i was more than happy to oblige my friends, allowing my zeal for honesty and transparency to lead the way forward.

- – - – - – - – - – - – -

dear members of the board,

i am writing to express my unconditional support for roxanne denali-sampson and gabriel blomqvist regarding their prospective purchase of an apartment in your building.

for three years now, it has been a pleasure to call roxanne and gabriel my dear friends, during which time my wife and i have travelled with them on numerous occasions.

blessed with a remarkable curiosity and creative spirit, i am reminded on an almost daily basis of how lucky i am to have them not only as friends, but also as mentors and role models.

both roxanne and gabriel have impeccable taste, as evidenced by their outstanding collection of found objects that occupy virtually every inch of surface space in their home. no matter which way one looks, there’s always a visual indulgence that’s waiting to be discovered. there’s a stack of match books by the front door that reaches from the floor to the ceiling; while there’s also an immense sculpture made of plastic cafeteria forks. one of the lampshades has been fashioned out of previously-owned cling film food wrap. i love their collection of tall boy beer cans almost as much as i adore their collection of blue new york times newspaper bags.

yet it is gabriel who is truly the more entrepreneurial of the two. never one to turn down an opportunity to revive or repurpose those seemingly hopeless pieces of furniture that gabriel routinely picks up from the streets of the east village, he hauls them into their home, so that they can be lovingly restored. it is true that some of these revived objects are sold, often for a token amount, but gabriel so frequently falls in love with the results of his work that he and roxanne more often elect to keep their restoration projects, adding even more charm and distinction to their already unique home.

one example that springs to mind is the once-tattered couch that was rescued in freemans alley from a pack of stray dogs that were using it as their bed. i don’t know how long that couch was in that dank and forlorn alley, but let’s just say that it harboured a certain musky aroma that is truly difficult to describe, which suggests that the couch had been there for eons. now, months later, it looks almost as good as new, and it hardly ever smells of dog urine.

i should point out that this very couch has become our seat of honor whenever we visit them. we’ve become quite attached to it.

i’ve seen gabriel enthusiastically discover abandoned mattresses, and, bedbugs be damned, i’ve found several occasions to lend him a hand to bring them back to their apartment. at one point, they had so many mattresses in need of their tender loving care that they were compelled to temporarily stack them in the hallway outside their door – but gabriel worked night and day to painstakingly bring them back to life – and some six weeks later, he was finally done. he gave several of the mattresses away to his friends.

while gabriel’s generosity never fails to impress, it is roxanne’s creative spirit that sets her apart.

an avid fan of rhythmic music, we are frequently invited to participate in their elaborately choreographed drum circles that are hosted twice-weekly by roxanne. sometimes, we’ll play until four in the morning! i feel like i learn so much during these drumming sessions, as roxanne encourages all of her friends to really express themselves. sometimes, she leads by example through her use of unconventional objects to strike the drum. i recall an episode where, in a fit of creative genius, she suddenly grabbed the flower vase from the top of the bookshelf and smashed it over the conga, adding quite a yell for extra emphasis. i’ve ever heard such a tremendous sound. it was truly inspiring.

the source of her creativity is a subject that i’ve often speculated over, and i have concluded that it must have something to do with her being québécoise.

her creative energy extends to the kitchen. she really enjoys making home-made kombucha for themselves and all of their house guests, and so, whenever one enters the kitchen, the first thing one takes notice of are all of the oversized vats which contain what looks like liquid compost in various stages of fermentation. the yeasts and assorted bacteria that are cultivated in the vats generate quite a staunch aroma, but it really does add to the experience, and i wouldn’t want it any other way.

since roxanne and gabriel are so fond of collecting things, including friends (some of whom are such frequent guests that they should practically be paying rent, but roxie and gabes would never dream of asking them to do that), it should come as no surprise than they enjoy sharing their home with a wide variety of rescue animals. normally, they prefer to limit their merry coterie of critters to four or five dogs and no more than six or seven cats. they’ve also hosted a raccoon, a semi-paralyzed skunk, and three black squirrels (which gabriel encountered in nearby tompkins square park). as for the cats and dogs, sometimes, there are more, but this has a way of self-correcting as some of the animals simply wander off, never to be seen again. their loss! the animals, i mean, because who would want to leave a home that is so fantastic as theirs?

