March 20th 2011

6:39 am. Back at the apt.

There is certain kind of nights in New York. Nights when the city kicks your ass so badly, that your own bed seems like a distant paradise. These are usually very cold nights, late trains nights, nights when you have nowhere to go to, and you know you have to stay up for hours, cause you have just missed your last train home. The nights when you realize that The City that never sleeps, is another myth. It does. Well, kind of. Between 3am and 5am almost everything is closed. The city slows down for just a while. You can see yellow cabs speeding through avenues, cause it’s the only time out of 24 hours when they actually can. You notice single lights in the skyscrapers windows, that are still on. You never see the stars though. You can hear and feel subway running right underneath your feet. Familiar sound, that will bring you Downtown. On your way to the next whiskey bar, where you’ll be safe form cold, for another couple of hours. The nights between crying of tiredness and looking for adventures. Random places, random people. Nights when you almost scream out of desperation. You wander around, you look, you wait. Cold, cold nights when you wish you would have stayed home but you didn’t and now you’re waiting in the line for a cheeseburger just to kill some time.

Nights that end up with early morning, when you get to bed and even though you don’t know if to say goodnight or good morning, you still can’t sleep. Moon tonight got 14 % bigger. Not 15 not 13,5  - 14 . I don’t know how they measured that, but yes, it does seem bigger.

K.

I'm back

I’m back. Almost like Arnold but, no, not really.

For the last months I haven’t actually been in a New York state of mind. My days were blessed with routine and lack of doubt. I do blame cold for this.

When I first came to NY I was told that the winter here is short (two months) and warm (-10 degrees Celsius) which for European standards seemed like a spring breeze. It didn’t quite work out this way. First the Blizzards…blizzard here equals more or less a week, of not being able to leave the house. Unless you want to end up a as snowman (snow woman?) within couple of seconds. Then it got cold, wet, humid, awful cold.

When most of my friends in Europe celebrated first day of spring I was sitting forth month in a row under the blanket with my feet over a radiator. It was snowing. I have worn out my winter boots already and they licked.

I hate cold. I hate cold almost as much as I hate math. Well maybe not as much but close. When somebody asks me to go out and play in the snow they could have just asked me “hey do you want to do some fractions and then compare the results?” I have absolutely no tolerance for it, and I find it as Carrie Bradshaw finds botox – “painful and unnecessary”. When I moan about cold ( and I do it all the time) I often hear “but you’re European!” “yeah, so ?” I have a friend who is Puerto Rican and he despise the summer, cause he hates to sweat. So?

Apparently Eastern Europe is boiling in the same pot as Siberia. Wearing huge fur hats and drinking vodka. Do even Russians wear those hats anymore?

It seems like short and warm New York’s winter is like American myth itself – great marketing.

Anyway, I’m back, and I’ll keep you posted with news from The Country of Bullshit and Whatever.

K.

Jackie Black "Last meal"

One awfully hot, August day I was driving with two friends around Shelter Island, in search of another studio to visit. We did what’s called Open Studio Tour, and it was brilliant to see interiors of summer houses and studios of some famous and not-so-famous Shelter Island artists. It was our sixteenth studio that day. We got inside and next to the cute pictures of chicken there they were. Twenty-two pictures of last meals of twenty-three individuals, who were tried, convicted and executed in Texas for capital murder. Picture of last meal ; date of execution ; education and occupation of convict and his/hers last statement. When I imagined what last meal could look like, it was always the movie version : bloody steak, whiskey, cigar…and all that I saw were set on plain black backgrounds twenty-two ordinary meals. Fries, pancakes, eggs, cupcakes, pickles, hamburgers even one single apple. Basic stuff that most Americans eat every day, and it’s available absolutely everywhere. One convict refused his last meal and asked for it to be given to homeless person. Request was denied. The idea of last meal itself has always seemed absurd to me. It’s outwardly gracious. Like the sentence of death penalty itself wasn’t enough. The consciousness of your last hour, last quarter, last minute. Consciousness that within definite amount of time your life will be over. Your existence done. And the fact that what’s on that plate will be the last meal that you will ever taste. Don’t get me wrong, I realize that these people deserve to be punished for what they have done. But the awareness of the situation like this is horrifying enough. The tradition of feeding a last meal to the condemned dates back to ancient Greece. No dollar limit is placed on an inmate’s last meal request but food items must be readily available in the prison kitchen. Under Texas prison regulations alcohol and tobacco are denied, even though they are often requested, last meal is served exactly two hours before execution.                                                                                                              

Since 1976 when death penalty was reinstated in the United States, over 1000 men and women have been executed. There are twelve states that do not employ capital punishment. They are Alaska, Hawaii, Iowa, Maine, Massachusetts, Michigan, Minnesota, North Dakota, Rhode Island, West Virginia, Wisconsin and Vermont. These states don’t have higher homicide rates than states with death penalty. In fact, 10 of 12 have homicide rates below the national average. Texas has executed over 300 men and women since 1976. Far more than any other state and about a third of the country’s total.

