Happy New Year 2011!

Dear Readers,

I wish you a very Happy New Year!

One of my resolutions is more photographs taken and more words written! I hope to share more with you this year than last.

"New Year's Eve at the Palm Gardens", Rockaway Park, 2003. Juliana Beasley

Warm wishes!

When it Wasn't Raining A Month Ago

"Ma #1", Rockaway Park, NYC. 5/09.

I went out to my favorite place. The place that has become my second home and also a second, if not a first family to me. I did the usual. I stopped into the Kerry Hill Pub and sipped on a double Jameson straight. This is the ritual, I have followed on and off for the last six years, on and off, as a prelude to my shoots out in the Rockaways. I feel acclimated to the environment. Not necessarily high but part and parcel of the once "Irishtown" that Rockaway Park was and is still is.

A strange afternoon, I don't recognize anyone in the pub. On the way, to the pub, walking down and past the retail stores, some closed for business, some hanging on, the blown up dinosaurs and dolphins are hanging from shops, inviting tourists to spend their money. Streams of adolescents with beach towels wrapped around their bellies, a folded beach chair in hand, a arm around the shoulder march up 116 towards the beach. This is their purpose. Summer season alas is almost here.

Then the stream stops for a half hour. I can see it from the Last Stop Diner and then again the beach goers persist from the subway station up the avenue.

I run into several people, I know in the neighborhood. There is Evelyn dressed head to toe in baby blue and white, always so careful in what she wears. She lives at Belle Harbor Residence and in the afternoons takes up residence at the Cash and Carry to hustle change and dollar bills from passers by.

I like her and vice verse...she has chutzpah, a mission towards fashion panache, and a fabulous Jewish NYC accent.

Like so many of the Rockaway Park residents, their dialects and voices...the folklore of years past is dying out. It frightens me and I suppose now, that I am older, these things really matter to me. I can't accept this change of all the beautiful uniqueness and color of the Rockaways. I want to suck it in and embrace it deep in my lungs, but death is death and you are left with ephemeral glances, voices, smells, and tastes of the past. Maybe, you catch a snap shot memory. I try to string them together and make a film.

The pieces are so keen in your mind and in your being and before you know it, the your mind catches onto the next coincidence in and the moments all is gone.

"Last night, I cried in bed. My father was standing at the kitchen screen door, opened slightly. He wore a beaten up Fruit of the Loom v-neck t-shirt. Streams of smoke trailing between the sliver, from his mouth through the crack in the door held steadily ajar with the side of his foot. I could smell the Pall Malls burning the thin paper down. With every drag, he seem like he was inhaling a deep thought.

He dragged on the on the cigarette mid-way down. Rubbing the ashes upon the stoop, holding the half cigarette in his hand. He held onto the rest, saving it for a later smoke. Other times, in the dark of night, he would walk across the Philadelphia flagstones in the backyard, rub the last bits of tobacco in two hands and throw it into a compost heap of rotting vegetables and fruits that decayed under our cherry tree. He was considerate and cheap."

When I watched him from the kitchen table through the screen door, his walking figure slowly disappearing into obscurity.

"Are you coming back?"

"Don't worry." he said, "I'll be right back".

I have come out on a sunny day. Just a day out there and just not enough for me. I'm sad that I will have to return to my home in Jersey City. There are times that I miss this place and the people. The photos will always be my own keep sake, no matter whom sees it.

Was it the last sunny super extraordinary day in Spring before the rains began?

I had photographed at this boarding house before--a hairy chested man last summer sitting with his dog on a hot day. His eyes glowed through his grit and sweaty filth.

I climbed the steps.

"Hey, how you boys doing today. Gorgeous weather, right?"

A group of 3 men sit under a covered front porch.

Grubble, grubble and a couple of crude pot shots at the photographer with a funny old camera.

Jazmin, my intern and I spend a couple of hours there. And somewhere into the shoot, I realize that several years ago, I had tried to photograph in the same decrepit house.

At the time, I walked in the foyer and a man, noticing my camera and pointing his finger down the hallway towards a door,

"You betta' ask the super. I don't know if you can take the pictures in here."

