Within mine sickled and hammered self
Within mine sickled and hammered self...I feel nailed and pinioned and wracked akin to an insect specimen affixed to some display...and soon tubby confronting the fate of homelessness.
More or less this is mass elf imp hosed halvah combination fictionalized factual assignment; boldly composed confabulation; cingular corpus dreamt entirely from guttersnipe harris; harnessing his imagination; jiggling kookily literate Matthew mind; narrating nonsense nonstop; providing quintessentially rational smart thinking; using vital words yakking yawping zeal.
Last, but not least, tis filial obeisance (from this west of Philly, Pennsylvania; folly-filled filly fellow) to channel (sans the outer limits of the twilight zone), the spirit of me late bubba Zayda, who imbued this chap with a genetic dollop of Kuritsky i.e. (uncertain if Ukraine or Russian mom jeans), who ineluctably, ontologically, and unknowingly vested this gentrified enraptured doggedly captivated boyish aging descendent.
PROLOGUE:
This author admits prevarication went bobbin along predicated, stitched, and wove upon the scantiest clad warp and woof strictly incumbent on some dim essence ferreted gingerly housed inside kernels likely pertaining to thy dead maternal grandfather.
Though a fiction, an inherent judiciousness kept motive linkedin nattily to the plaid out plot tended with believability. The barest of threads found me induced to hem, measure, and spin verity within this vague worsted yarn.
Thus spake Zarathustra doling dollop ‘ere elaborated ethereal essence re my maternal immigrant grandfather from the czarist era, which fabrication fringed with truth engendering falsification garlanded honestly manifesting non-pinstriped suitable tale.
Morris Kuritsky (my maternal grandfather also known as Moshe to kith and kin) illegally yet surreptitiously boarded the gangplank, and suddenly became a fugitive stowaway amidst a crowdsource within a rather rickety old wooden ship by stealthily hiding under an escape hatch and burying himself inside a large crate of some specialty export good.
Rest assured (dear reader) that fate landed him top face down via the capital one force of nature squarely preserved his sense and sensibility without any pride nor prejudice as a bona fide kosher product.
No, he did not find himself in a dill lemma or pickle, but a cue did come burr reed with ajar.
As a mischievous prankster, he merely meant to play this advanced game of hiding and seek in order to escape those utterly beastly, ruthless, totalitarian figures of authority.
They happened to be close on his heels before luck smiled on him. This brief sketchy synopsis hopes to explain how he subsequently immigrated to America well over one hundred plus years ago.
Unbeknownst to him (and the majority of other people that comprised the vast proletariat strata) this self-imposed exile haste made from Mother Land, where he acceded and heeded, and proceeded to answer the clarion call to exit pronto from the impending civil war.
Though devoid of any book learning, he possessed an avid insight and intractable and visionary intuition. His personal writings (essays mainly - composed in a rather allegorical, cribbed, nonetheless bespoke an endeavor that found him none the poorer despite being donned in fashion vogue of a tramp and/or hobo) hinted at looming threat off on the distant horizon.
Although said ominous danger and portentous evil (quite some decades away), this extra sensory perception goaded him to high tail quickly to a safe haven. The Russian Revolution would be due to arrive in about a quarter century.
Rather than risk capture (from incognito dressed bounty hunters), face countless years incarcerated deep in the bowels of some dismal dungeon for trumped up malfeasance (crudely squirreling away antithetical independent viewpoints), he literally jumped (onto) a cargo steamer at this once in a lifetime chance to secret himself as a faux beer did bruiser within an empty keg.
How he chanced upon the least sturdy looking contraption requires an explanation.
When he turned eighteen years old, the first steps initiated toward reaching The United States of America began.
Without bidding farewell to his father, mother, countless brothers and sisters (whom in fact said family members would never be seen again), he made a quick and surreptitious exit.
One rucksack comprised survival kit. This took place before dawn that July day circa 1890 plus or minus a small margin of error.
Let me backtrack a bit and provide a very quick character sketch.
