#Manhattan Haikus

[philgennuso]

The Faces Of Cindy #Haiku #Drawing

Phil Gennuso Arts Flower childManhattan boundthe stage is her destiny ********************************************* Roughly two minutes of lyrical and musical perfection! Moments like this are never forgotten…

[kvetchlandia]

Peter Hujar Poet Anne Waldman c.1975

That all these dyings may be life in death”

I was living in San Francisco

My heart was in Manhattan

It made no sense, no reference point

Hearing the sad horns at night,

fragile evocations of female stuff

The 3 tones (the last most resonant)

were like warnings, haiku-muezzins at dawn

The call came in the afternoon

“Frank, is that really you?”

I'd awake chilled at dawn

in the wooden house like an old ship

Stay bundled through the day

sitting on the stoop to catch the sun

I lived near the park whose deep green

over my shoulder made life cooler

Was my spirit faltering, grown duller?

I want to be free of poetry's ornaments,

its duty, free of constant irritation,

me in it, what was grander reason

for being? Do it, why? (Why, Frank?)

To make the energies dance etc.

My coat a cape of horrors

I'd walk through town or

impending earthquake. Was that it?

Ominous days. Street shiny with

hallucinatory light on sad dogs,

too many religious people, or a woman

startled me by her look of indecision

near the empty stadium

I walked back spooked by

my own darkness

Then Frank called to say

“What? Not done complaining yet?

Can't you smell the eucalyptus,

have you never neared the Pacific?

‘While frank and free/call for

musick while your veins swell’”

he sang, quoting a metaphysician

"Don't you know the secret, how to

wake up and see you don't exist, but

that does, don't you see phenomena

is so much more important than this?

I always love that.”

“Always?” I cried, wanting to believe him

“Yes.” “But say more! How can you if

it's sad & dead?” “But that's just it!

If! It isn't. It doesn't want to be

Do you want to be?” He was warming to his song

“Of course I don't have to put up with as

much as you do these days. These years.

But I do miss the color, the architecture,

the talk. You know, it was the life!

And dying is such an insult. After all

I was in love with breath and I loved

embracing those others, the lovers,

with my body.” He sighed & laughed

He wasn't quite as I'd remembered him

Not less generous, but more abstract

Did he even have a voice now, I wondered

or did I think it up in the middle

of this long day, phone in hand now

dialing Manhattan

-- Anne Waldman, "A Phonecall from Frank O'Hara"

[asolareclipses]

(Previous Part)

“Gods this heat is killing me.”

Will looked back at Jason who was drenched in sweat from the summer sun. “Maybe we should take a quick break.”

“I don’t get how you’re not melting right now,” Jason said as he practically collapsed on the ground.

Will shrugged, “Maybe it’s an Apollo thing. Sun resistance or whatever.”

Jason squinted as he looked up at Will, “Huh.”

Will turned to face the quiet road beside them his face turning somber, “We’re never going to make it there at this pace.”

Jason sighed as he ducked his head in a pointless action to avoid the sun. “I mean we’re halfway there right?”

With a groan of frustration Will turned to Jason, “If only we didn’t breakdown in the middle of nowhere.”

Jason opened his mouth the speak but was interrupted by a loud car horn.

Will watched as a small rusted truck slowly rolled to a stop next to them, the window squeaking as it slid down.

“You boys need a ride?” An old man spoke with a southern twang.

Simultaneously, Will and Jason looked at each other, both with clear skepticism. This had ‘Trap’ written all over it, however they had no other choice.

“Sure,” Will replied with a halfhearted smile, motioning for Jason to follow him.

In no time they were riding smoothly, somewhat, down the empty road in the worn down truck. The inside was no better than the outside either as the seats were clearly old with some tears and stains. Each floorboard was caked with dirt along with scattered pieces of trash or machine parts.

Will scanned each inch of the truck but, apart from its lack of cleanliness, it was perfectly normal. No evil tortue tools or suspicious mythical items. It was exactly what you’d expect from some random southern man. The man himself wasn’t strange either, no third eye or sharp teeth, rather something about him felt oddly familiar.

“So you two off on some adventure?” The man joked as he glanced in the rear view mirror at Jason with a sudden look of melancholy.

“Um we were just,” Will paused trying to come up with something. “On our way to visit our grandparents in Maine.”

Jason glanced skeptically at Will, to which Will read as, ‘In what world are we siblings?’

“Well isn’t that nice,” The man smiled, “Good thing I ran across you two because i’m headed the same way.”

Will thought that ‘coincidence’ should’ve made him nervous but for some reason he felt as if he weren’t in any type of danger.

“How’d you two get stranded?” The man continued the conversation in a relaxed manner.

“The-I mean my car broke down,” Will winced at his own stuttering.

The man shook his head, “Those are some tough roads from manhattan huh?”

Will froze, turning to the man. “I never said where we came from.”

The man’s eyes widened for a split second, “Lucky guess huh?”

Will just stared back, inching closer to the door as if to make a sudden escape.

The man sighed with a frown, “Perhaps i’m not the actor I believed I was. My skills seem to be getting quite rusty.” The southern accent disappeared as he spoke in an eerily familiar tone. “Dressed as an old man. Oh how convincing I am. Yet still I get caught.”

Wills eyes widened as he realized the drivers real identity, “Dad?!”

——

Jason almost got whiplash as he heard what Will said. ‘Dad?’ In no world was this old man Apollo, still there he was, Haikus and all.

“I’m conflicted on whether I should be disappointed in my disguise skills or happy that my child is so quick-witted.” The once old man, now Apollo spoke with a grin.

“Why are you-How are you here?” Will seemed just as shocked as Jason felt.

“I can be anywhere I want of course, and where is better than here?” Apollo words sounded similar to that of riddles. “A good father can give his son a ride once in a while right?”

“Won’t you get in trouble for interfering with, you know, demigod stuff?” Will asked.