Ironically USA has got third (after China and Democratic Republic of Congo) highest record of executions. Next on the list are: Iran 66 ; Egypt 48 ; Belarus 33 ; Taiwan 32 ; Saudi Arabia 29 ( 1998 Amnesty International documented cases. Actual figures are likely to be much higher.)

I reached out to some of my friends for their opinions. I’ve noticed that there were no black-and-white, yes//no answers. Many questions though. What about costs? What about human error? What about racism? What about  serial killers cases?

When it comes to costs of execution, Studies in Florida, North Carolina and Texas show the estimated average cost of an execution to be 2.5 million. The Georgia Department of Corrections states that 18,000 dol. is the cost per year to house an inmate in maximum security. It turns out that the monetary cost of a death penalty case is far higher than a lifetime of incarceration.

No white person has ever been executed in Georgia for the murder of a black victim. Statistics compiled by David Baldus who was barrister in Mcleskey v. Kemp case[1] showed that in 2000 murder cases in Georgia in the 1970s, people charged with killing whites were 4.3 times more likely to get death sentence than those who killed blacks.

What about human error during investigation? David Wayne Stocker’s case[2] exemplifies many of the things that can go wrong :

·         The prosecution’s star witness was paid by a crime - stopper program and had drug charges against him dropped.

·         The district attorney’s investigator and the police gave false testimony.

·         Less then two years after Stocker’s trail his lead attorney surrendered his law license and pleaded guilty to criminal charges.

·         Stocker’s other court – appointed attorney had been a lawyer less then a year.

All of these factors seem to ask, how many prisoners were wrongly convicted? Many reversals haven’t come by virtue of the normal appeals process but through diligent discovery by journalism students, investigative journalists, DNA evidence and through work by experienced attorneys-all avenues that are rarely available to the typical death row inmate. DNA testing has contributed to freeing at least 12 of the wrongly convicted. However, DNA evidence is not always available. Often it is not found at the scene of the crime and therefore not available to exonerate defendants. Sometimes evidence was destroyed after trail.

Jonah Lehrer, in his book How we decide[3] claims that psychopaths are dangerous because they have damaged emotional brains. Areas of the brain responsible for experiencing different emotional states, [if it’s happiness or rage] are not developed properly. They are incapable of experiencing regret, sadness, or joy. “Psychopaths have fundamental emotional disorder” says James Blair, a cognitive psychologist at the National Institute of Mental Health “they are missing the primal emotional causes that the rest of us use as guides when making moral decisions”. Neuroscientists are beginning to identify the specific deficits that define the psychopaths brain. According to Lehrer’s research the main problem seems to be a broken amygdala, a brain area responsible for propagating aversive emotions such as fear and anxiety. As a result, psychopaths never feel bad when they make other people feel bad. Aggression doesn’t make them nervous. Brain-imaging studies have demonstrated that human amygdala is activated when a person merely thinks about committing a crime. This emotional void means that psychopaths never learn from their adverse experiences. The absence of emotion makes the most basic moral concepts incomprehensible.

I have found that deep hidden conservative side of me demanding its attention – hey these people murdered, with cold blood, several times. Nothing to be doubt.

Do they deserve to live after what they have done ? Do they deserve to die ? Who are we to play God ?

Twenty-two men, one woman. Small pictures of their faces are placed on each page. Jackie’s black Last meal is a contrast of inhumanity of death penalty and humanity and individuality of those in a death row. One of my friends had written : Justice is a human invention which is in reality rarely achievable, but many will not hesitate to destroy lives demanding it. The only thing I knew for sure after leaving the studio, was I didn’t feel like eating that dinner anymore.

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[1]. McCleskey was sentenced  for armed robbery and murder. He was African American; his victim was white Atlanta Police Officer Frank Schlatt.  Warren McCleskey was executed in Georgia's electric chair September 28, 1991.

[2] David Wayne Stoker was convicted of capital murder for the murder of 50-year-old convenience story clerk, David Manrrique, while in the course of committing a robbery. Stoker was convicted on October 26, 1987, and sentenced to death the next day in the 242nd Judicial District Court of Hale County.

[3] Jonah Lehrer, How we decide, 2009.

Run Forest!! Ruuuuuuuuuuuuuun!!!

// 1.1.11.//

On the first day of the year, afternoon becomes morning. This morning is always gray and blue. I can’t really recall a sunny one, it’s like the weather is sick from cheap champagne too.

I’m writing this piece sitting in a old-fashioned diner in Queens.

It’s very quiet. Streets are nearly empty. The snow is melting and makes pavements look shiny and colorful form streetlight reflections.

The City is recovering from its hangover. It is getting dark, as I’m ordering my breakfast.