He was in his room. I knocked on the door and asked politely,

"Can I photograph here in the hallway?"

Big..."No!"

What had changed in his mood from several years ago to a month ago...I don't know for sure. But, maybe it was the summery day or the fact that he wasn't in a lonely drunken stupor hiding alone behind the door to his room with the t.v. blaring. Or maybe because it was because me and my Jazmin had been accepted into the clan on the front porch before entering the parched white painted building.

This time, he was excited to pull out a shredded old picture of John Lennon. A photographer was in the house.

"Do you think you can make this look good. Someone suggested that I rephotograph it."

The poor poster looked like it had been through a paper shredder and taped back together.

I realized the scary man was just an older chubby Hippie dude with greasy hair with a drinking problem. He offered me and my intern a coca cola three or four times, until, neither a drinker accepted his over zealous offer.

"Abe and Lennon", Rockaway Park, NYC, 5/09.

We were invited into the room of an older very skin lucid man. I forget his name. Could it have been Charles? I know so, many out there. The room was large enough to fit a twin bed, a fridge, a hot plate on a dresser, a small sink in the corner of the room. Sitting on top of his fridge, leaning up against something--I don't know what--his last will and testament is written with a red Sharpie and housed in a manila envelope.

The bathrooms are always at the end of the hall. They pay around $500. at most to live here. Down the street is a beautiful beach. Like all of this out here...none of this makes sense. I didn't come out here to make sense, but ultimately, I had to understand more.

"Pencil Portrait", Rockaway Park", NYC, 5/09.

"Hot Plate #1", Rockaway Park, NYC, 5/09.

We fell in love with "Ma". Her childish demeanor is bundled up in a dirty pilling red dress gown. Her sweet grandma smile and one tooth gives even this broken building a feeling of a home. Everyone living here calls her "Ma". She smiled and smoked her cigarettes and didn't speak one word or if she did it was not on my sonar level. Her tight-lipped demeanor makes me wonder how she managed to get cigarette smoke down her wind pipe.

Now, I must wait for the warm weather.

This might be my last summer out in the Rock....the thought makes me miserable. I am so emotionally connected that I find it hard to finish this project. I will though. As hard as it was to motivate me some days to go out there, find my creative center, and go into the chaos without being the chaos, I found a home.

Merry Christmas in Rockaway Park!

"Boarding House Garbage Cans",
Rockaway Park, NYC, Christmas, 1995?

Was it Winter 2005? I was offered to spend the holidays with several of my friends around NYC. I declined and instead went to go down to Rockaway Park for Christmas. I have an objective, find my buddy Butch. I haven't seen in at least over a year. I miss the man with the scratchy drunken voice covering up a heart, so innocent and kind.

Butch was out of sight. No one seemed to know where he had been.

The last winter, he was staying in a smaller than small studio in a boarding house. They like to call this particular house, a crack house. I've seen a lot going on there from booze to heroin, but crack never passed my way. I wouldn't be surprised. Often, I walk through fire and don't feel flames scorching my flesh.

Back then Butchie's friend had bought him a new vinyl lazy boy, dark shiny brown with swerves of black almost like some mutant pit bull. He sat on that chaired and flipped through the basic channels. She had bought him a new bed since the last one he had stained in feces after a long binge alone behind the padlock on his door. She had made sure that "Meals on Wheels" came to his place seven days a week to feed him twice a day on the weekdays and once on each weekend day. I can't forget when he showed me the platter of food stored in Styrofoam. He removed it from the refrigerator and opened the lid and told me with pride ever item in the container.

This friend, this very kind woman--I never met--she died of walking pneumonia at, I believe, no more than 50 years old.

The evening, Butchie found out, he had vodka dripping from his mouth like a fountain. There was nothing, but a quart of Smirnoff that could make any sense to him. Between deep guttural moans of mourning and spewed anger to those around him--he was out of his mind.

Butchie Under Covers, Rockaway Park, NYC, 1995?