“What ‘demigod’ stuff?” Apollo asked his voice pitching a bit higher. “This is just a regular ride with no ulterior motive. At least that’s what i’m going to tell Zeus if he finds out.” He glanced back in the mirror again but as his eyes met Jason’s he quickly looked away with a small frown.

Jason couldn’t help but to remember the last time he’d seen Apollo. He could still feel the coldness of the water, how it felt as he realized his life was about to end.

“So is this your car?” Will’s voice snapped Jason out of his thoughts and back to the current moment.

Apollo shrugged, “Any car can be my car.”

Will raised an eyebrow as his father.

“Okay, I may have borrowed it. But it’s not like anyone will miss this thing, I’ll just replace it with a new one. It’s not like I could’ve used the sun chariot, that would be far too obvious.”

“Right..” Will said, biting back a smile.

“Consider this a favor,” Apollo said his voice suddenly somber. “I know I owe you two far more than just this.” His eyes glanced back at Jason again for only a second.

Will frowned but quickly changed the subject upon sensing the tension, “Do you know what’s going on, if Nico is okay?”

Apollo frowned, “Oh how I wish I could tell you.” His fingers tightened around the wheel, “There is not much I know, just the darkness you all have been so aware of. I can’t predict this outcome and even if I could there would be no speaking it. But you are strong, you are light. Remember that Will.”

Jason could see Will’s face scrunching in confusion but he didn’t say anything, instead he leaned against the window to his side with a distant look in his eyes.

Apollo began to drone on about what he’d been recently doing before he switched over to asking Will as many ‘fatherly’ questions as he possibly could. Jason almost felt left out, he knew his father would never speak to him like that. His father hadn’t even bothered to say anything to him since he came back. Perhaps that was for the best, maybe him acknowledging Jasons existence would mean his end. Or worse, Leo could face consequences too. Jason’s thoughts continued to consume him until he realized that they were slowing down.

Apollo looked at the two passengers hesitantly as the truck rolled to a stop, “This is as far as I can go.”

Will smiled, his eyes without any joy. “Thank you Dad.”

“Anytime Will, I wish I could-” Apollo stopped himself. “Be safe, and bring back Nico.”

“I will,” Will nodded stopping out of the truck.

As Jason turned to exit Apollo suddenly spoke, “Jason.” He paused, “For all that happened, I..I truly am sorry.”

Jason froze for a moment tightly gripping the door handle, he turned to Apollo with a strained smile and shook his head. “Don’t apologize, it was just fate.” He spoke before quickly pushing the door open and stepping out.

Apollo frowned as if he wanted to say something more but decided not to. With a smile and wave he drove off, “Remember who you are Will!” He called out as his voice faded into the wind.

The two of them stood there until the truck was just a spot on the horizon before turning to the rusted sign that read, “Westover Hall 1 Mile Ahead.”

“Well,” Jason turned to Will his voice void of enthusiasm, “We’re here.”

Will bit his lip as he stared at the large school in the distance, “Let’s hope we’re not too late.”

Part Nine?

[lizardsfromspace]

A perfectly good PS2 JRPG: *exists*

Every American game critic in the 2000s: Glorious Nippon has fallen on hard times. Once they had samurai and haiku, now they have anime and schoolgirl panty vending machines. Today's abomination makes you wish the Manhattan Project had finished the job. This protagonist is so pretty, he's probably gay. It's anime influenced, and turn based, but you may be able to look past those unforgivable flaws - if you've never known the touch of a woman. Three out of five.

[syntactition]

lol I made a Will Solace cosplayer go D: at a Percy Jackson photoshoot because I went as Apollo Camper Who, Realistically, Probably Died in the Battle of Manhattan and they were like “you killed off your own OC???” so some other facts about my Camp Half-Blood Cosplay OC who is definitely not just me wearing Camp Half-Blood gear:

hot garbage at archery. might be able to shoot one (1) arrow to save her life but only if Apollo is paying attention and feeling generous while she’s praying

carries a dagger because it’s suicide not to be armed. does not want to use the dagger. not a pacifist, just bad at fighting.

not that good at healing either but has bandaids, painkillers, snacks for dropped blood sugar, and emergency Benadryl. that’s as important, right?

how is she even a child of Apollo!!!

glad u asked

choir kid

introverted but give her a stage and she’s gonna!! sing!!!

poetry

not great at haikus

gets sunburned too easily?? does dad even love her???

thank u for ur time

[sarahrserfati]

Wheatfield - A Confrontation, Agnes Denes, 1982

"Two acres of wheat planted and harvested by the artist on the Battery Park landfill, Manhattan, Summer 1982.

After months of preparations, in May 1982, a 2-acre wheat field was planted on a landfill in lower Manhattan, two blocks from Wall Street and the World Trade Center, facing the Statue of Liberty. Two hundred truckload of dirt were brought in and 285 furrows were dug by hand and cleared of rocks and garbage. The seeds were sown by hand adn the furrows covered with soil. the field was maintained for four months, cleared of wheat smut, weeded, fertilized and sprayed against mildew fungus, and an irrigation system set up. the crop was harvested on August 16 and yielded over 1000 pounds of healthy, golden wheat.

Planting and harvesting a field of wheat on land worth $4.5 billion created a powerful paradox. Wheatfield was a symbol, a universal concept; it represented food, energy, commerce, world trade, and economics. It referred to mismanagement, waste, world hunger and ecological concerns. It called attention to our misplaced priorities. The harvested grain traveled to twenty-eight cities around the world in an exhibition called "The International Art Show for the End of World Hunger", organized by the Minnesota Museum of Art (1987-90). The seeds were carried away by people who planted them in many parts of the globe.

The questionnaire was composed of existential questions concerning human values, the quality of life, and the future of humanity. The responses were primarily from university students in various countries where I spoke or had exhibitions of my work. Within the context of the time capsule the questionnaire functioned as an open system of communication, allowing our descendants to evaluate us not so much by the objects we created�as is customary in time capsules�but by the questions we asked and how we responded to them.

