to open a brick-and-mortar space, and Kave was immediately on board. “I ran with her initial concept of desserts and wine and added on craft cocktails, house-made bitters, and even artisanal jello shots,” says Kave. “It’s all about using great, seasonal ingredients in both the desserts and the drinks, but above all, we want people to come in and have fun.” Blueher agrees. “While we plan to serve expertly-crafted drinks and sweets, we’re not interested in intimidating or overwhelming our clients. Our style is rustic, and above all, fun.”

Their quirky creations come from a variety of sources of inspiration. Many of their ideas come from looking at classic desserts and dishes and finding new ways to play with them. For example, their PB&J Three Ways is a trio of desserts inspired by the sandwich, including a slice of pie, a mini cupcake, and a sundae. They will also turn their cravings into new recipes. Blueher explains, “I’ll say something like, ‘I really want something with sesame.’ And then Allison will say ‘Oh yeah, and I bet that would go well with port!’ And then all of a sudden we have a Tahini Thumbprint Cookie with sesame seeds and port jelly.” Their friends’ and familys’ cravings and tastes work their way into Kave and Keavy’s creations as well. The Mary Ellen, which is a dry vodka martini paired with a hot fudge sundae, is inspired by Blueher’s grandmother.

Butter and Scotch will primarily focus on their dessert and liquor pairings, but will be open throughout the day to serve coffee, pastries, and sandwiches. Other items to look forward to are homemade ice cream for floats, shakes, and sundaes, as well as killer cocktails. A selection of savory snacks will also be available to balance out the sweets. As of press time, Butter and Scotch has not finalized a location, but they have been scouting Franklin Avenue in hopes to be a part of the burgeoning community come late summer. Check out www.butterandscotch.com for their updates and more information.

Nightingale 9

Having already earned the love of Carroll Gardens residents with his southern-inspired restaurant, Seersucker, and his café, Smith Canteen, Chef Robert Newton has expanded his repertoire to celebrate his love of Vietnamese food with Nightingale 9 (345 Smith Street). Last year, Newton ate his way through Vietnam, diving into the food culture through street food, home cooking, and restaurants meals. He met chefs, farmers, artists, and business owners all across the country from Hanoi to Ho Chi Minh City, discovering the diversity and regional influences of the expansive Vietnamese cuisine. A particular favorite was Da Lat, a town in the Central Highlands with a heavy French influence to its cuisine and a big focus on vegetable farming.
Newton incorporates inspiration from all around the country in the dishes at Nightingale 9 and always stays true to the principles of sourcing good ingredients—the chicken, duck, beef, and pork are all from New York. The foundation is the soups—such as a beef and rice-noodle soup—with rich, complex broths as the cornerstone of the menu. Smaller dishes include Pork Rolls, Crab and Mushroom Turnovers and, of course, updated takes on banh mi, while entrees offer takes on traditional Vietnamese fish dishes such as Catfish with Dill. For something sweet and refreshing, try the condensed milk ice cream desserts, or the house-made sugar cane juice.  With communal seating, salvaged wood, and reclaimed items, the environment is warm and inviting, a perfect place to get away.

Fletcher’s

A barbecue boom has come to Brooklyn, and thank god for it. One of the latest and most exciting additions to the scene is Fletcher’s Brooklyn Barbeque in Gowanus (433 3rd Avenue). They had originally planned to open the day Sandy blew through, but they managed to avoid any damages and by opening a few days later. “We were unsure if it was the right thing to do,” says Bill Fletcher, the owner of Fletcher’s. “But the neighborhood welcomed us openly. It ended up being a place where people could come together and find some comfort.” In turn, Fletcher’s gave back to their new community by participating in Operation BBQ Relief, providing food for those hit hardest by the storm.

Now, settled in after their dramatic beginnings, Fletcher’s has become an anchor in the developing foodie enclave of Gowanus. Fletcher works together with Matt Fisher, pitmaster and chef, to develop their niche, which they refer to as Brooklyn barbeque. “I grew up in the Northeast. I don’t want to lay claim to any existing barbeque. Barbeque is a religion. People believe the only true barbeque is the one they grew up with. So, we’re here to make it our own.” Originally from an advertising background, Fletcher started entering barbeque competitions for fun and ended up meeting Fisher at Grillin’ on the Bay, the Brooklyn barbeque competition that Fisher had helped found. Now they have teamed up to create an innovative twist on the classics.
Far beyond the burgers and dogs most associated with barbeque in the North, Fletcher’s serves rotating specials like pork belly, lamb shank, and hoisin duck, as well as the usual ribs, brisket, and pork. Slow-cooked over an open-fire red oak and maple pit, their meat has an unexpected complexity compared to those coming from other commercial kitchens. They also stand out for their commitment to using locally-sourced, humanely-raised meats free from antibiotics and hormones. Their sides. like the Pit-Smoked Baked Beans, Mac’ and Cheese, and Pickles, also use seasonal, local ingredients when possible. Even their drinks are locally-sourced, mixed with spirits from King’s County Distillery and Breuckelen Distillery, which is only a few blocks away.

“When you think about what ties all of the regional styles of barbeque together, it’s not really about the food. It’s more about people coming together and enjoying themselves, relaxing,” Fletcher says, and the atmosphere of Fletcher’s holds true to the heart of barbecue. With family-style seating, everyone picks out their food at a counter from the rotating menu displayed on a blackboard, piles it directly onto paper-lined trays, and gathers around picnic tables. With the true feeling of a neighborhood spot, Fletcher’s is a welcome addition to Third Avenue.

Photo by Rachael Stone Olmey

As we board the subway, get in elevators, and jog down the sidewalks, we start to take for granted the feeling of pavement beneath our feet; it’s easy to forget that the structures around us have only been in place for about 300 years. There’s a sense of comfort, after all, for us city dwellers—an assuring sense of groundedness and even permanence felt when making contact with New York’s foundation.  We even allude to it in our daily conversations; we “pound the pavement” to find success, and “kick to the curb” things we want to discard.  Is there anything in this world that invokes imagery of strength and efficiency like the concrete jungle?

If there’s ever a thing to snap one out of a state of urban sentimentalism it’s the foul stench that reeks from the waters of the Gowanus Canal.  It’s an offensive reminder of the constant give and take between environment and urban development.  In 2010, the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency declared the canal one of the nation’s most polluted bodies of water, adding it to the Superfund list to join the ranks of our country’s most hazardous waste sites.  In December 2012, the EPA released a proposal detailing its plan to launch a ten-year, multi-million dollar cleanup of the canal.