As a mere stripling of a boy, he became forcefully indentured as an apprenticed tailor. This handy skill acquired in lieu of being in a formal classroom setting to help feed his younger siblings. All the while under said tutelage, the overactive cogs, and wheels of his imagination triggered one instantaneous idea after another.
Morris tirelessly worked his fingers to the bones. Those precious formative years became arduous toil under a rigorous contractual obligation. No doubt exploitation occurred per being browbeaten and whipsawed from a strict task manager.
This brutish, nasty and short-lived childhood wove the fabric for escape from the land of Engels, Lenin and Marx brothers (that would be Groucho, Harpo, and Chico).
Once the creaking and seasoned timbers from the aged galleon got yanked seaward from the strong tidal current, the aromatic and fragrant smell of the ocean (ebbing, flowing and spraying salty mist against the Russian peasants receding on the shoreline), Morris emerged from his cubbyhole.
A deep inhalation indicated in which direction to locate the maritime depot.
This twittering bird’s eye view quick study with hawk-like and keen eyes identified the most desirable vessel under cover of darkness. Nocturnal lunar rays the only source of illumination, which offered just a faint trace of moonlight. The vast assemblage of sloops with their attendant crewmembers delegating tasks to the deckhands could be clearly identified.
Unsure which of these various and sundry ships to board (without drawing undue suspicion), he elected the most powerful, robust and sturdy looking ship. Unbeknownst to him, the brightly colored Cyrillic letters painted in dark letters spelled Rebecca.
Although illiterate (and most likely innumerate) this direct descendant (the father of my mother) at first blush characterized innocence and naivete (all rolled into one) possessed an air of cunning maturity and smart sophistication in combination with a calculated and measured braggadocio.
Despite being inarticulate with illegible penmanship (many scratched, scrawled and scribbled diary entries relegated musings in shorthand as unreadable), his authentic handiwork informal logbooks purportedly retained adequate personal recorded snippets recalling a quintessential poignant dangerous ocean voyage possibly ending up 10,000 leagues under the sea.
Even though a scant fraction decipherable (qua albeit Cyrillic codified summarized sans weather beat saga) preserved more or less his gate tea to abridge many a mutinous donnybrook.
Intact for more than a century, the snatches travails comprised of scrappy tidbits offered enough opportunity to bring symbolic posthumous recognition to publicize in an understandable fashion, a testament to courage, true grit, luck plus mental, physical and spiritual stamina.
The shrill blast of the whistle and attendant plume of steam (meant to signal immediate departure), punctuated the end of one existential chapter from birthplace and the beginning of another in a strange land.
He sequestered his agile and nimble body into an unlit and unlikely discovered hideaway.
When safely and securely situated, his dexterous and tooled fingers assumed an automatic, and a voluntary reflex took over to manipulate a needle, scissors, thread, and scrap pieces of cloth. The first three mentioned items always carried as if a natural anatomical part of his person. The latter purchased with a handful of tokens tucked inside a pants pocket prior to that bold decision to strike out in the direction of cultural melting pot and risk life and limb in the process.
Devoid of artificial or natural luminary object to avoid detection, the materialization of a complete outfit magically appeared.
Presto.
Ingenuity and garment concoction twas his treasured ticket to the land of NON-GMO luten-free milk and honey.
The portal to Mecca epitomized in the international landmark (known as Ellis Island) would open up like the gates of heaven and offer Yankee entrepreneurship to experience rags to riches tale.
Many days and nights subject to the whims of Mother Nature cloistered in cramped quarters of an ocean-going contrivance would need to take place. Faith and optimism sustained departure per life on the high seas (in a familiar but deplorable basket encased sized demesne) to arrive at an unfamiliar destination.
Between what seemed like an eternity (but only a few short months in actuality) holed up deep below the floorboards of the marine craft and that moment of utter salvation with a bended knee on Brooklyn shoreline comprises my personal interpretation of deceased matriarchal Zayda.
Such an awesome odyssey (rife with extreme drama on the high seas) would spark the fiery attention of a present-day movie mogul.