The microfilm was desiccated and placed in a steel capsule inside a heavy lead box in nine feet of concrete. A plaque marks the spot: at the edge of the Indian forest, surrounded by blackberry bushes. The time capsule is to be opened in 2979, in the 30th century, a thousand years from the time of the burial.

There are, still within the framework of this project, several time capsules planned on earth and in space, aimed at various time frames in the future.

Postscript: The above text that was written in 1982 has now added poignancy and relevance after 9/11/01" - Agnesdenesstudio.com

"Rice/Tree/Burial was first realized in 1968 in Sullivan County, New York, in a private ritual. It was a symbolic "event" and announced my commitment to environmental issues and human concerns. It was also the first exercise in Eco-Logic; an act in eco-philosophy. I coined the words to be used this way emphasizing the importance of eco-logical thinking. This work is considered the first ecological realization in public art.

I planted rice to represent life (initiation and growth), chained trees to indicate interference with life and natural processes (evolutionary mutation, variation, decay, death), and buried my Haiku poetry to symbolize the idea or concept (the abstract, the absolute, human intellectual powers, and creation itself). These three acts constituted the first transitional triangulation* (thesis, antithesis, synthesis) and formed the Event. According to evolutionary theories, Event is the only reality, while the reality we perceive is forever changing and transforming in an expanding evolutionary universe in which time, space, mass, and energy are all interconnected and interdependent.

Rice represented a universal substance referring to sustenance and the life-giving element, while the seed itself denoted the nucleus, first principle or cause, the beginning. The act of sowing implied the source of growth, the introduction of a thing into another environment in order to initiate a process, the setting of something into motion (fertilization, conceiving, induction).

The chaining of trees signified linkage, connective units and associations, flexibility and restraint. It implied bondage, defeat, interference with growth and decay. The act of chaining brought attention to the mysterious life-force of an organism and its partial triumph over boundaries and restraints, its uneven, limited transcendence. Chaining trees also expressed choice, the selection and defining necessary in the creative process.

The texture of the forest, having been interrupted by the reordering of its elements, yielded unique structures of isolated or combined sculptural forms. The chains became additional limbs and blended into their surroundings to become visible only in certain lights, angles, and perspectives, conveying the conflicting and interdependent aspects of art and existence, illusion and reality, imagination and fact. The chained trees stood as monuments to human thought versus nature.

The burial of my haiku formed the essence of thinking processes (consciousness, deductive reasoning, and the logic of emotions). It represented the concept as essence of invention, which connects and defines life and death and acts as modifier and rationale for both.

I kept no copies of my poetry, thereby relinquishing, "giving up to the soil," something personal and precious, an act that also symbolized the self-denial and discipline required by this new analytical art form.

The act of burial, or placing into the ground and receiving from it, a cause-and-effect process, marks our intimate relationship with the earth. On the one hand, it indicates passing, returning to the soil, disintegration, and transformation; on the other, generation and life-giving, placing in the ground for the purpose of planting. It is also a metaphor for human intelligence and transcendence through the communication of ideas - in this case, to future descendants.

All three imply change from one form to another, cyclic phenomena, transformation- as from chaos to order and back. Consequently, all three idea representatives or metaphors, the rice, the tree, the burial, become analogous, interactive and interdependent, creating the tension of opposing forces acting on each other and the momentum necessary to pass from one state to another and into further propositions. Their interaction creates a counterbalance as they pass into each other's realm or meaning to become successively interchangeable through their inherent polarity.

The ritual marked the beginning of my involvement with the creation of a "visual philosophy," a complex process which explores essences as forms of communication. It finds methods to put analytical propositions into visual form, defines elusive processes and creates analogies among divergent fields and thought processes. It challenges the status quo and tests its own validity.

In the summer of 1977, the ritual was re-enacted and realized on a full scale at Artpark (Lewiston, New York), completing the first cycle in the evolutionary process of my work and marking an important phase in its development. This periodical summation is a natural evolutionary phenomenon. Organisms probe their environment to find best possible ways to survive by developing memory and the ability to compare. In our limited existence this long view of reaching back and re-examining provides answers as to where we have been and where we are going.

I planted a half-acre rice field 150 feet above the Niagara gorge. The site marked the birthplace of Niagara Falls between Canada and the U.S., twelve thousand years ago. The rice grew up mutant, an unforeseen consequence of Artpark having been a dump-site near Love Canal.

I chained the trees in a sacred forest that was once an Indian burial ground, long since looted and desecrated, working under the watchful eyes of the Indians who seemed to hover over us in the trees and cover our bodies in the form of eerie spiders.

I then climbed out to the edge of Niagara Falls and filmed it for seven days, adding the forces of nature, as a fourth element, to this cycle of dialectics. With this act I also affirmed that my art functioned on the edge of the unknown in a delicate balance of the universals and the self, of the moment and of eternity�and was not afraid to assume the risks such art must take.

The shaky ledge from which I filmed had been dynamited to control the retreat of the falls. Soon after my filming, it fell into the white foam below.

The time capsule was buried at Artpark at 47' 10' longitude and 79' 2' 32" latitude. It contained no objects other than the microfilmed responses to a questionnaire that had traveled around the world, and a long letter I wrote addressed "Dear Homo Futurus."

The questionnaire was composed of existential questions concerning human values, the quality of life, and the future of humanity. The responses were primarily from university students in various countries where I spoke or had exhibitions of my work. Within the context of the time capsule the questionnaire functioned as an open system of communication, allowing our descendants to evaluate us not so much by the objects we created, as is customary in time capsules, but by the questions we asked and how we responded to them.

The microfilm was desiccated and placed in a steel capsule inside a heavy lead box in nine feet of concrete. A plaque marks the spot: at the edge of the Indian forest, surrounded by blackberry bushes. The time capsule is to be opened in 2979, in the 30th century, a thousand years from the time of the burial.