Beth and Frieda | Photo by Jeane M. McLellan

I sit across the table from Beth Franz and Frieda Lim in Four and Twenty Blackbirds on Third Avenue, only 500 meters away from the canal.  These two women are well acquainted with the dichotomy of New York’s green and grey worlds and have invested their careers in reconciling this divide.  Franz is an associate at a landscape architecture firm and specializes in urban design and green infrastructure.  Lim owns Slippery Slope Farm in Gowanus, and was part of the team who brought the Edible Community Garden to P.S. 39.  Both have a thorough understanding of our urban ecosystem and are working to innovate the way we think about structure, its relationship to environment, and its potential pitfalls.

One of those pitfalls is storm water management.  Over 300 years ago, long before the factories, subway lines, or sewers of modern-day Brooklyn, there was the Gowanus Creek and its network of tributaries.  There were also trees, marshes, swamps, and fields that thrived off of rainfall, and animals that borrowed their own underground networks through the absorbent soil and loam that supported the world of surface dwellers.  When heavy storms rained down, the water replenished the streams, and the excess sunk into the earth.  The earth retained it for later, acting as a sort of sponge that could be squeezed for moisture in times of thirst.

This system was compromised when the Dutch began to settle and literally lay the foundation for what would become one of the largest cities in the world.  The natural green spaces of Brooklyn diminished to a mere fraction of what they were 300 years ago, and factories, shipyards, paved roads, and warehouses took their place.  With development came the removal of nature’s storm water management system and the installation of a manmade one.  The newly industrialized Brooklyn of the 1800s needed land on which to build factories, and those factories needed a place to dump their waste.  In 1848 the city approved the dredging of Gowanus Creek and the surrounding marshlands and began construction on the Gowanus Canal—one, big, open-air sewer.

We’ve come a long way since the days when it was acceptable to dump our waste straight in to the canal, but what many may not realize is that this still happens, just less frequently.  The city uses a combined sewer system, which catches and transports both storm water runoff and raw sewage in the same pipes.  Under normal conditions, it works fine.  But when storms move in and produce an unusually high amount of rainfall, that’s when “shit happens.”  The overflow mechanism is triggered, and the spillover is flushed through combined sewer overflows (CSOs) straight into the nearest body of water.  The spillover is more than just rainwater.  It’s rainwater that has churned and mixed with everything we’ve all been dumping down the drain—soap, chemicals, cleaners, paint, oil, urine, feces, vomit—a slurry many living within the flood zones of Sandy dealt with firsthand.   Specifically, there are ten CSOs that dump into the Gowanus, and OH-007 is the second most active.

“It’s an enormous issue and huge environmental problem,” sighs Franz, “and what we want to do here in Park Slope will hopefully diminish our role in it.”  Lim and Franz are heading up the Environmental Gardens & Education Committee, which has proposed a local public works venture called P.S. 39 Stormwater Garden Initiative Program.  The initiative will repurpose space within the school grounds of P.S. 39, converting underutilized space into functional and beneficial solution to Park Slope’s storm water runoff.  Specifically, the committee plans on introducing green infrastructure to the schoolyard and front garden areas by adding bioswales—small gardens that catch storm water—and by swapping out the current concrete walkway with permeable pavers.

The Committee recognizes that space in the schoolyard is a luxury and has taken that into consideration.  Currently, the school’s perimeter fence is braced by metal structures that are not only a minor safety hazard for kids, but also eat up about a foot-and-a-half of space adjacent to the fence.  The bioswales will fill that void along the school’s perimeter and serve as a sponge-like interceptor to puddles and torrents that gush through after heavy rains.  The entrance of the school, which is currently paved with impenetrable slabs, will be resurfaced with permeable pavers with spacers that are more conducive to groundwater absorption.  Layers of gravel, sand, and mesh will protect the spaces so weeds won’t be able to grow in between.
It doesn’t sound all that complicated, because it isn’t.  In total, the project is only estimated to cost about $125 thousand dollars and can be implemented over the course of a couple months.  “Once installed, [the improvements] will be self-sustaining, requiring little maintenance and no additional manpower,” explains Franz.  “All of the plants will be native varieties and will be able to live entirely off of natural rainfall.”

The impact of these changes, however, would be meaningful. For one, the storm water runoff from P.S. 39 drains directly in to OH-007, that second most offending outfall site.  While it’s tricky to guess exactly how much of that runoff will be reduced, Franz and Lim expect the new green infrastructure will divert a significant amount of storm water away from the outfall.

Lim looks at the table behind us where her daughter and niece giggle and play.  It’s clear that P.S. 39 was a strategically chosen as the site for this project for reasons other than its proximity to OH-007.  “We’re hoping this project will be a lesson for the kids that they can take home and pass along,” say Lim.  “It’s important to us that this be used as an educational tool.  We want people to take an interest in what this all is and see how it’s done.”  One of the main tenants of the plan addresses a current lack of sustainability education in our schools’ curriculums, as explained by Karen Herskowitz, P.S. 39’s parent coordinator: “Students at P.S. 39 are part of a future generation that will be faced with many environmental challenges.  Our children will be tasked with making innovative changes in the way our population lives or face dire consequences.”  If implemented, the project will be the first of its kind, and both Franz and Lim are excited about the prospect of Park Slope leading the way for future green infrastructure improvements throughout the city.

The P.S. 39 Stormwater Garden Initiave program was one of twenty other proposals competing for a piece of Representative Brad Lander’s $1 million Participatory Budget, which went to ballot on Arpil 7.  Frieda, Lim, and the rest of the committee had hoped to win a favorable vote, but unfortunately their project did not make the cut.  While  they are disappointed with the outcome, the Committee will continue seek out alternative sources of financial support for their plan.

To learn more about the project and ways to get involved, visit the P.S. 39 Park Slope Stormwater Garden Initiave’s Facebook Page.

‘Mamihlapinatapai,’ is a word from the Yaghan language found in Tierra del Fuego. It describes a fraction of a moment in our lives.  A moment when we are speechless…a moment when two people look at each other without speaking, and yet, each hoping that the other will offer to do or say something which both parties desire but neither is willing to do. “Isn’t that cool?” said one of the fellows.   “One word says so much.”