as there is such an abundance of adorable furry little friends which bring so much joy to their home, it is not unusual for some of them to partake in the drum circle. not only do some of the dogs enjoy a robust wail along with the humans who are doing their own drumming and shouting, but there was once a time when roxanne and gabriel babysat a proboscis monkey who brought the evening session to a stirring climax through his persistent shrieking and plant thrashing. yes, the proboscis monkey grabbed their ficus tree and used it as an improvised drumstick, employing the walls of the apartment as the drum’s surface!! i was amazed that the monkey was given the creative freedom to express himself like that, but that just shows you how remarkable roxanne and gabriel really are.

i can only offer them the very highest recommendation possible, and hope that the members of the co-op board will find them as delightful and resourceful as we do. perhaps you’ll have an opportunity to sample their kombucha. it’s simply delicious!

sincerely,

chance bliss

the book can be previewed and purchased here.

Open

selections from a b…

By Christian Svanes …

book preview

and more information, such as additional pictures, is available here.

i dreamt i survived a plane crash last night. it had been on a small jet that had made several aborted take-off attempts. as i sat in my seat, i had a premonition that things were not right. i knew that i was going to die.

. . . . . . .

let me go back to as far back as i can remember. in the dream.

a small airport in a northern city. looking out through its windows, i could see green mountains as well as pine trees.

there were only a few shops in the terminal. i remember browsing the newspaper stand, looking for spearmint chewing gum.

the queue at the gate was informal. an air of casualness that is typical of small-town airports.

airport employees had that provincial look about them. hairstyles out of date, they were a bit too tan for this time of year. i imagined that when the airport personnel are done boarding this flight, the place closes down for the day and they all drive into town to resume some second job that they might have. perhaps the ticket checker works at the convenience store or the local hotel. surely, i thought, this can’t be a full-time job.

after presenting one’s ticket, there was a brief descent down a flight of stairs before one walks directly out onto the tarmac.

it was springtime. i could smell the wet soil from a recent rain while steam rose up from the runway.

the sun sat low over the horizon.

at the end of the short runway, and there was only one runway, there was a chain-linked security fence located a few hundred yards before a tall stand of fir trees. beyond that, a development of grey, concrete high-rise buildings ensconced before a tree-covered mountain ridge.

there was a municipal park nearby, right next to the airport. i saw kids running around.

i stood in line to board with my work colleagues. i remember being one of the last passengers to step onto the rolling staircase that lead up to the plane’s entrance.

it was an older model, a three-engine plane (one on each wing, one on the tail).

. . . . . . .

i sat towards the rear of the cabin, on the right side of the plane. middle seat.

on the tiny television monitor found on the back of each passenger seat, i watched the pilot’s point of view, as the plane turned at the end of the runway and prepared for take-off.

the engines became loud. we moved forward.

with the plane’s acceleration, i made a simple wish, as i always do: i closed my eyes and asked to arrive safely.

i looked out through the oval-shaped window. we were not moving fast enough.

on the monitor, i saw the end of the runway approach and then felt the plane slow down, braking hard.

we came to a stop.

the captain’s voice could be heard on the p.a., apologizing for the aborted take-off.

passengers around me joked and there was nothing to suggest that anyone was unnerved.

the plane retraced its route on the tarmac, turned around, and prepared to take-off once more.

flight attendants took their seats.

within a few seconds of starting down the runway, i saw kids running out onto the tarmac.

the plane came to a sudden halt.

i watched as airport officials chased the children away. some of them were scooped up by a security guard and placed onto a yellow open-top airport utility vehicle. one boy managed to ride off on his bicycle. passengers laughed.

by this time, there was a bit of a circus atmosphere onboard. vociferous chatter. amusement. i realised that many of us had been drinking while in the terminal. it was oddly festive.

i felt nervous. i tried to remember the passenger bill of rights. am i entitled to insist on disembarking after two aborted take-off attempts? what are the rules?

a few friends from work sat in the row in front of me. one of them turned to me and pushed my shoulder. i smiled meekly. i was sweating.