Theoretically it is just the number. Nothing has changed since Friday night to Saturday morning.

But there’s certain amount of hope in this grayness. Certain sound of joy in this silence.

That after this one night, the future, once again,  stands wide open. And you’re a part of it.

Countless possibilities, but what about the fear?

Of the unknown, of the future, which, yes, stands wide open but who knows what is there for you.

Fear of the failure. We all know, that new years resolutions don’t last longer than a week, if you don’t really desire a change. And even if you do…We can go like this forever.

When I think about past year., places that I had seen, people that I have met.

It makes me feel a little less scared.

To look life in a face[1], remember ?

Last year I made my life, my own.

This year, I feel like quoting Calvin Klein Be commercial, as a deep source of knowledge :

Even if it’s screaming fun, anything but indifference, you know, when its not love, it’s not hate and it’s not sex, it’s not anything really. Just one more bad habit you’ve got to break.

Break your habits on a gray morning

K.

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[1] One of the most significant lines, M. Cunningham, The Hours :

 To look life in a face, always, to look life in a face, and to know it, for what it is.

 To know it, to love it,, and then to put it away.

(…) always the years between us, always the years, always the love, always the hours.

Starbucks junkies

Remember that scene in You’ve got a mail, when Tom Hanks writes to Meg Ryan  : “The whole purpose of places like Starbucks is, for people with no decision ability whatsoever, to make six decisions just to buy one cup of coffee. Short, tall, light, dark, caf, de-caf, low-fat, non-fat…So people who don’t know what the hell they’re doing, or who on earth they are, can for only 2,95$ get not just a cup of coffee, but absolutely defining sense of self . tall!! De-caf!! Cappuccino!!!”

For me Starbucks is a personal, and worldwide phenomenon. It is a bit better quality fast-food for coffee. Anywhere in the world, if you pop in Starbucks it looks more or less the same, tastes the same, speaks the same language. It’s called Dolce Latte language. Special marks  : wooden chairs, if you’re lucky,  a couple of deep armchairs; cups, thermoses, cans of tea, bags of coffee, on black shelves, cakes and cookies behind the glass, flavors of coffee written on black board above them. When you add cosy light, and kind of music that doesn’t exactly make a difference if it’s played or not, you get a perfect mixture of sweet nothing. Even coffee itself, compared to the REAL Italian espresso, or cappuccino, served in Italian//French cafés seems as bad, as pumpkin scone for your waist.

There more - not until a couple of years ago did they bring in some changes, Starbucks, seemed to be awful for the environment, with their waste of water, paper cups and napkins, and above all leftover coffee grounds.

I don’t go to MacDonald’s because of the environment, I can’t give up my coffee, I’m sorry. Or deep, green suede, armchair, or tiny round table in the corner, where I look so poetic sipping vanilla tea, reading a book when trains to Grand Central are passing by.

And what’s most important the smell of coffee.

I enter and order, cappuccino//pumpkin latte//plain black. Depends on which stage of diet  I actually am. When I come to write, I always order coffee in a ceramic, (not paper!) cup.  It is a well-known scientific fact, that different things taste differently when served in glass, not plastic. No self-respectable European, would drink their coffee in paper cup if they don’t have to. I make myself comfortable, open my laptop, put books on its side. Headphones on. Jazz, perfect, allows me to focus. Grande cappuccino is gone after five minutes, I just sit there and wish I had a spoon so I could finish thick layer of  foam, that is left at the bottom of my cup. I can hear the rhythm of the base and melody of the trumpet in my ears, watching world go by.

After going to the same Starbucks for a while customer service knowsyou. God, wasn’t I happy when I got four, Outrageous oatmeal cookies, for free, cause they were closing. Anybody fits in here, but if you take a closer look at people around, they seem to have something in common. Students with laptops, girls and boys with books on their laps, a businessman who just popped in for a quick caffeine shot, well-dressed moms with Fendi bags around them and de-caf Carmel Macchiatos in front of them. Even bold weirdo in the corner who keeps staring at me for half an hour now. It is not only fashion, even though, it’s another well known fact, that you DO look cooler with Starbucks cup in your hand, the same as you do with  a cigarette. It is not only addiction to caffeine, but also, to what paper cup with green mark on represents. Strange, kind of surreal unity of Starbucks addicts.

Got a text from M. who is in desperate need of Cranberry BlissBar. She can’t get one herself being stuck at home, sick. I can understand her desperation.

What makes Starbucks so special is its personal character. Because it’s so characterless, you make it your own, as you wish.

I remember first time when I got to New York. I sat in Starbucks on the corner of Madison Av and 42^nd St, with fresh Vogue on my lap, and New York Times waiting in the bag on the floor. I felt like I was finally here. Quoting my favorite New Yorker - Whatever Works – Bottoms up junkies !