Two librarians were in a bar, and I was seated next to them reading a comic book but listening to their conversation. Eduardo, who was one of the librarians, was enthusiastically talking while Justin was listening . “Justin, correct me if I am wrong.”

“Tell me,” said Justin.

“Well, a student at my job wanted to know the meaning of a word I had not heard before. ‘Spell it for me,’ I asked her. She tried. Finally, she was able to write the word for me.”

“Did you find the meaning of the word?” Justin asked.

“Yes, I did,” he said, as he recounted to his friend his search for the meaning of the word.

“Mamihlapinatapai is a word describing an encounter between two people. A moment fecund with philosophical and psychological derivations, mostly associated with angst, reminding one of the existential thinking and writing of Sartre, Kafka, or Kierkegaard. The word belongs to the Yaghan culture, which thrived in Tierra del Fuego at the southern tip of South America, now controlled by Chile and Argentina. Now only one person speaks this language—”

“So, do Argentinians or Chileans use this word when they have nothing to say to each other?” Justin interjected.

“Most likely, no”, Eduardo said. “I will tell you why. The Spanish language, unlike English, has always been hesitant to accept other words into its lexicon, except from Arabic, which heavily permeates the Spanish language. For example, words starting with al are more likely to be of Arabic origin: Alcohol, álgebra, algoritmo, alacrán, alcalde, alfombra, almanaque, almirante, almohada, etc. Colonized by the Moors for eight centuries, the Spanish incorporated many Arabic words into their vocabulary. Later, when Spain became a colonial power, a few Native American words—for example Quechua, Nahual or Yaghan—entered the Spanish lexicon. Thus, in that context, the Spanish language did not increase as much as English did, which has twice as many words in its vocabulary as Spanish. The Spanish language survives, but forfeits the potential to become a more descriptive language like English. Defenders of the ‘purity’ of the Spanish language must be blamed, which includes Latin American writers who did not include ‘non-Castilian’ words in their work. Therefore, a word like mamihlapinatapai is not found in the writings of Argentinean or Chilean writers. In a way, the word does not exist—but yet it does.”

“Well, English is a vibrant language and mamihlapinatapai will become part of the English lexicon” Justin said.

“Yes, yes.” Eduardo agreed.

“Also,” Justin continued talking, “unlike Spanish, English is a non-static language. A language that has assimilated words from other languages and cultures to the extent that most of its words now have non-Germanic or non-Anglo-Saxon roots. It is a welcoming language, or put it in a impure way, ‘a whore among languages’ that according to Henry Hitchings, the author of the Secret Life of Words: How English Become English. He sees in the English vocabulary a never-ending bilingualism. A confluence of languages that begins in England with its Germanic invaders: Angles, Saxons, Jutes, and Frisians. The emergence of the English language was also the beginning of the brutal conquest of Great Britain, populated at that time by Celtic peoples. Celtic words then also became incorporated into the English lexicon—words like bard, cry, bog, London, Thames, Kent, Britain, whiskey, etc. So, the assimilation of words from other languages into English has continued to the present day. In this process of bilingualism, we take for granted other words like bravado, Los Ángeles, Florida, cushy, kiosk, boomerang, tomato, potato, banjo, coffee, knife, skin, jazz, safari, banana, ketchup, sugar, typhoon, tattoo, and taboo to be English in origin. They are not. These are words borrowed from other languages which helped make the Oxford English Dictionary. That is way English is such a powerful, bilingual language.”

Eduardo Agreed with Justin and added, “The growth of the English language continued when the English arrived in the Americas. The names of thousands of lakes, rivers, mountains, states, cities, and small towns across the United States became part of the English lexicon. Included are Native American words like Manhattan, caribou, papoose, raccoon, skunk, chipmunk, moose, tapioca, kayak, blizzard, toboggan, parka, hickory, squash, tipi, sequoia, etc.

“But Eduardo, in Peru you have so many indigenous words… ” Said Justin.

“Yes, yes,” Eduardo agreed, “but other than cocoa, and quinoa, they are not in the Spanish dictionary.”

“Growing up in the Andes in Perú,” Eduardo continued. “ I listened to my mother speaking the Quechua (Incan) words acacau, achachau, and alalau. Acacau means ‘it is so hot, I am burning.’ Achachau implies fear of something. Alalau indicates a frigid environment—words that are still used today in the area around Cusco. Quechua words (except for a few) are not found in any Spanish dictionary other than in the writings of such authors as José María Arguedas in Perú. Unfortunately, institutions like La Real Academia Española were founded with noble intentions, but their absurd premise to keep its linguistic heritage ‘pure’ of external influences has undermined its ability to foster a more extensive and meaningful vocabulary. Institutions created to maintain the purity of the Spanish tongue have, instead, impeded the language’s growth.”

Justin interjected, “ It is ironic. If we browse the Oxford English Dictionary we will find common Spanish words as part of the English lexicon. Words like California, rodeo, dulce, caramba, pisco, santo, similar, mandíbula, and aficionado. The word mamihlapinatapai is not included in the English lexicon yet, but it is mentioned in the Guiness Book of World Records as ‘the most succinct word’, implying that its meaning is endless. Which language will then assimilate or incorporate this word into its lexicon?” Justin and Eduardo laughed.

“It will go straight to the English language. Do you want to bet? The OED will always keep adding new words. The English language is in continuous mutation, fluctuating with the times,” Justin concluded.

“Well, Justin , let me dream with that word.” Eduardo said. “Let me imagine this word mamihlapinatapai within the Spanish context: ‘Después del viaje por el eterno universo me encontré en el paraíso de los ensueños (era una biblioteca) con un libro inconcluso. El incunable destacaba un viaje por los Andes peruanos…viaje de un tal Joaquín Dominico de Guzmán: Se sentaron, indica el párrafo, a lo largo de un camino rodeado de ‘capuli’ y en un estado de mamihlapinatapai, ambos se miraban imaginándose algo lejano a mi entender, no hablaban. Desde una distancia no lejana los miraba tratando de comprender el significado de este encuentro… dos personas mirándose, sin hablar, era un estado/condición de mamihlapinatapai. Esto, claro, sin realizar que yo era también parte de ese predicamento…éramos tres en un estado de mamihlapinatapai, tratando de decir o comprender algo. Ambos me miraron. Así, sin darme cuenta, habia roto este encuentro…ensueño mágico.”