That night I came to visit , he was surrounded by the fly-by-nighters, the ones that came when they needed a bit of cash from Butch who would give them money from his disability and VA checks hidden in cash somewhere who knew expect the ones who stole it.

A circle of friends attempted to comfort him, as he flayed his body around, while legs shook unsteady beneath him. He is beginning to show the signs of some neurological disorder...years of drinking surely had made things easier to tolerate, but soon enough would make him bound to a wheel chair. The last gasps of unjust anger faded away and off, he fell asleep, an inebriated calm baby under a half made bed.

So, Christmas...2005. One of the regulars at the Kerry Hill Garden's told me that he was staying at the Peninsula Hospital. It was a frigid day, I walked under the A tracks towards the water and found the Peninsula. Charlie was going to meet me there outside of the building. My cell phone rang and it was my girlfriend's nieces wishing me a Merry Christmas.

"Why aren't you here?", they screamed in unison. "Where are you? We wish you were here!"

"I'm fine," I said. I'm photographing for my project."

..as I imagined them sitting in front of a fire in Narragansett, Rhode Island. They probably were wearing fleece tops, bottoms and footsies to keep warm. I kept a keen eye on any gang life. I held tightly onto two wrapped presents, one for Charlie and one for Butchie.

"Don't go down there!", they said to me before I left the pub. There are a lot of gangs down there. I walked swiftly looking into the interiors of busted car windows and walked quickly over chard's of glass.

Charlie was waiting outside of the Peninsula, smoking a cigarette. I had never seen him dressed so fine. A sports coat, covered with a wool winter coat past his knees. His hair was brushed to the side and brilliantined. He appeared as a ghost vision of my father, quiet, reserved and respectful.

Charlie at His Finest, Peninsula Hospital, Rockaways, NYC, 1995?

We went inside to the reception desk....

"Hello! We are looking for Edward McBride.", I ask. Charlie stands beside me.

Continued next week.

And for now, let me introduce you to a local Rockaway's Organization called "The Rockaway Jetty"

You can learn more about there group on Facebook. Her are some of the things they do:

SINCE ITS INCEPTION, THE ROCKAWAY JETTY'S MISSION HAS BEEN TO IMPROVE THE QUALITY OF LIVES OF CHILDREN IN THE ROCKAWAY COMMUNITY.

WE DO SO BY PROVIDING:

FINANCIAL ASSISTANCE FOR MEDICAL OR EDUCATIONAL NEEDS.

TUTORING

SCHOOL SUPPLIES

BOOKS

CLOTHING

VACATIONS/CAMPS/DAY TRIPS

TOYS.

ETC.

THE ROCKAWAY JETTY RELIES ON THE INVOLVEMENT AND DEDICATION OF ITS MEMBERS AS WELL AS THE KINDNESS AND GENEROSITY OF THE COMMUNITY AND OTHER LOCAL ORGANIZATIONS.

THE ROCKAWAY JETTY IS A TAX EXEMPT, NOT-FOR-PROFIT LOCALLY BASED ORGANIZATION THAT IS DEDICATED TO HELPING PEOPLE "ONE NEED AT A TIME."

Bogart and Snickers

"Phil on Christmas Morning, 2008"

I was half-asleep on Christmas Eve in a studio out in Rockaway Park . Phil came in the door. I looked at the digital alarm clock, 4:15 AM. "Here, Darling". He threw an extra long Snickers on the bed next to me as if he was throwing a bundle of hard cash, after a grueling night shift. He brought me home a Snickers bar every night since I had arrived two days ago.

"Where were you?" We could have been a married couple after sharing a one room studio apartment for only a couple of days.

"Out at the bar," he said.

His eyes always look downward, making the rare eye contact. He scanned the floor. With a massive hand engulfing his skull, he began to scratch and swoop his hair back, the same way only men with short hair cuts are privy to do in this world. The same soulful gesture you might imagine Marlon Brandon doing in a moment of confusion or defeat in a movie from the fifties.

"Which bar?". I already felt like I had missed out on something fun.