John Lennon nokautujący Greenpoint, czyli wizyta Bronisława. K

Polski prezydent Bronek.K i jego wąsy postanowili złożyć oficjalna wizytę w Białym Domu. Prezydent stanowczo zażądał zniesienia wiz dla polaków. No jak to, przecież polscy żołnierze giną w Iraku za ropę, której nigdy nie zobaczymy na oczy.  Barack Obama obiecał zająć się cala sprawa, cudownie - gdyby to była jego decyzja,  a nie Kongresu. Polskie media oburzone - w amerykańskiej prasie więcej uwagi poświęca się rocznicy śmierci Johna Lennona, niż wizycie „naszego prezydenta”. Wszystko to śmieszy mnie niezmiernie. Od pięciu miesięcy jestem polką mieszkającą w Nowym Yorku. Czy chciałbym móc tu zostać i pracować? Jasne. Czy gdybym miała taką możliwość zniosłabym wizy dla Polaków? Absolutnie nie.  Greenpoint i polonie są wystarczającym powodem.

Któregoś jesiennego popołudnia, wiedziona chęcią czerwonego barszczu wysiadłam na Greenpoint Avenue. Wszechobecne napisy po polsku, Polacy wchodzący i wychodzący z polskich lokali. Polskich w najgorszym tego słowa znaczeniu. Greenpoint wyglada tanio i tandetnie jak kraj pod koniec lat 80tych/początku 90tych. Plastik, tektura, napisy drukowane z szablonów. „Mazowszanki” serwujące pierogi w restauracjach udekorowanych „na karczmy”.  Z obowiązkowym gniazdem bocianim na ścianie. Krzyż, papież, wódka – full serwis. Wchodzę do przybytku o zaskakującej nazwie „Polski sklep” w poszukiwaniu karty do telefonu „Dzień dobry, czy sprzedajecie państwo karty do telefonu?” pytam ekspedientkę z uśmiechem - „ nie ma”. „Aha, no tak, a czy wie może Pani gdzie mogę takowe dostać? – kontynuuje natarczywie „ tam naprzeciwko pani kupi – u araba..”. Przypominam ze akcja dzieje się w środku Brooklynu, trzy przystanki metrem od Manhattanu. Zapycham się znajomo smakującą drożdżówką z serem i podchodzę do starszego pana, po angielsku pytam go o drogę do restauracji. Patrzy na mnie ze zdziwieniem i odburkuje „no English”. Polski? – pytam. Okazuje się ze starszy pan mieszka tu od 40 lat. W końcu trafiam do „Karczmy” próbuję złożyć zamówienie po angielsku, ale nie daję rady. Ale te kelnerki nie emigrowały do Nowego Yorku przed wojną. Większość Polaków, która zamieszkuje Greenpoint, przez lata nie raczy nawet nauczyć się podstaw angielskiego. Pracują z polakami dla polaków. Jędzą polskie jedzenie, oglądają polską telewizję. Chodzą do polskiego kościoła katolickiego. Krytykują i odrzucają wszystko, co amerykańskie, tradycyjnie po polsku, jako gorsze. Nie raczą odrobinę się wysilić żeby się zasymilować. Przecież Polska najlepszym krajem na świecie jest, wszystko inne chójowe, a murzynek Bambo w Afryce mieszkał i niech tam wraca. Ale przywozić dolary/ funty z chójowych krajów nie boli. Zdaje sobie sprawę, że każda generalizacja jest krzywdząca, że na pewno gdybym poszukała mogłabym spotkać kogoś, kto reprezentuje Polskę w zupełnie inny sposób. Ale mnie nie chodzi o pojedyncze pozytywne przykłady, tylko o ogólne wrażenie. Nie mam zbyt dużego pojęcia o PRL-u, a przymusowa emigracja i tęsknota za ojczyzną są dla mnie tak odległe, jak koniec świata 2012, ale, no właśnie ale…Greenpoint reprezentuje wszystko dlaczego uciekłam z Polski. Ziemkiewiczowskie „polactwo”. Zamiast pokazać ze kraj w środku Europy pełen jest utalentowanych, wykształconych młodych ludzi, ciekawych miejsc i potencjału, polonia woli się babrać w swoich tak zwanych tradycjach. Zamiast nowoczesnego państwa, które należy do Unii, ma ciekawą historię i dużo do zaoferowania serwuje się golonkę i wódkę. I jakkolwiek zbyt Polski nie lubię, to wkurza mnie to niezmiernie, bo nieraz już, jako Polka zostałam wrzucona w tą szufladkę. Nie jest w niej zbyt wygodnie, śmierdzi przeciętnością, homofobią, ksenofobią, nietolerancją, szarością, a bycie chamem jest ok. Mogę sobie tylko zaśpiewać „Imagine” i zakręcić sarmacki wąs, gdybym takowy miała.