There are, still within the framework of this project, several time capsules planned on earth and in space, aimed at various time frames in the future."

- Text accessed from Agnesdenesstudio.com: Dialectic Triangulation: A Visual Philosophy and Exercises in Logic (1967-69) From The Organic Notebooks 1967-79

Particularly "Wheat field: A confrontation" shares a very direct relationship with my work - in many ways I was interested in the terrorism fear that emerged from the Opal tower shattering, and how the building represents a capital / luxury.

[bricehammack]

Manhattan Island Chewy center, gluten free Crisp, kosher edges

#HaikuHash

#Haiku

[the-haiku-bot]

not a single jack

manhattan/cosmo chase fic

??? not a single one????

Beep boop! I look for accidental haiku posts. Sometimes I mess up.

not a single jack manhattan/cosmo chase fic ??? not a single one????

[amitapaul]

30/24c

#23GloPoWriMo

Year 2023 Month April Day 24

Prompt Dated 24/3/23

Response No : 1

Poem No : 30

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Featured Poem :

Our featured participant today is Quest for Whirled Peas, where the response to Day 23’s multi-part poem prompt has a lovely, haiku-like sense of present-ness :

I.

The sun and the wind and the rain

All play their part

We liked certain parts more than others

II.

Do you remember the signs

That warned of bears

And said, “stay in your car”?

We read them from our bikes

And laughed nervously

III.

The journey is the point

The destination only marks the end

IV.

One thing I’ve learned:

Riding down might be more fun,

But attaining the summit is victory!

V.

If not for our helmets

The freezing rain

On Sunwapta Pass

Would have really hurt!

( Brian Ens )

Poetry Resource :

Today, our daily resource is this very strange website that will write you a haiku based on your location. It seems to default to lower east side of Manhattan, but if you click the “locate me” link at the bottom left of the page, it will recenter someplace near you, and then serve you up a haiku. You can also drag the map around using your cursor, to recenter it on a new location.

Smelly old river

Cuckoo calling sweetly

From mango bough

Prompt :

And now for our (optional) prompt, taken once more from our archives. Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem in the form of a review. But not a review of a book or a movie of a restaurant. Instead, I challenge you to write a poetic review of something that isn’t normally reviewed. For example, your mother-in-law, the moon, or the year you were ten years old.

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Poem Title :

Review of My Leftover Sliver of Bathsoap

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It is translucent and honey yellow

Not the best bathsoap I’ve ever used

But pleasant, smooth and fragrant,

It smells of patchouli and I think

I’ll be rather sorry when it finally disappears.

I had sent someone to buy some bathsoap for me

He put me through to the salesman because he couldn’t choose

“ We have a new line of organic soaps, Madam,

From the Khadi and Village Industries Cooperative

They are selling like hot cakes,” said the young man

Introduced to me over the phone as Ankit.

I asked him how many fragrances were available

He mentioned sandalwood, rose, lavender and patchouli

I’m not very sure why I chose patchouli but I did

And soon it arrived, wrapped in plain see through cellophane

With a small label - none of the thick fancy covers you find

On Lux with pictures of roses and pearls and a film star

Emerging from the soap suds in a jacuzzi or a hot tub

Or amid waterfalls or foaming waves on a tropical beach.

None of that, just simple soap, which doesn’t foam much,

In fact not at all, almost, and the scent is subtle- I like the fact

That it comes back to surprise you later, as well-

A sort of haunting memory of fragrance, not the thing itself.

I might try sandalwood next time. What do you think?

And yes, it won’t break the bank, far from it, even though

It is organic and fairly eco- friendly.

PS

The sliver I have left over will last me the week.

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Poet : Amita Sarjit Ahluwalia

Poem 30/24th Day

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[thenychaiku]

[creativechaosphoto]

Snow and ice, unsafe to walk in. Yet it can be beautiful as well. . . I'm not a fan of snowfall, esp. here in NYC. But it can be beautiful. Especially when it's falling on a surreal image like the sculpture entitled Fish Bowl, by artist Kathy Ruttenberg. . . One of the many things I enjoy about my city is that it can still surprise and delight you. . . Have a magical day, everyone. . . #NYC #streetphotography #TheBronx #landscapephotography #Brooklyn #nikonphotography #Queens #portraitphotography #Manhattan #blackandwhitephotography #StatenIsland #what_i_saw_in_nyc #nycloveletters #payartists #supportartists #artwillsavemysoul #haiku #poetry #nikon #d3200 #embracechaos #bebetter #chaosphotos https://www.instagram.com/p/ButECcoFf9n/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=z3px7nxrzbjy

[theamazingmaddyas]

Rick is really bad with consistant ages, but Will is about Nico's age. So, he'd've been 13ish post TLO and pre-TLH.

The best context we have for this is The Hidden Oracle. Apollo's haiku claims his son is older than him, but Apollo is known for dramatics, so we can't take his words at face value. Instead, Will thinks Apollo is 15, and Apollo immediately corrects, "Let's go with 16" or something to that caliber. Based on that, I believe we can assume that Will is 15 as of The Hidden Oracle, which takes place in January, which would make him 14 in The Lost Hero and either 13 or 14 in The Last Olympian depending on if Will's birthday is between August and December/January.

Nico, on the other hand, is a whole nother ball game. In The Titan's Curse, Grover explicately says he's 10, which would make him 12 during the Battle of Manhattan and 13 during the Battle against Gaea. However, in the Blood of Olympus, Leila says to Nico, "Aren't you like 14?" Obviously, this can be taken with a grain of salt, because the age people look sometimes vastly differs from their real age (I personally look 5 or so years younger than I really am, and constantly have to explain to people I'm not in highschool nor a teenager) so he could be younger, but Nico never corrects her. Additionally, in The Sword of Hades, Percy says Nico is 12, and as that takes place in December between BOTL and TLO, and Nico's birthday is said by Rick to be in January, shouldn't be possible. My best way to justify this inconsistancy is that Nico wasn't actually 10 in TTC, he just thought he was because he had no real memories, and in reality he was 11.