“That sounds good” Justin said in Spanish. The two librarians suddenly looked at me. They had had a lot of beers. “What are you reading?” Justin asked me, somewhat smiling.

“It is Little Lulu” I replied, showing them the giant size versión of my comic book. “That is the way I learned English” I said.

The two librarians looked at each other without speaking a word.

I live in Park Slope, Brooklyn, quite possibly the world headquarters of helicopter parents, but I have a pretty good hunch it’s happening in nearly everys middle-class neighborhood nationwide, urban or otherwise. There’s a mindset in these parts that children should be treated like adults, with all of their tastes and distastes respected.

Having grown up with twelve siblings and roughly zero of my tastes and distastes even acknowledged—“respect” was generally uttered only in the context of what the small residents of the house should have for the taller inhabitants—this sounded sweet to me. Kids are people too, after all—short, often totally unreasonable people, but people nonetheless. In practice, however, this notion was a lot less quaint.

My suspicions were realized on an early fall evening when my French friend Lucie came to dinner with her husband and two children. The Durand kids were obedient, respectful, and, when told to be, quiet. They didn’t seem to require cajoling or lengthy explanations when asked to set the table. They simply did what they were told. If they didn’t want a certain dish at dinner, they didn’t eat it, but they also were not offered a myriad of other choices. Not a single cheese stick was proffered.

After dinner, we parents were sitting around the dining room table, finishing a bottle of wine, while the kids played in the living room. A mom could get used to this, I thought, reclining—reclining!—in my chair. But the sweet, slightly inebriated reverie did not last long.

Soon enough, my younger daughter, Daphne, wanted my attention, so she did as she usually does: Namely, she started to act bananas, screaming and yelling for me.
By this point, I’d been exposed to the well-oiled Durand machine for about four hours, more than enough time to soak up some deep wisdom. So instead of doing what I usually did—tending immediately to Daphne’s (loud) calls—I looked to Lucie for advice. She leaned across the table, put a strong, steady hand on my arm, and offered an adage she told me her Parisian mother had often employed: “If there is no blood, don’t get up.”

So simple—and so excellent. Of course!

I didn’t get up. Things were loud for a little bit, and Daphne was irate at my lack of bustle on her behalf. And then, as fast as her wails had started, they stopped, and she resumed playing with the other kids.

Soon, whenever things spun out of hand in my own home, I found myself wondering: What Would Lucie Durand Do? Swallowing my pride, along with plenty of the kids’ uneaten dinners, I took things a bit further and started asking Lucie, point-blank, for advice. For instance, when Daphne decorated the length of our rather long hallway with crayon, my husband and I were unsure how to react. Time-out? Stern warning? Daph was just shy of three years old, so taking away privileges or toys wouldn’t really register much with her.

When I asked Lucie what they might do in France with this type of toddler misdemeanor, she didn’t hesitate: “You go to the kitchen and get a sponge with soap and water. Sit her on a stool and have her scrub.” I was incredulous. Scrub it all off? My husband had tried and couldn’t erase so much as a single scrawl. Then Lucie assured me that I only needed to make Daphne wash the wall for a minute so that she had a chance to understand the consequences of her action—and to see how damn hard it is to get crayon off a wall.

Often Lucie has a strategy or phrase that does wonders for any given standoff between my kids and me, but, more than that, she has a refreshing attitude: There shouldn’t be any standoffs. “After all, Catherine,” she often reminds me, “you are the chief.”

The chief—has a nice ring to it, no?

For me, Lucie is a gold mine of great advice, but she’s made it very clear that her way of parenting is natural for practically everyone in France. Here in the States, we’ve been talking and talking and talking about our kids’ feelings. Meanwhile, over there, French children don’t talk back!

Excerpted from French Twist by Catherine Crawford Copyright © 2013 by Catherine Crawford. Excerpted by permission of Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

It’s not that we don’t take good care of our goldfish. Our fish are exceptionally well-maintained; their bellies are kept full, their water is changed regularly and the landscape of their tank is designed to please, with shells and rocks and ceramic scuba divers. Our house is a marine life paradise…except for the occasional, but fatal, close encounters engineered by our daughter.

Seconda likes to sleep with the fishes. Literally.

Let me clarify up front that Seconda, who is five now, hasn’t slept with a fish in years. The fish-out-of-water missions were executed way back in the days of yore when she was three, and thus, a raving lunatic. Also in her defense, her acts, though fatal, were motivated by good. She thought her pets might like a cuddle.

See, Seconda loves animals. I don’t mean that in a generic sense, like she casually enjoys them or finds them amusing. I mean that she feels a profound affinity for them, even more than what she feels for human beings. Her love of animals does not discriminate on the basis of species either. One summer afternoon at the Mermaid Day Parade, I turned to find Seconda’s tiny shoulders draped with a gigantic, green-and-black snake. Not a stuffed toy but a real, live black mamba or anaconda or some such terrifying viper. My husband, David, was snapping a picture of Sec’s smiling face while the animal’s owner, who was holding a bucket full of snakes (not, I’m guessing, the approved way to transport your serpents in public), gave my daughter instructions. He was probably telling her something along the lines of, “That’s great, perfect . . . just don’t make any sudden movements or he’ll shoot you full of deadly venom faster than you can say ‘Coney Island Freak Show.’”

Another time, I took Seconda with me to pick Primo up from a friend’s house, and I found her sitting criss-cross-applesauce next to an empty cage as two pet rats—big, gray, beady-eyed—darted up and down her arms. I watched aghast as she leaned over and kissed one of them on his furry head.

“Can we get a rat, Mommy?” she asked, her blue eyes full of optimism,

“Pleeeeeeease?”

Since she was old enough to speak, the child has pined for a pet; she craves a furball sidekick, some loyal, adoring, non-verbal companion. Of course, I want to fulfill this dream of my daughter’s. But part of being a good parent is knowing your limits, and I know that having to feed and clean and hold another living creature—to say nothing of walking it and collecting its poop in little baggies—would put me over the edge of sanity.

Which is how we ended up with fish.

It wasn’t my idea to adopt Swimmy the goldfish; he was produced out of a magician’s hat at my son Primo’s fifth birthday party. But, I did agree to keep him, mostly because I had no choice. It ended up being a moot point, because within three days, Swimmy was, well, no longer swimming. His replacement, Bandana, was belly-up within a few days too. Beethoven, the beta fish, made it almost a week.
“What the hell are we doing wrong?” David, my husband, lamented after we’d conducted our third burial at sea via the toilet bowl.

