Poetic injustice...

It's really hard not to notice the homeless people of New York. Perhaps because they are set against a backdrop of unprecedented consumerism and ubiquitous ipods. Or perhaps because they mount the subways and hold you as a captive audience telling their stories like old records, dusty and unnoticed at a flea market. I watched as an old black woman, spine twisted and scarf over her hair, pushed a trolley through the train carriage. Silently praying to Jesus for assistance as she held out a paper cup for some pennies.  People couldn't hear her, they chose not to hear her. Their eyes saw through her as they listened to their ipod's shuffle.  An Asian woman handed her a loaf of bread. She accepted graciously and continued her pleas to Jesus.

There are different types of street people in this city. A more entrepreneurial man is Donald Green who has been coming to West 4th st. for more than ten years to sell his poems. He sits at his card table dressed in a black suit in the heat of summer with a sign assuring his audience he is a real poet: "New york times published poet sells his poems". I approach him with curiousity. I start asking him questions and within a few moments his irritation becomes apparent. "Are you gonna buy a poem or not?". I assure him I will purchase one and he settles back in his chair. I wonder what drives this man to come here everyday and write poetry. Is this a choice? I think not. 

I approach him both with the lens of a psychiatrist and with an interest in his poems. There are certainly advantages to being a psychotic poet. The chaotic thinking and altered thought stream allows associations and a freedom of language that ordered thinking restricts. I talk to him and wonder how much of his story is true and how much is fantasy. It turns out he was published in the New York Times but more for his eccentricities than his poetry.  I ask him to write a poem titled "Happiness in New York". 

Happiness in New York

Happiness in New York

Is that Found?

Happiness in New York

Is that Found?

This poet has a blue sense of New York, 

the need by the close of the 20th century 

for abundant money to just have residence in New York. 

If your soul seeks variety,

the houses and gardens of greenwich village,

the houses and sites of harlem,

chinatown, el barrio, 

If your soul seeks variety, there's joy in New York.

Happiness in New York,

for some it's people, in all their differences.

For some its energy, its pace, 

its whizzing cars, its whizzing feet, exhilarate.

Pressure for some but for others wouldn't be missed. 

New York, this possibility, this adventure.

Happiness is your positive approach,

your mind in belief of what stories it can bring. 

-Donald Green- 

Listen to him at : http://www.drunkenboat.com/db3/green/bluejoy.htm

Harlem for lunch...

Yesterday I caught the F train across the grid of Manhattan from Brooklyn to Harlem. After a forty five minute train ride I arrived at the meeting spot for a walking tour..thirty white folk were standing around the footpath waiting for the guide whilst a very drunk-psychotic Harlemite saw an opportunity to take centre stage and give us a dream like interpretation of Harlem's history and politics, spluttering and spitting with immense enthusiasm. 

Waiting, waiting we finally discovered that the tour guide had cancelled after having an accident. It looked like our drunken friend may at last have found  his long awaited opportunity...

 I branched off with a middle aged Jewish man from the Bronx and and middle aged Jewish mother from New Jersey. He was the classic american type who unashamedly boasts and retells his life like it was straight from Hollywood. It's hard to know whose authentic and whose not in this city, even with Psychiatric training. He fell into a nostalgic dialogue about the 'dream' his life had been. I'm cynical of anyone who has to explicitly convince me their life has been a dream. After leaving the teaching profession he had become a sports advertiser. He recounted the time when he called up Mohamed Ali to invite him to the movies: "He was really tired and I just said, cummon Ali. As we came out of the theatre there was a crowd surrounded by police and the chanting 'Ali Boombaye'. He's a lovely Guy Ali."

It's a give away.... the degree to which one boasts about one's life is inversely proportional to one's level of true happiness...My theory proved correct when his woman friend found out I had been doing Psychiatry and stated out loud that he really needed some therapy. 

I found an iconic restaurant called Sylvia's on Lennox Ave. It was filled with tourists and a few Harlemites. Unless you eat meat, don't go to Harlem for food. 

With my belly still empty and my tongue layered with salt, I headed back to the sizzling cement. Walking down the streets of Harlem was reminiscent of Havana in some ways. There is the same culture of sitting. So many people just sitting on the sidewalk. Its an art form I would like to master. The old black men who take pride in their outfits of the day, women standing on the street discussing how long their braids took to do. There are street stalls and many Obama T-shirts being sold. Most people feel he's not going to win. If he does I'm coming to Harlem to find the party.

A Brooklyn mosaic....

Coming to New York in search of a story is a health hazard. The stories are everywhere and they are dizzying. I have been living in Brooklyn since my arrival in NYC on a gorgeously tree-lined, brownstone street. Susan is the neighbourhood artist who I met the other day as she stood outside her house adding tiles to her extraordinary mosaic mural. 

Susan gave me a small history lesson on the suburb of Boerum Hill, which is like the Elwood of Brooklyn, without the beach. She has lived in that Brownstone for 20 years and seen the neighbourhood transform from one filled with crime and violence to a now gentrified Starbucks land. Which brings me to Starbucks...thank g-d Melbourne vetoed them! They are good when you find yourself in the middle of Manhattan needing to go to the toilet but apart from that...I digress.

A mural on a brownstone facade brings joy to the street. I watched as children and old ladies walked past stopping to admire the sparkling fairyland. When she's not teaching she's mosaicing, and has been for seven years. "One day I just came outside and started it...I don't know why.." It makes me think that sometimes the most beautiful things may arise from an indescribable urge. I am trying to learn how to follow those urges without fear of the unknown. 

Susan has a website: www.susangardner.com if you're ever in Brooklyn its a worthy visit. 

Getting in the mood of Documentary..

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I —I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.
-  Robert Frost

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In a week I am leaving Melbourne ....in search of a documentary story in New York. Is this an infantile fantasy I am chasing? That is my neurotic chatterbox interfering! You might meet him again later on...Wouldn't want to scare you off too soon. 

Having just watched the documentary Grey Gardens by the Maylses brothers' I was confronted by the ethics of documentary film-making. Grey Gardens is certainly a challenging documentary to watch. It is the story of a dysfunctional mother-daughter relationship set in a dilapidated mansion in East Hampton. The mother and daughter Big and little Eddie Beale, cousins of Jackie O, allow the Maysles brothers into their lives to expose the querks and eccentricities which they seem suspiciously comfortable to reveal. Oozing with nostalgia, the movie is without debate an extraordinary piece of art. However, to what degree is one willing to disregard ethics in pursuit of good art? 

Watching this documentary through a psychiatric lens raises the issue of authenticity. There was no mention of mental illness throughout the film or in the directors' commentary and it is quite clear that little Eddie is thought disordered and living in a 'fantasy' world.. Although in some ways cinema verite gives an authentic and unadulterated view of the subjects' lives it is the omissions that are more interesting to address. My issue with this film is the potential for documentary film makers to exploit their subjects vulnerabilities for their own ambitious pursuits. 

This documentary certainly puts forward the debate regarding the definition of mental illness? Who defines mental illness? Does consent matter if the subject of the documentary is happy but not competent to make decisions?