Some invisible entity, whether viewed as a benign cosmic force, divine eminent fate capitalized on holier than thou reputation, especially as blessing and fortune delivered this human cargo thru countless confrontations with hostile circumstances.
Maelstroms (in tandem with a motley crue of googly-eyed Earthlinked, SoundCloud, Twittering Yahoos) wrought havoc yet witnessed a miraculous journey thru the serpents and tempests that inhabited the dark and deep waters.
Intervention (perhaps engendered via religious confections of faith and prayer per protective designs of the so-called biological creator) delivered this marginally familiar male descendant.
Those interminable days of (what must be described as the worst fate than death) hermetically entombed in a damp, bobbing, the airless chamber made pessimism difficult (if not downright impossible) to fend off, which hallucinatory thoughts akin to some vicious predator.
All sense of rationality and sensibility became extremely distorted under those abysmal conditions.
Real threats to his very survival took shape in the form of varmints that scurried and (as applied to other species) scuttled for self-preservation into the very same dark nook and cranny.
Sometimes, even the vibration of a shark fin nearly caused the rigid hulk to capsize,
Maintenance of sanity for psyche and sustenance for body politic indicative of exemplary and fittest Darwinian ability.
Devious schemas dreamt up to provide a boon for optimism amidst dire travails. As a devoutly orthodox Jewish personage, he found his willpower to transcend Earthly dilemma with limb bar fortitude and fo' well rested rooted gumption.
Self-reliance on singular successful strategies to sequester acquisition of basic staffs and stuff of life (in the form of drink and food) proffered ample opportunity plus reinforced faith in his survival skills with a thankful prayer to the higher power.
Time and again plentiful jugs and plates got left unattended in close proximity to his trapdoor niche. A mere whim to pilfer (even an overripe banana) induced a risky monkey business, but when such actions fruitful, the positive outcome yielded unexpected dividends.
Cowardice transformed, metamorphosed, and developed into courage thru lucky strikes, and perchance acquiescing to his deity viz mere mental wishing upon a star bore forth necessities for survival.
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Now tubby totally tubularly cents less: Twenty five purse cent ova MineCraft head genesis essentially owed (encoded in this ode) viz - MY MATERNAL RUSSIAN GRANDFATHER - an expanded, freighted, and illustrated loopy outtake risking uber xs additional dreamt glomming jabbering muck.
WATCH OUT WHERE YOU STEP!
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Bound aloft in an iron maiden seaworthy galleon
Christened Rebecca at mercy and whim of meteorological elements
an infinitesimal speck of humanity housed in oceanic sepulchral habiliments
characterized the formidable voyage undertaken
by the stripling and youthful Morris Kuritzky
after being conscripted into Russian military
sought risky adventure on the dangerous and high seas
psychic illusory ache for liberty fraught with pernicious
vivid hallucinatory vision and surreal mirage afar toward the limitless horizon
sought after critical isthmus portal passageway to heaven on Earth
Landmark Statue of Liberty emblem ultimate destination whereby said, immigrant
subsequently alighted from havoc, hellacious and horrendous
embarkation often times perilous trek across the expanse of briny deep
the threat to life and limb and close calls nearly meeting grim reaper
became manifest destiny after shipwreck vessel stranded
upon the desolate wasteland of terra firma
miraculous rescue time and again from divine intervention
benevolent cosmic force defeating against relentless furies and tempests
invisible guardian to protect against malign forces
deliverance upon United States Mecca of Ellis Island refuge found in “Little Russia”!
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Though nary a whit known about Canarsie, the reasons this place name resonates primarily linkedin with my long deceased maternal grandfather (who spent the better part of his ninety years habituated amidst the Jewish sector), and his youngest offspring (which would be me late mum – Harriet Harris nee Kuritsky), said geographical area got conversationally bandied about, especially during my boyhood.
Regular visits to the birthplace (and surrounding neighborhoods), where my mother accrued salient, sensate, signally diverse cherished memorable experiences visiting kith and kin, she succumbed into that natural homing instinct goading her to return even after pledging her troth to Boyce Harris (me octogenarian widower papa still going strong without batteries).