“They are goldfish,” I replied. “They’re not known for their longevity.”

“Well, I can’t stand idly by as all these fish die,” David said. “It’s hard on me. It’s demoralizing.”

The next day, David went back to the pet shop and brought home a state-of-the-art aquarium filter and two new fish.

“I think the others might have been dying of loneliness,” he explained as he poured them from the plastic bags into pre-treated tank water.

He might have been right. Mr. Black, so named by Primo because of the cluster of dark scales near his fin, and Mr. Orange, so named by Seconda because he had no distinguishing characteristics whosoever, lived one whole week, then two, then a month. David waxed romantic about the value of companionship. I figured it was the filter. Three-year-old Seconda checked on her pets every morning before nursery school and every afternoon when she came home. She fed them, with David’s supervision, every night.

“Just a little pinch,” David reminded her, lifting her up to reach the uncovered tank which we kept on a high dresser in the kids’ bedroom, “Remember, if you feed the fish too much, they can die.”

Two months passed, then four, then six, and Misters Black and Orange thrived—which is to say, did not die.

Then, one afternoon when Seconda was about three-and-a-half, I noticed that I hadn’t seen or heard from her in awhile. Usually she was impossible to ignore, tearing through the apartment with a baseball bat or drawing on the furniture with Magic Marker. But on this particular afternoon, she’d been quiet. Too quiet.

I got up from my computer, and walked past Primo playing Legos in the kitchen, into the kids’ bedroom. Nearing the bunk beds, I slipped on a puddle of water.

“Seconda?” I ventured uneasily.

A blanket-covered lump on the bottom bunk shifted.

“Seconda,” I repeated, pulling the blanket to reveal my daughter, knees drawn to her chest, with no clothes on. “Where are your clothes?”

“They got wet,” she replied.

“How did they get wet?” I asked, getting shrill.

“Promise you won’t get mad?” came her reply.

Never words that bode well.

“He’s just such a cutiepie and I just wanted to cuddle him!” she said in a rush, “So I—I—I put him on my pillow.”

I strode over to the tank and there, floating belly up, deader than a doornail, was Mr. Black.

“Seconda!” I cried, trying to keep from shouting, “Why? Why did you take him out of the tank?”

“The thing is,” she took a deep breath, “Mr. Black is so shiny and cute and I really, really, really wanted to feel what his scales felt like and I just thought it would be so nice for him to snuggle with me in my bed so I climbed on top of the toy chest and then I climbed on top of the dresser and then I just scooped him up with my hand and guess what? Fish are really slimy. I didn’t know that. Did you know that? So then I put him on my pillow and we snuggled and it was so fun and he really liked it. You know how I know that? Because he did a little dance! Like this—”

She threw herself on the floor, made her body rigid, and flopped around in an impressive impersonation of a fish gasping for breath.

“And then I heard you coming so very fast I threw him back in the tank but then he stopped swimming. Maybe he doesn’t like the water anymore. Maybe he wants to stay on my pillow.”

“Seconda,” I said slowly, “Mr. Black is dead.”

She ran to the tank and cried: “No he’s not!”

“I know it’s upsetting, but yes,” I replied firmly, “he is.”

“No, Mommy, he’s not!”

“Would you just listen to Mommy?” I snapped. “The fish is dead. For good.”

“But Mommy!” Seconda cried, “He’s swimming!”
I looked up at the tank to find Mr. Black, indeed, swimming. Not very energetically and with sporadic upside down visits to the surface, but still, definitely alive.

“It’s a miracle,” I gasped.

I sat Seconda down right then and there and explained to her as clearly as I could that fish can not live outside of water. I told her that she must never, ever take the fish out again. I had her repeat back what I’d said to be sure she understood.

“I must never take the fish out of the water or they will die,” she intoned solemnly. It was very convincing. Hell, she probably really meant it at the time. But a few weeks later, I was putting laundry away in the kids’ dresser and noticed that Mr. Black was belly-up again.

“SECONDA!!!” I shouted.

“I DIDN’T MEAN TO!” she shouted back over her shoulder as she ran to hide under my bed.

“You killed the fish!” I shrieked, “AGAIN!”

I pulled her by her hand to the tank so she could face the consequences of her actions. And as we stood there, silently watching Mr. Black float on the surface of the water, something unexpected happened. The fish flicked his tail.

“He’s alive!” she shrieked jubilantly. “He came back to life again!”

That’s when we started calling him Survivor-Fish.

Despite his apparent possession of superpowers, David and I knew Mr. Black wouldn’t make it through another close encounter. So that night, David gave Seconda a stern talking-to, and afterwards he told me, “It’s OK, she gets it. She won’t do it again.”

Which made him very surprised when she did a week later. This time, it wasn’t Mr. Black but Mr. Orange who was floating at the surface. I stood there waiting for Mr. Orange to spin over, flick his tail, make his little fish belly expand, but there was nary a movement to be seen. I waited a good five minutes before pronouncing the time of death. This time, there’d be no resurrection. This time, dead was dead.

We had a ceremony for Mr. Orange in the bathroom. David wiped away tears as he flushed the toilet.

Seconda was silent as she watched the fish spiral down out of sight.

Then she said: “But how will he get back into his tank?”

It was at that moment that I realized the kid was only three years old. No amount of explanation would make her understand the sequence of events leading to Mr. Orange’s untimely demise. So, after the funeral, David and I moved the fish tank into the living room, where Mr. Black, who appeared forlorn and had taken to playing dead (we think as a survival strategy), could be monitored. Then we bought a nice, sturdy lid which snapped tightly over the top. And like magic, Mr. Black lived for another two years, until last March when he finally met his maker, through no fault of Seconda.

David maintains Survivor-Fish died because of complications resulting from his adventures on land, but I like to think it was of old age. I like to think Mr. Black has been reunited with his old, dear friend Mr. Orange in Fish Paradise and that right now they’re regaling the other fish—Swimmy, Bandana and Beethoven included—with wild, wonderful stories of life with Seconda

“And I was just like, ‘HEY, EINSTEIN! MOVE THE TANK!’ But you know humans, they’re just so dense,” Mr. Black is probably saying. “Ah, what are you gonna do? Kids will be kids, right?”

To read more of Nicole’s adventures in Mommyland, visit her blog, A Mom Amok, at amomamok.com.

