I am a sucker for songs about the moon.
This is the way I love…
in the imperative.
I always have music around me.
Before the age of the iPhone, iPod, or Sony anything, I would hum little songs,
A series of related notes,
Like cousins wandering arm in arm
to the creeks of my childhood.
No matter how noisy it gets,
Music stills me,
To be still,
And it’s quiet,
Apart from the humming.
Somewhere along the way,
I realized that the story was me.
Avenue A or B or C — it doesn’t matter. I want to live on an alphabet street. Gimme an F, G or H.
Sesame Street is somehow to blame, I think. It filled my head with brownstones and boulevards, small streets, and riding a bike to the store.
I’m not far — about two miles (maybe three) and at least two-hundred Gs. But what I can get is a bike.
I wanted to start an all girls’ punk band called “Epstein’s Mother,” and, yes, I am old enough to remember ‘Welcome Back, Kotter.’
I’ve been writing books (I started with manila paper and crayon) since age four. (My brother would tell you my tattling skills — he calls it tattling, I call it creative storytelling – started much earlier. I’m sort of a prodigy.) I am also a hula hooping savant. I’m the Rain Man of hula hooping. I need to parlay that into some sort of paid gig. Hey, if you build it, they’ll come…right? That’s what they say in all the movies…