Rick also said in a tweet that Will and Nico were about the same age, so take with that what you will.

And I know you didn't ask for info on everyone else's age, but I just thought you should know that Chiara's eighteen in The Hidden Oracle (I'm rereading it rn and Apollo explicitely says so) so she'd be 16 post TLO making her in the older counselor category if Percy and Annabeth are there. Obviously, it's your fic so take everything I say with a grain of salt.

I decided to start a oneshot of all the head counsellors having a party at cabin 12 set sometime after TLO but before Percy dissapears.

And I have a scene where mid way through the younger counsellors are sent away (Connor, Damien, Chiara and possibly Lou?) and it's just the older counsellors (Percy, Annabeth, Pollux, Travis, Katie, Drew, Nyssa, Jake, Clarisse and Chris because Clarisse invited him)

And now i'm wondering how old are Nico and Will?

Cause the wiki says Nico is 14 and Will is 16? (why does that age gap look so odd to me? I know its only two years but 14 just feels younger) but those numbers just feel off to me? Is Nico canonically 14?

[dasfineart]

This haiku is dedicated to a friend - - - Life relinquished with weariness? delight? Urban window, final flight. . "From Whitehall Street #1", Urban Orchestra series, NYC, NY. Photo (c) Daryl-Ann Saunders, all rights reserved. No use or copying allowed without written permission in advance from Artist. . . . . . #haiku #haikupoetry #manhattan #UrbanOrchestraSeries #twilight #darylannsaundersphotography #architecture #urbanlandscape #architecturalphotography #photography #womenphotography #nyc #whitehallstreet #citytwilight #homage #dedication #rip #ny #buildings #openwindow #proartsmember #lowermanhattan #concretejungle #reflections #nighttime (at NYC NY) https://www.instagram.com/p/CB614iMFny9/?igshid=tcn6g81ogwkm

[jjuune]

but the wait was worth it because i was in love

A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments - Roland Barthes / Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo & Juliet / Sonnet LXV - Pablo Neruda / Downtown Manhattan - Dieter Krehbiel / Light of Spring - Carl Holsoe / Waiting For You - The Aces / Nick Cassavetes’ The Notebook / The Brothers Karamazov - Fyodor Dostoevsky / Harry Styles by Tyler Mitchell for Vogue / Reverie - Winslow Homer / Sad Beautiful Tragic - Taylor Swift / an almost haiku - oozins / the Tall Windows -  Vilhelm Hammershøi / The Bird’s Nest - Shirley Jackson / The Wait - Richard Brautigan

[ausetkmt]

From private “clubstaurants” to NFT reservation tokens to concierge services, getting a table is a lot easier if you’ve got the money.

Credit...Jonathan Carlson

Published Oct. 15, 2022Updated Oct. 18, 2022

As long as there have been high-status, celebrity-studded restaurants, there have been people clamoring to get into them, working contacts, making phone calls, greasing palms. Lately, though, it can seem like every restaurant in New York is that kind of restaurant.

In the pandemic era — with hours cut back in many cases, and a public eager to eat out once again — the competition for tables has reached a frenzied pitch on electronic reservation platforms.

“Without over-embellishing, within five seconds basically all reservations are taken,” said Steve Saed, who started #FreeRezy, a free electronic forum where people could swap reservations among themselves. “It’s like winning the lottery to eat at these places,” he added.

But a new generation of tactics have emerged to help would-be diners jump the line, including latter-day concierge services, NFTs granting holders special privileges, members-only credit card perks and private “clubstaurants.” What they all have in common is that they will cost you.

“However many years ago, it was slip the host or hostess $20 and bypass the line,” said Alex Lee, the chief executive of Resy and vice president of American Express Dining. He runs the companies’ Global Dining Network, a program that offers a select group of Amex members (Amex owns Resy) access to certain restaurant perks through the reservation platform.

The program, he suggested, is just the natural evolution of that furtive $20. For an annual credit card fee in the hundreds or sometimes thousands, Global Dining Access members can obtain priority reservations at hot restaurants across the United States. “The first thing customers want is access, right?” Mr. Lee said.

But at certain members-only restaurants, a reservation alone is not enough.

Haiku, a private Japanese restaurant in Miami, makes a slightly different calculation. The restaurant accepts members by invitation only, for an annual fee, and asks them to commit to at least four reservations annually for a 10-to-12-course kaiseki-inspired omakase menu. The restaurant declined to discuss either the application process or the price.

Jeff Zalaznick, a partner at Major Food Group, was only slightly more forthcoming about plans for the New York debut of ZZ’s Club, which will feature a members-only Carbone. Like the first ZZ’s in Miami, which offers members access to a Japanese restaurant, a sushi bar, a bar and lounge and a cigar terrace, ZZ’s Club New York will bring the Major Food Group experience to the financial and social elite. (Like Haiku, Major Food Group would not disclose the fee or the application process.)

But given that the original Carbone — which recently lost its Michelin star — is already impossible to get into, is it really necessary to have an even more exclusive version just two miles away?

“One of the great things about being a private member’s club, is the fact that you really can tailor everything on the food and beverage side to your customers at an even higher level than you can, obviously, when you’re just a public restaurant,” Mr. Zalaznick said.

This means knowing what members want, and how exactly they want it: How do they take their steak? Do they prefer still or sparkling water? What is their standing order, and with which modifications?

Diners can have all those things at the London import Casa Cruz, on Manhattan’s Upper East Side, but for a stratospheric price tag. The top-floor dining room there is reserved for the 99 members of the restaurant’s “investor group of partners” who have paid between $250,000 and $500,000 to join.