the plane moved forward again, accelerating quickly. my eyes glued to the monitor.

a few passengers stood up, got out of their seats, and bum rushed the front of the plane. they were fooling around, like idiots who stand up on a moving roller coaster. two flight attendants intervened.

on the monitor, i could see the end of the runway. the pine trees. the high-rise buildings.

the plane lifted upwards. it seemed to climb so slowly.

wheels up; the sound of the landing gear folding back into the plane’s underbelly.

i stood up, jumping out of my seat, landing on the aisle.

we were not moving fast enough to clear the trees. i heard the piercing sound of metal being ripped, of passengers yelling. i was standing. everything shook. it was very very loud.

the plane rocked violently, as i tried to balance myself between the seats in the aisle.

suddenly there was a gaping hole in front of me. the plane swerved from side to side, and as the plane banked hard to its right, i fell out. other passengers fell too.

i saw handbags, a seat, a jacket, and shoulder bags empty out of the plane.

i was flying through the air. i don’t know how fast. i was moving forward and falling, towards the top of some of the pine trees.

i was thrown towards a hefty branch, i reached out to put my arms around it, bracing for impact and somehow held on as the tree bent forward towards the ground. i felt a dull thud on the left side of my face as i fell and landed on soft earth.

i looked skywards, finding the plane. it was still airborne, moving away from me, upside down, its red tail towards the ground. it cleared a low-lying mountain ridge, then disappeared from view.

i expected to hear a boom and then see an explosion. i saw no such thing.

there was no such sound.

i was in a field.

i saw someone lying on the ground, maybe one hundred feet away. listless.

i ran.

i scrambled up a hillside, hoping to reach the top of the ridge.

i ran through trees. cedar trees. spruce. uphill. pine needles on the forest floor.

i don’t know how long i had been running but i reached a mountain river.

to ford it, i could scramble over granite rocks. there was a chain link fence on the other side. further away, the ridge.

i realised that i must be in a secured public watershed. i reached the fence and tried to scale it. there was an electrical wire running along its top.

i gave up, and ran parallel to the fence instead, moving south on uneven terrain.

i ran for a while.

i found a service road.

there was a pick-up truck and a park employee working nearby.

i asked him to let me out.

he looked at me suspiciously.

he pointed out that i was bleeding.

there was blood on my chest, and blood on my forehead.

i tried to explain that i had just been in a plane crash, and that i was looking for the plane.

“it must be just over that ridge,” i offered, “in the valley next door.”

“there is no valley. there’s just another ridge, just more mountains.”

“i need to find that plane.”

i thought about my wife. i wondered if she knew. i wondered if she already thought that i was dead.

“i need to reach that plane.”

“get in the truck. i’ll give you a lift.”

. . . . . . .

as we drove downhill, i could not stop thinking about my wife. did she know? was she suffering?

the truck’s service radio was on. i could hear commotion. orders were being given, people were being directed to a crash site.

. . . . . . .

i never saw the plane. i never saw the crash.

the dream-state slackened, my body stirred.

i tried to stay within the dream.

i kept on thinking about the field.

where i landed.

the golden field. tall grasses. late sun.

the scent of jet fuel, the taste of blood in my mouth.

the tree.

it was damaged.

i saw myself in it.

suspended lifelessly over a limb.

was that me there?

had i not survived?

how would i tell adriana?

where was my phone?

as i began to wake, i could not determine if i was alive.

how had i made it to the top of the ridge?

i spoke to that man. he spoke back.

i had survived a plane crash. i had walked away. i lived!

but what if i died and was now walking amongst the living?

i was awake. staring at the ceiling, trying to open the door to return to the dream state.

i was awake. the sound of the city around me.

i could not return.

1982

when the cauliflower-haired fifteen year old man-child who went by the name of bobby hale lost control of his temper, his face, already burdened with the cumbersome folds of early teenage obesity, transformed from its natural shade of seashell white to an uncomfortably deep rhubarb red and his voice, troubled as it was by the vulgar strains of puberty, could find no better outlet of self-expression than to produce primal grunts that were often laced with schoolyard profanity.

so begins the first draft of the first paragraph of a new story about a neighborhood at war with each other…. more will  be posted. things will be edited.