My nickname is, in many ways, a stowaway from another life. The simple, happy life that my mom and dad had built in the Rockaways of Queens.
I ended up on the second story of the tranquil cafe, surrounded by empty chairs, looking out into empty streets.
"People have never seemed so precious. / Like the earth from outer space, / beautiful and beyond me."
The firefighters carried that extra baggage in their already twenty-plus-pound sacks on each and every trip. Their backpacks held their survival gear doubled in the weight of their historical heartaches, with their generational trauma in tow.
My own personal, seemingly insurmountable dragon was metaphorical Grief, it was now a part of me, and I couldn’t imagine a world where I would be able to domesticate the vicious pain.
"Long before I was old enough to stomach them myself, I could regurgitate comprehensive summaries and character analyses of the originals and the remakes, Hitchcock and James Wan and Wes Craven, enumerate all of Paris Hilton’s fatal snafus, compare and contrast a low-budget slasher with a titanic studio blockbuster. " A story of a family, grief, and horror films.
"Created during a time of imminent loss, these silkscreen and aquatint prints explore how relationships—between loved ones and with oneself—both fall apart and are rebuilt when affected by devastating circumstances."
"Writing our stories can be a powerful force for social and political change as well as personal solace."