“I think there’s a demand for curation,” said Noah Tepperberg, the co-CEO of Tao Group Hospitality, which next year is opening a private club in the River North neighborhood of Chicago, in collaboration with the restaurant group Lettuce Entertain You.

In the grand tradition of private clubs — from New York City’s Union Club to San Francisco’s Bohemian Club to the recently rebranded ’Quin House in Boston — these exclusive clubstaurants require not only cash but status.

“Restaurants began as places to show off status,” said Andrew P. Haley, an associate professor of history at the University of Southern Mississippi. Generally, this took place in public, where discerning diners could be seen demonstrating their discernment.

The members-only clubstaurant, on the other hand, confers another kind of status, suggested Megan J. Elias, the director of the gastronomy program at Boston University: “You can be a connoisseur among a very small number of connoisseurs.”

Mr. Saed said he’s not surprised that access is being monetized.

“Part of it tracks to the types of people that are renting in New York now,” he said. “With rents pushing over $4,000 to $5,000, I think that the proportion of people that are living here that have the discretionary income to spend are kind of more here.”

Still other restaurants — the public kind — are leaning into patronage-style programs, aiming to give certain customers premier access, while remaining open to the rest of us.

Under normal circumstances, it can take weeks or months to get into Dame, the West Village fish-and-chips sensation. But there is a workaround: Front of House, a platform designed to help restaurants sell “digital collectibles,” also known as NFTs, that grant holders special access.

Instead of lining up at 4:30 p.m. on a Monday, the one day Dame takes walk-in diners, a devoted diner could pay $1,000, which buys them the ability, with at least 24 hours notice, to book a table once a week through the end of 2022. (20 such tokens have been created; 11 have been sold so far.)

Stephanie Dumanian, a cosmetic dentist in Manhattan and a fan of the restaurant, was trying without success to make a reservation for her husband’s birthday when she found Front of House. She bought a token in July, and has been three times since. “It’s been great,” she said. “I feel like I’m supporting a local business.”

Colin Camac, a co-founder of Front of House, said the platform is simply expediting intimacy.

“I think one of the best things in the world is going into a place just like Cheers, where everybody knows your name, where they know what you like, where your martini is sitting there as soon as you walk in,” said Mr. Camac, who is also a regional director at Resy. “It’s an easier way to be part of that community if you don’t have the time to really invest in it.” In other words, anyone can be a regular, for a price.

“It’s kind of a trade secret in the concierge space that you have to build relationships, and spend a lot of time doing it, in order to deliver these very hard to get reservations,” said Peter Adams, the founder of Table Concierge.

His start-up is for people with money but not time, and a would-be diner doesn’t actually have to be a regular to get treated like one. “You could do this on your own,” he said, but he streamlines the process “so you don’t have to wake up at 8 a.m. or book at midnight.”

For a price — usually $50 per reservation per person, but it depends on the difficulty — Mr. Adams works his connections to open doors that appear closed to the rest of us. (White glove service means he will go as far as going to a restaurant in person to negotiate on a client’s behalf.)

With a week or so warning, he puts his success rate at 90 percent. You want Lilia? He’ll get you Lilia, nevermind what Resy says. “We can get you in anywhere other than Rao’s,” he said of the exclusive Italian restaurant in East Harlem.

Though he added: “But if you want to give me $10,000, I can find a way to get you into Rao’s.”

[soenchantingly]

Daddy Dearest.

PERCY JACKSON X READER fic.

“Remember what I told you buttercup! You need to concentrate on the light within you. I have a haiku to commemorate my visit-“

“That’s alright, dad. Thank you,” you cut him off quickly, not wanting to have to suffer through that.

Apollo ignored you, clearing his throat, and holding up his hands dramatically.

“Crying is okay, concentrate on your own light, shine bright like your dad.” 

“Gee, thanks dad.” you muttered, not really knowing what to say to that.

—–

Alternatively: your father pays you a visit after the death of your mother.

Hello! You have stumbled about a story with an overarching plot following a daughter of Apollo and the trials and tribulations she faces. It will start in Percy Jackson and The Olympians and continue into Heroes of Olympus. It is a Percy Jackson/Reader fanfic. Comments and constructive criticism are very much welcome!

The characters and the plotline of the books are not mine and belong to their respective owners. The story is mine, however, as is the character of ‘the reader’. Please do not publish this story elsewhere without asking for my permission.

Additional note: So, spoiler warning (but I feel like I should mention this before you start reading); in this installment, the reader's mother passed away due to a mysterious illness. This seems a bit vague right now, but it will all become clear in the later installments. Also, I'm not too sure about my portrayal of Apollo but I really wanted him to have a special connection to the reader-

Summer at Camp Half-Blood was a lot more fun than winter at Camp Half-Blood. There were fewer campers and the outdoor activities were a lot less fun given the cold of the snow. Camp Half-Blood had magic boundaries. Nothing was allowed to enter the camp unless Mr. D allowed it. You did not understand why he would want it to snow. Sure, it was pretty to look at, but it was so cold. As a child of Apollo, you were not too fond of the cold, wet, damp snow, especially when you were spending most of your time in the forest, shooting at trees.

After your helped Clarisse and Percy get Ares’ war chariot back from her two immortal brothers Phobos and Deimos, you had spent a week in Manhattan before you decided to go back to Camp Half-Blood. You had spent most of that week with Percy showing him all his favorite places in New York, and it was amazing. It was probably the best week you had in a while. Then, tragedy struck and your mother passed away. The funeral was beautiful, and you even sang a song for her. You never liked singing, but your mother would always ask you to sing something for her, and you would always comply. She used to call you songbird because you had such a lovely singing voice – which you attributed to the fact that your father is the God of music. After the funeral, you immediately left for Camp Half-Blood. Your stepfather had asked you to stay. He had told you that he would take care of you and that you would always be a family to him, but you did not want to stay in Manhattan, and you did not want to be a bother to him (monsters were not opposed to lingering in the hallways of your apartment floor, anymore).