"Kerry Hill." "I ran into Trish and we ended up talking for a bit."

I always wondered how people can spend hours in a bar talking to the same people all the time without some purpose. My life has been bound to purpose, reason and without both, socializing can seem like falling into a busted fishnet. I envied Phil and everyone else who could go out and banter the nights away, while I was white knuckling scores of "to do" lists on Christmas Eve.

I tore into the Snickers with my teeth and before he could even turn around to look at me from the kitchenette against the opposite wall, I had gobbled it down. I felt the caramel and chocolate leftovers stuck to my teeth. I would wait for the early morning sun, get up to brush my teeth in the shared bathroom, in between, his apartment and his neighbors.

After a couple of nights, camping out here, shooting in the day and watching Turner Classics while convalescing late evenings and mornings, I felt at home here. I almost always feel more at home in other people's homes than in my own, especially, when they are not at home.

Dear Phil,

Thanks for letting me spend the night.

Thanks for buying me diet cokes and snicker bars.

Thanks for making me a beautiful eggs over medium sandwich on wheat toast.

And hours of Bogart to watch on two separate televisions facing one another on opposing sides of your studio.

And most of all a hide-out during the holidays.

With affection,
Juliana

Oh, Let Us Adore Him!

I am off to the Rockaways to stand out in the frigid air with my dear intern, Buddhist Jesse. Who else would join me on my yearly voyage out to Rockaway Park for the holidays?

He is ready to meet Tara, Bryan, Michelle and anyone else who comes down our path, as it always seems to be. I learned the hard way that making plans out there is something akin to waiting 5 hours in Albania for the bus to finally show up and then when it doesn't, hiring some random driver to take you halfway to your destination.

After the Big C. day, Jesse is off to the hills of a state that will remain sacrosanct. Yes, he is off for a week-long retreat with fellow meditators to purge all wordly distractions and malaise. My first destination choice-- two week full body massage, facial, and herbal wrap complete at McClean.

This time, I actually might get use out of a tripod that I bought almost 2 years ago. This might be the time to try out those long exposures at night. Where is Todd Hido when you need him? And yes, I've been avoiding recording interviews because with a camera nearby, the decision is always clear cut. This time...all those great conversations will be conjured up once again.

I'm off to breathe in lots of second hand smoke and sit in the Kerry Hill and go to homes of friends whom I haven't seen since the summer. It's not my favorite time of year out there or anywhere in the Northeast, but in someways, the most honest time since the tourists are long gone. The streets are deserted and the bars begin to fill early morning. Jesse and I will be there just in time, at 11am, right before the last cantankerous drunk has had enough to settle the shakes and the crankies.

They will all say "Happy Hanukkah!" when I walk through the door, even though I never celebrate the holiday. You might think that Jews in NYC don't exist with the kind of dazzling salutations I will receive out here this week. In the end, I feel like I just don't fit in. But, this might be as good as it get's.

I got lucky and found another place to sleep. Unfortunately, I screwed up the last home stay. On the second night I moved in the apartment, I changed rooms in order to sleep with my host's new roommate who had also moved in the same night I did. We had met in the kitchen standing over a pot of crusty black bean remains.

I now hear on a never ending loop, a report on Fox 5 News that a fervent Christian who stays awake to all hours of night and day, looking for lost numbers scrolled on pieces of paper, is still praying for my lost soul. I'm thankful for that. Anything, can help a lost soul.

The next three nights, for better or worse, I'll be sharing a king size bed with my friend, Phil. He has a boxer's broken nose and the heart that comes with it. His studio is neater than my apartment and he loves to bake! Yellow lace falling from a balustrade veil secrets from a past tragedy he shared with me one afternoon over the past summer. He lay on the bed and peeked his face out of an opening in the transparent material, recounting the story of a lost love, a lost child.

It's getting late. I'll be up early. Moishe and Howard are being picked up by the doggie stay n' play bus at 7am. I have to prepare food baggies, medication, toys, and cushions for them and for me one change of undies, film, camera, flash, makeup, medication, etc , etc ....no credit cards.