When it comes to sports, New York is a baseball city.  A paced game like baseball offers relief to a metropolitan area that can grind and aggress us at times.  We have thirty-five championships in baseball alone.  To put that in terms of bragging rights, that’s one more ring than Boston, the next championed city, has in the NFL, NBA, NHL, and MLB combined.  Some of the game’s best players made their names among the bright lights and concrete.  But funny enough, per capita, not many native New Yorkers make it to the big leagues compared to players from the rest of the country.

What’s the culprit?  Is it a lack of facilities, a shortage of youth programs, or an excess of hoop dreams?  “It’s just the time that you put in,” says Adam Ottavino, Major League pitcher for the Colorado Rockies and Park Slope native.  At the age of four, Adam moved to the neighborhood from Greenwich Village and describes the Slope of his childhood as a little more “quiet” than what it’s transformed in to.  “The F train is still there.  The park is still the same.  All the pizza joints I used to go to after games are all still there, like Smiling and Roma’s.  It’s definitely still Park Slope.”

So pizza survives gentrification, but what about this myth that New Yorkers don’t usually make it into the big leagues?  “There’s quite a few of us,” Adam defends.  “Pedro Beato, Dellin Betances on the Yankees, Chris Manno—” Adam rattles off a few more names before talking about the camaraderie inherent in a shared birthplace.  “I definitely see those guys around.  Sometimes we train together in Garden City, and Dellin and I have thrown around in the Park Slope Armory during the off-season a few times.”  He touches on how much the city has to offer by way of distractions, and how that might discourage some youths from taking their game to the next level.  Sacrificing the weekend for a bus ride to an away game instead of exploring or causing mischief is not every city kid’s idea of a good time, but it has clearly paid off for Adam.

Adam as a youngster playing in the local 78th Precinct Youth Council baseball program.

He was drafted thirtieth overall by the St. Louis Cardinals in 2006 with great expectations after putting up some crushing numbers at Northeastern University.  His first start came in 2010 when he was called up from AAA Memphis Redbirds, but living out the lifelong dream was bittersweet.  “I was so excited to be called up, but it was difficult because I wasn’t 100% healthy, but I wanted to step up and pitch well anyway.”  Like a true gamer Adam battled through it, and after his 2012 trade to the Rockies he is set to play a bigger role out of the bullpen.  “I’m definitely looking forward to more innings.”

Between spring training, AAA, and the regular season, Adam has played pretty much everywhere, and when asked how the rest of the USA stacks up to Park Slope, he jokingly blurts “They’re terrible.” “Don’t get me wrong,” he continues, “there are a lot of nice parts, but I feel like Park Slope is one of the best neighborhoods in the country.  Traveling around definitely made me realize that.”  He mentions Pork Slope and Fonda as some eateries he frequents when he’s back on the block, but his fondest memories were made in Prospect Park.  “I’ve played on every field in the city, pretty much, but the park is special. I would play catch for hours with my Dad down there.”

The grind of the city certainly helped Adam make it to the major league mound.  People hustle nonstop just to live in this city, and with only few days off in the world of professional baseball, this lesson in patience is invaluable.  “I remember double, triple headers in the park after school.  We were out there because we loved the game.  I still love it, obviously, but it’s just different.”

Adam clearly has pride on his side.  He recalls the old Sinatra lyric about “making it here” and his matter-of-fact tone makes his level of determination and hustle sound natural for a kid with a dream, but clearly that’s not the case.  When I press him to name a mentor that he could credit with his success, he mentions his Dad and a few coaches, but makes it clear that it comes from within.  “Coaches can be good or bad, and the facilities in other parts of the country are insane compared to here, but mainly it’s just the time that people put in with me and other kids back then.  That’s what was most important to me.  The time adults spent with us as kids.”  You can’t play catch with yourself and you can’t make it to the Rockies without starting up a slope.

Looking around in any yoga class, I see this question hanging in the air:  What do I do with my head?  Lift it?  Drop it?  Hold it in the right position, whatever that is?  Let it lead or let it trail?

At the 2012 Yoga Journal Conference in New York City, I witnessed this conundrum in class, as master teachers noticed their students’ necks straining and offered options.  An Ashtanga Vinyasa teacher suggested, as we rose from low lunge to high, that we let the head come up last, trailing the body.  An Iyengar yoga teacher suggested, in triangle pose, “Let your head move back and look up.”  Responding to the tendency to strain your neck as you return to stand from extended side angle, a powerful muscle maven told us to put a hand under the head to cradle it as the body rises.  Every other fiber and sinew may be working overtime, but the poor little neck (with eighteen muscles of its own) needs a hand to get the head where it’s going.
These teachers, and so many others, try valiantly to help their students move well.  And in the weekly yoga classes I take in Brooklyn, I hear more creative cues:  “Bring your throat back.” “Keep your eyes on the horizon as you twist.” “Imagine a luminous palate.”  Or, simply, “Lengthen the back of your neck.”  Each of these can be helpful, but there’s a missing ingredient that is central to the Alexander Technique:  the concept of the primary control.

The relationship between the head and the neck is primary in human movement.  Actually, it is primary in all animal movement.  Like a prairie dog poking out of its hole, each of us needs a free neck and lightly poised head to see, hear, respond, and survive.  Where’s the food?  What’s that sound?  Is the hawk up there after me?  When we’re scared, we clench and withdraw like a turtle into its shell.  Poke a paramecium and it will contract.  Our body’s instinctive response to real danger, honed over eons, is adaptive.  But we don’t need a charging lion or swooping predator to elicit our body’s stress response.  Non-lethal stimuli can get us just as nervous—a crowded subway, even an admonition, or performance anxiety as we strive to do a yoga pose.  These can develop into unconscious habits; without realizing it, our contracted response becomes a habit, a clench that won’t quit.

Frederick Mathias Alexander came to understand how the habit of tensing the neck interferes with the body’s ideal functioning.  As a young Shakespearean orator at the turn of the twentieth century, he lost his voice.  When a physician couldn’t help him restore it, Alexander studied his own movement in a full-length three-way mirror and saw that whenever he began to recite the Bard’s immortal words, he pulled his head what he called “back and down.”  It’s hard to imagine the stentorian style of the time, but in fact, many contemporary actors throw their heads back for dramatic effect in just this way.