Despite there not being all too many campers, most of your friends were year-round campers, so you had enough people to keep you company. The only problem was that you did not want any company. All you wanted to do was shoot at trees, work on your free-run skills, and not think about your mother. Michael had tried to get you to open up. He said that it was good to talk about it and that it was okay to cry. It would help you with the grief. You were not having it.

So, you spent most of your time in the forest, and you made it clear that no one should bother you, or they would likely be used for target practice. Even Connor and Travis Stoll knew better than to mess with you now.

Today was no exception. You had woken up early and started your daily routine. You had grown used to being up before everyone else, grabbing a bow from the weapons room, and heading off to the forest to train. Your own bow had been eaten by a sea serpent while you had been helping Clarisse in Staten Island, so you had to make do with one from the armory. Along with archery and free-running, you had been trying to conjure up light from the palm of your hand, but to no avail. In your fight against Phobos, you had shown that you have photokinetic abilities. You had wondered whether it was a one-time thing or just an ability that you needed to learn. Chiron had told you to practice. He thought that it was not a one-time thing and that you were blessed with the ability to manipulate light, but you were starting to give up on your abilities.

You were standing in a clearing where the satyrs usually gathered when they had one of their nature councils. It was the place where the most sun shone. You figured that if you were going to manipulate light, it would be best to be in a place with as much light as possible.

You stood with your eyes closed, holding out the palms of your hands and concentrating of creating a ball of light in your hands. You had been at it for a few hours now, but you were determined. Plus, it provided a good distraction. Though, you had been lacking in concentration lately. Whenever you stood still and took time to think, you started thinking about your mother.

“You need to concentrate if you’re going to manipulate light,” a voice spoke from behind you.

You spun around towards the source of the voice you heard and narrowed your eyes as they landed on a blonde man who looked about seventeen or eighteen. He was smiling at you, brightly and playfully, clad in jeans, loafers, and a sleeveless T-shirt that ironically said “soak up the sun”. You knew exactly who he was and you were not happy to see him.

“What are you doing here?” you asked bluntly.

The blonde tsked, “That’s no way to greet your father.”

You rolled your eyes at him. “You look like you could be my older brother, not my father.” You shoved your hands in the front pocket of your hoodie. Well, it was not your hoodie. You were wearing the navy blue hoodie Percy had given to you when he saved you from the fake snakes in Cabin Seven. You had been wearing it a lot. You told yourself it was because it was cold, and you did not have any warm hoodies, but the truth was that Percy’s hoodie brought you comfort.

“I could change appearances if that makes you more comfortable.” Apollo offered.

You shook your head, a sigh escaping your lips, “Why are you here, dad?”

Apollo took a seat on a large tree log that had fallen over and now acted as a bench. The moment he came into the proximity of the log, the snow started melting until it became completely dry. He motioned for you to sit beside him.

You raised your eyebrows but took your place next to your father. You could tell that this was a serious conversation because Apollo's mischievous smirk had been replaced by a look of concern. “I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about your mother,” he said, his tone soft and full of sorrow, “She was an amazing woman, and I cared very much for her.”

You took a sharp breath, before turning to look at your father with an angry glare, “You’re sorry? You cared for her?” you repeated in disbelief. You immediately stood up, pointing accusingly at your father. “You are Apollo, the God of healing. You are a healer. You can heal people. You could have healed my mother. You could have saved her life. Don’t tell me that you’re sorry and that you cared for her because if you did then she would not be dead.”

Apollo’s eyes flared with anger, and you knew that you should not have said what you did. Still, you were glad you said it. You expected him to lash out at you, but instead, he shook his head, his anger fading quickly. Instead, his eyes were filled with a gut-wrenching sorry. “You know that is not how it works, buttercup,” he said softly, and you could not stop yourself from letting a tear roll down your cheek.

Your mother used to call you by that name. She had told you that your father always called her buttercup, so to honor him, she would call you buttercup to (unless she wanted you to sing, then songbird came into play).

“I admired your mother as much as I loved her. If I could have saved her, I would have. You need to realize that we aren’t as powerful as we make ourselves out to be. We can be overpowered by other forces, as you will come to realize soon enough,” Apollo paused for a moment, as he did not want to spill too much about the secrets of the future. “I came here to talk to you, even though I am forbidden from doing so, because I wanted to show you that I do care, and I’m worried about you.”

“Worried? Why? I’m fine.”

Apollo gave you a look that read are you serious right now? “I am the God of truth and knowledge. Do you really think you can lie to me?”

You sighed, shrugging your shoulder and taking your seat beside him once more. It was nice and warm beside your father.

Apollo continued, “I examined the illness that took your mother, and it is something ancient. Someone purposely poisoned her, and though I do not know who, I know that it is a part of a large plan that will be set in motion in the future – a plan that you will play a role in.”

You stared at him, skeptically, but Apollo was not done yet.

“You need to prepare yourself. You have been blessed with a rare gift, and you need to learn how to use it” he locked his eyes with yours, and you nodded in understanding. Your photokinesis was not a one-time thing. “Also, you need to stop shutting everyone out. You’re just like your mother, thinking you need to shoulder your burdens on your own to prove that you are independent. It’s your fatal flaw, buttercup.”

You stared at your father for a moment, allowing the words to sink in.  You had never met your father before, but from what you had heard from him, he was obnoxious and arrogant, and perhaps even a bit childish. Though, you did not recognize that in him now. He was wise and thoughtful.

“You need to allow yourself time to grieve. Your bother Michael was right, it’s healthy to talk about it. You should not go through this alone.” Apollo stood up, and you know that it meant that his visit had come to an end. “Perhaps you should talk to that boy you like. The one who's hoodie you’re wearing.”

You blushed beet red, “Dad!”

Apollo smiled brightly at you, flashing you a wink, “Here he comes now.”