As he paid close attention to his customary way of vocalizing, Alexander saw that this habit had a litany of undesirable results.  The downward pressure of his head compressed his spine, constricted his breathing, and constrained his voice.  Even his feet contracted.  Over years of self-observation and experiment, he taught himself to catch this habit, let that excess neck tension go, and allow his body to work as a whole.  When he did, he found that his spine naturally lengthened, his breathing deepened, and his voice opened to its full dynamic range.  It wasn’t exactly relaxation; he wasn’t dropping his head.  He trained himself to use his head dynamically—noticing his tendency, releasing that habitual overwork, and envisioning a rotational direction, a slight internal forward movement of the head.  This natural motion guides movement throughout the rest of the body.  It’s a kind of spooling action that enlivens and lengthens the spine.

As a cellist tunes her instrument from the top down, she turns the pegs to achieve the appropriate degree of tautness and listens for the correct pitch as it vibrates through the body of the instrument.  She aims to have each string harmonize with the others.  Our tuning process is similar, though far more complex and internal.  When we release the muscles at the base of the skull, the head tips slightly forward and elicits a lengthening in the spine, a postural reflex.  This slight movement has a profound influence on our movement, breath, degree of tension and overall resiliency.  Rather than compression, we get expansion and freedom, minimizing strain and encouraging the body’s channels to open—breath, voice, limbs, thought.

Here’s the beauty of marshalling the primary control:  the quality of the relationship between your head and your neck determines the quality and sensation of everything you do.  Your life of movement, even if it’s sitting at a desk, can be influenced for the better by engaging the natural traction that results from that freedom.  Alexander understood and clarified the distinction between freedom and laxity.  Laxity is letting your head trail—a fine thing to do, and a skill among others.  But when you need something stronger, a kind of power steering, the head can be both free and masterful, leading your spine into length as you move.

As we approach the rich variety of poses in yoga, rather than adjusting separate parts—Where should my pelvis be?  Are my shoulders in the right place?—freeing the neck allows us to organize the whole.  When we learn how to manage that slight rotation at the top of the spine as we move from one pose to another, the torso becomes springy and responsive.  It’s a bit different from the musician’s motion as she adjusts the pegs.  When we tune our own instrument, the body, we can employ the power of thought.  Alexander discovered that visualizing the body’s internal oppositional flows could be a more effective way to function than direct muscular action.  When we envision rather than exert, our legs flow down into the earth and the torso expands toward the sky with more subtlety and ease.  We can determine the appropriate tone by visualizing and letting the body take care of the details.  Simple thoughts can have complex results: shoulders, ribs and pelvis align naturally and freely shift in transitions. Then, like the cellist, we listen.

With all my affection for the many disciplines now sparkling in the bodywork firmament, when it comes to the crucial balance of the head on the spine, I believe that the Alexander Technique offers the most reliable guide.  We can learn to free, not drop, the neck in activity.  Using the primary control, we can direct energy through the natural upward thrust of the torso to support the neck, to let the head lead and fulfill each bodily gesture.

As I watch my students encounter yoga’s many challenges, I see how their primary control influences their practice.  It’s a bit like their own window to integrated movement.  For those at any level, whether in forward bend, one of the warriors, a twist or a cobra, the head’s dynamic balance—or lack of it—can compress or release the spine.  When I lightly guide a student to open that window right under the skull, there’s a fresh breath of air, limbs flow away from the body’s center and the pose finds its full flower.

Visit Joan online at www.joanarnold.com

While sitting one night with my friend Eric, a young woman came and sat next to us. She was the next musician to play that night. Her name was Jen. She is (as I was told later by my friend) the descendent of the great American literary theorist and philosopher, Kenneth Burke, whose primary interests were rhetoric and aesthetics. She is also the daughter of the musician Harry Chapin and is a wonderful musician in her own right. Her music explores the intersection of jazz, folk and pop.

Our conversation with Jen was permeated with the music coming from the back room. It was Les Bandits, whose melodies sounded as if a multitude of instruments were in synch creating music of the ‘20s. I was on my own, thinking about the life of Dr. Hernandez known as “Doctor of the Poor.” As a protector of Barbès, his bust sits diplomatically amid the wines and spirits.

“That is a dark place…for a different crowd,” my colleague Joanna says laughingly in reference to Barbès, a bar in Park Slope, Brooklyn. She is right. Barbès is a haphazardly designed establishment through which not much light filters. Its walls have no TV sets and it is difficult to read a book there, but you can still converse with folks like the writer Jean-Vincent as he jots down his impressions of Paris—a fictional account set in modern times, a time that has the aura of the mid-twentieth century. “French people are longing for something new,” he says, as he pauses in his writing. I didn’t inquire about the plot, theme, or characters of his work, leaving him to work alone. I returned to thinking about Dr. Hernandez and of his days in Paris studying medicine.

Live music constantly flows from the back room. It is a fitting complement to a nice evening; Barbès sounds as if it were a giant juke box. If you have read Ned Sublette’s Cuba and its Music you will immediately recognize the songs. Sublette’s book is premised on the idea that the impact of Cuban music on the United States is everywhere to be found. New Orleans, Sublette explains, was the port of entry for what became a unique musical relationship with Havana. The music of Barbès has, indeed, a Latin flavor even when a band called Sherita is playing a fourteenth century Sephardic/ Ladino song. Sublette’s book on Cuban music begins in Cadiz before the time of Christ—a time when the Gaditanos traded with North Africans and were bringing African musical sounds to southern Europe, called by the ancient Greeks “hispania.” Havana and New Orleans forged a unique commercial and musical relationship by the nineteenth century.

“Fifty Shades of Grey,” says Robert, a man from Ireland. We were talking about the erotic book by the British author E.L. James, “Why not Fifty Shades of Green?”, he adds as he enlightens us with the history of Ireland vis-à-vis England. The strong rhythmic groove of a song drowns out our conversation. On any given night it could very well be the Latin American sounds of Guinea’s Mandingo Ambassadors or Cumbiagra, whose Colombian songs interact nicely with other musical styles. The brass band Mexican Band of the Death, likewise, transports us to Sinaloa, and Les Chauds Lapins to French songs of the ‘30s and ‘40s. What is happening at Barbès, other than the music, is a gathering of individuals with similar tastes and ideas. It has become a meeting place, a kind of library where you can find information about politics, books, film, art, and sports, but most importantly, you are talking with people interested in the things other people have to say. And yet, just as we drink our beverages in a capricious way, we delude ourselves into thinking that alcohol drinking and music bring clarity to our reasoning. “Amo esas noches trágicas porque son las mejores…” said the late Peruvian poet Luis Nieto about his time spent on bars and drinking.