Turning, noticed the familiar silhouette of one Percy Jackson approaching.

“Remember what I told you buttercup! You need to concentrate on the light within you. I have a haiku to commemorate my visit-“

“That’s alright, dad. Thank you,” you cut him off quickly, not wanting to have to suffer through that. You were a child of Apollo, sure, but you were not the biggest fan of poetry, and your father’s haikus were known to be exceptionally terrible.

Apollo ignored you, clearing his throat, and holding up his hands dramatically.  

“Crying is okay, concentrate on your own light, shine bright like your dad.”

“Gee, thanks dad,” you muttered, not really knowing what to say to that.

Apollo grinned and ruffled your hair, and said, “Oh, I got something for you too. You’ll find it in your cabin.” before he walked away, the snow melting from the trees as he disappeared into the forest. You stared after him, wondering if you had imagined all of this, or if you had really just had a meeting with your dad. It was the first time you had ever spoken to him. You had seen him before, though, when you went on a field trip to Mount Olympus. He had winked at you.

By the time Apollo had disappeared, Percy had reached your side.

“Michael said I would find you here. Haven’t heard much from you since we helped Clarisse with her brothers” Percy greeted you, though his eyes were fixed where Apollo had disappeared. “Was that –“ Percy trailed off, already knowing the answer.

You nodded, “Daddy dearest.”

There was a silence, and you were not sure how to break it. You were trembling, and you were having a difficult time keeping your emotions in check. The last thing you wanted to do was cry in front of Percy Jackson.

But when he looked at you, his ocean eyes filled with concern, and asked, “Hey, sunshine, what’s wrong?” you could not help but burst into tears, letting all the emotions you had been bottling up out. He wrapped his arms around you, and you sobbed into his chest. He did not say anything. He did not know what to say. But he did not need to say anything, he just let you cry, until you pulled yourself from his embrace and wiped your eyes with the sleeve of your hoodie.

Percy had not realized that you were wearing his hoodie, but he could not help but let a small smile tug at his lips when he saw. It was too big, but it looked good on you.

“I’m sorry” you hiccupped, “I just. . . my mom died, and I kind of shut down after that. That’s why I haven’t been in touch. I’ve been having a hard time . . . grieving.”

Percy’s eyes were soft, and he shook his head at you, “Don’t apologize. I’m so sorry about your mom.”

You mustered a smile, “Thanks, Perce.”

The two of you stood in the clearing for a few minutes. You had your head against his chest, and he had his arms wrapped around you in a comforting hug. Then, you heard the obnoxiously loud singing of your fellow cabin mates.

“The bonfire” you commented, pulling away from Percy once more.

“We don’t have to go.”

“No, it’s okay.” You smiled at him, to emphasize that it really was okay. “I’ve kind of been cutting myself off from civilization. It’ll be good for me to be among my cabinmates and my friends. Plus, I need to head to my cabin. Apollo said he left something for me.”

The two of you started walking back to the cabins.

“So Apollo seems. . .” Percy trailed off again, looking for the right words to describe the God of the sun, but he could not seem to find them, “He gave us a ride to camp after our mission in his sun chariot. Thalia also scorched New England.”

You turned to him, “Oh yeah, your mission. How did that go? Did you get the half-bloods?”

Percy frowned, and he told you how he did get the two half-bloods, but they had lost Annabeth in the process, and Artemis had gone to search for them.

“So, the Hunters are here? That’s not going to end well” you commented, and you noticed Percy’s frown deeper at the mention of the Hunters of Artemis.

“Have you ever considered joining them?” Percy asked you, his eyes fixed on yours.

You were surprised by the question, and your cheeks flushed. “Honestly? I have. I mean, I have always been an archer and a group of powerful female archers in service of a goddess? Sounds like a dream come true” you admitted, and before Percy could reply (and you could tell that he was not happy with your answer), you hastily added, “But then I realized that it would be leaving all my friends behind. I could never leave Michael, Connor, Travis, or you.”

Percy considered you for a moment, before smiling at you. He wrapped his arm around your shoulder and guided you to your cabin. He had originally paused in front of the entrance awkwardly and you laughed, “You can come in, you know.”

So, you entered the cabin, and Percy followed in pursuit. You guided him to your bed, which was all the way in the back corner of the cabin. The cabin had changed since the last time he had been in it. Your bed was no longer a bunk-bed, but a single bed stuck underneath a window, with a little nightstand and a small furry rug laid out in front of it. A large suitcase stuck out from under your bed. You had not unpacked your things yet.

Michael smiled at you when you passed him, and he got up off of his bed and followed you to yours. “You’ve got a package. It appeared an hour ago and I’ve been dying to know what it is,” he said, pulling you into a side hug. He gave you a knowing smile, and you were grateful that he had not commented on your puffy red eyes.

You picked up the small package and unwrapped it carefully to reveal a small yellow box. Inside the box was a simple gold bracelet with a charm in the symbol of the sun. There was no note in the box, but you already knew who had given you the present. You smiled and put on the piece of jewelry. You touched the charm, and the bracelet transformed into a beautiful golden bow, with beautiful carvings of the sun, the moon, and the stars adorning the handle. On your back was a quiver, filled with celestial bronze arrows decorated with white feathers and golden details. It was obviously magical, as it had appeared the same time your bracelet turned into your beautiful new bow.

“Wait, is it like the bow and quiver that the Hunters of Artemis have?” Michael thought out loud, admiring your new weapon.

“Oh so, the quiver magically appears when you need it, right?” Percy asked, looking interested.

You smiled, eyes staring lovingly at your new weapon. It was ten times better than the one the sea serpent had chewed up. While Percy and Michael discussed the magical properties of your new bow, you looked at the sun as it shone through your window.

Thanks, dad.

Timeline: The Titan's Curse

Reader: Fourteen years old Percy: Fourteen years old

Part five of Heliophilia

credit for the pictures goes to lulu.