“Did you see the Woody Allen movie, Midnight in Paris?” “Yes”, I replied. I am reminded of the Parisian bars in Allen’s movie—Café Le Select, Les Deux Magots, La Coupole—that played a big part in the lives of writers belonging to what was called the “lost generation. Places like Barbès, I am told by a bar regular, allow people to enter a world of illusion and ideas, of solidarity and companionship. Bars are timeless, I am told, as I am reminded of a quotation by Charles Bukowski: “Drinking is an emotional thing. It joggles you out of the standardism of everyday life, out of everything being the same. It yanks you out of your body and your mind and throws you against the wall. I have the feeling that drinking is a form of suicide where you’re allowed to return to life and begin all over the next day. It’s like killing yourself, and then you’re reborn. I guess I’ve lived about ten or fifteen thousand lives now.”

“Would Bukowski drink at Barbès?” I ask Aaron, whom I call the Book-Man for his vast intellectual knowledge. Aaron is, for the most part, a quiet man who prefers to be anonymous… “The whiskey might be too good for him here,” he replies in reference to Bukowski and Barbès’ costumers, who are mainly white and professional and not necessarily Park Slopers. Barbès exudes a kind of bohemian intelligence that is appealing I contend… pre-empting the thought of the new residents to Park Slope feeling more comfortable in a classier and brighter bar environment. Yes. Bukowski’s bar would be located elsewhere, in another part of Brooklyn. Barbès is located in a beautiful brownstone community that is being infringed upon by a recent influx of affluence determined to prettify the neighborhood. Moms, nannies, strollers, and an array of beautiful dogs crowd its tree-lined streets. The bodegas and bars of yesterday are disappearing—Minsky’s, The Gaslight Inn with its pinball machine, etc. In their place, a number of trendy places have emerged with names like Café Dada, Surfish…Those of us who moved to Park Slope many years ago would have never realized that this new manicured Park Slope would emerge and extend beyond Ninth Street and on Sixth Avenue. A Park Slope where nouveau wine and cheese stores collide with the other Brooklyn of endless pressing unwritten stories.

My conversation with Aaron transpires as we look at Pamelia (Pamelia Kurstin with Pete Drungle) playing the theremin. Looking at her, you feel like you are suspended in air; you are looking at a rare musical instrument that you have never seen before. What is suspended in air are her hands and fingers which control the instrument. Are there electrical impulses she controls to create the music? We don’t know for sure. What I saw was a woman manipulating marionettes or playing air guitar. You are mesmerized not only by the eerie sounds of the theremin, but also the desire of the musician to play a dated musical instrument that creates art for us to enjoy.

“Why do we like Barbès?” I ask Jason M, a regular who is reading The Foie Gras Scramble. Foie is about a motorcycle rider traveling from Brooklyn to Montreal. Jason is the author and is re-writing it. This is his reply: “Barbès isn’t a place for misfits (as I’d heard someone else characterize it). Rather, it is a place of serendipitous congruence where people from disparate backgrounds and bents can find areas of common appreciation and complaint. True, the creative types tend to frequent this place, but so do those whose work would cause them not to be categorized as such, perhaps as a salve for this and a chance at lending their voice to the chorus. Barbès is indeed beautiful.” The music of Los Yungas. (“Los Pobres También Somos Felices”) plays amid our bar merriment. The lyrics are reminders of other similar Peruvian chicha songs: “Los pobres también tenemos, tenemos nuestros corazones, somos más felices, sabemos amar…” In the end, the people who come here are the ones who make Barbès an engaging bar. I look around and, indeed, it is people like Jason G. who could be writing his short stories…alone in a corner. Pat, another regular, explains the meaning of a painting titled Wedding Dance by Bruegel. He is an art handler at a prestigious museum in Manhattan. Excited, we hear about the upcoming museum exhibitions. As the beers come and go and the music surrounds us, Peter, a cinematographer, shares his latest cinematography project, Casting By. This documentary film is about the innate talent of casting directors as they discover the right person (an actor) for a role to cast for a film.

The sound from the back room is steady each night. It could be the smooth melodies of blues guitarist Mamie Minch, whose musical sensibility and style sounds as “if she stepped out of a seventy-eight RPM recording.” Or, it could be Matuto’s “Brazilian Carnaval” played with an American bluegrass accent, or Spanglish Fly, which reminds one of the sounds of many Latin countries. So too, People’s Champ, Llama, Slavic Soul Party…whose fusion music is what a sociologist will call “multiculturalism in music”. The music complements our evenings, adding another level of mind stimulant. Dr. Jose Gregorio returns to my thoughts. In June 29, 1919 one of the few existing cars in Venezuela would end his life.

“Por favor, un chilcano de pisco” I ask Claire, the bartender. The drink goes appropriately with the singing by Yma Sumac. Claire apprises me, in a humorous way, of her time in Bolivia and finding chicha as a beer. The bartenders are Viola, Alita, Quince, Angie, Francesco, Geoff, Claire, Meredith, and Hanna. As one listens to them, one becomes aware about their lives as actors, musicians, and writers. Hanna Cheek, for instance, did a gripping erotic monologue as part of The Pumpkin Pie Show at The Theatre Under St. Marks. The bartenders share our conversations, but more importantly, they also have much to say about us, the regulars.

When Mondays arrive, and with them Chicha Libre, the music is that of the Peruvian jungle. The owners of Barbès, Vincent and Olivier, play these songs to the delight of their patrons. On a different day, Olivier’s wife and Las Rubias del Norte (Blondes of the North) play Peruvian “waynos”, which remind me of my own native Andean music. It has a French accent, but who cares if the melodies are inspiring? We are at this bar to hide from the outside world. That is why we are here, in a safe place (a kind of cave) for chatter and laughter along with the image of Dr. Jose Gregorio. The piano music and lyrics like that of Fats Waller (“Bless you for building a new dream…”) also helps, subdues our fuzzy and out of focus vision. It’s swing leads us musically on a different journey. It removes us momentarily from an uneven course of events that is all around us.

NOTE: The author of this paper should be named Jason Cuatro. VR was named an honorary Jason… Barbès has now five official Jasons.