Though only about six years hear senior, the breadth, depth, and scope per her innocent naivete at nineteen found thy father indubitably resigned to help her dredge up truss ted support to bridge manifold childhood donnybrook engineered from general headquarters.
After being plucked, whence cherry got popped as a vestal virgin, an extensive raft of deep-seated, damned up torturous sentiments lashed at the masthead, particularly thrice postpartum parturition experienced per Harriet Kuritsky.
As the fourth rite (youngest, fondest, fawned, favored offspring begat betwixt Morris and Rebecca, an eighteen-year difference respectively – said husband and wife fraught marriage plot qua silent rife grudge (much ado a boat nothing) holding modus operandi re fellow-shipping.
Essentially, they bobbed along within their respective orbits as isolated bits of flotsam an jetsam washed ashore from the nineteen hundred Fin de Siecle likened to two ships passing in the night.
Mine less familiar hubba bubba bubba) experienced while traversing the figurative sea of humanity during those impressionable trajectories looping around el sol left an indelible of state weathered sans roiling psychological extent akin to an immense frigate leaving huge breakers long after barge became an invisible vanishing point on powerful horizon early married life, which emotional chasm between.
Though the actual birthplace ma mother got born less significant than that Brooklyn, Canarsie and Coney Island comprised her substantial social exploits.
Early in what constituted a rather precarious marriage (linkedin to a greater psychological versus chronological divide) extant between my momma and papa, I presume a frequent hankering arose to revisit the physical environment that fostered positive and less substantive experiences.
Since the exact place name viz zit head asper where “mother” got born unknown, she did count Canarsie among the happy horse shitting and hunting grounds contributing to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness she unwittingly tucked into the biography of her formative years.
No matter she passed away early May 2005, and many decades prior to her demise any sojourn (whereat “dad” drove to her psychic shrine of kindled joyousness and painful angst), a whim arose within mine mind late December 25th and/or early the next day).
An impetus arose to investigate this inquisitiveness in regard to a geographic area that nowadays would be classified populated by decrepit folks haplessly jinxed.
Lives negligently, pathetically rooted to violent x zits.
Accurate tidbits tucked away within mine genuinely enthused, and craftily attuned assiduousness to stitch together some insightfulness, and fancy feast conjectures finds me drilling into online resources (mainly courtesy of Google) to ferret out, and ride a painted pony to assuage this sudden onslaught of inquisitive, which fomented a hankering to glean some sliver of awareness, when inhabitants of numerous Onstar, Plenti of Fish sh qualities, and storied tribes, evoked vanity fair.
A convergence sans Strunk and White elements of Harris Tweed styled unequivocal Digs did hashtag these then Netzero malodorous lands, Kickstarter jiving indubitably Hi5 grottoes furnishing Earthlinked dwellers Capitalone bounteous avast AAA FancyFeast, IdentityGuard, and Lifelock haven.
The heyday of Canarsie informed Morris (Moishe) Kuritsky soon after he secured passage, Redroof quartered, and passport okayed, when cupid beckoned without a rub, and destiny thence delivered a slice of the American Big Apple Pie ushering the Yiddish speaking swiftly tailored Russian/ Ukrainian émigré to gracefully acquire imprimatur bequeathed from credentialed field hands to grant citizenry once stepping thru the resplendent portals.
Thence, Ellis Island tabulated another foreigner to the melting pot.
This one trick pony finagled with a horse trader (Joe) and when high in the saddle cantered via his inner global position satellite to locate immigrants comprising the bucolic hamlet (to be a Gordian knot of bustling burgeoning bastion of boisterous bacchanalia) housing fellow peoples in what today constitutes a working and middle class residential and commercial neighborhood in the southeastern portion of happy grounded bumping uglies with bastion of beastie boys in the borough of Brooklyn, in New York City, United States.
Gratitude for playing sleuth via a 2009 Macbook, the means and ways to delve into a treasure trove of information allowed, enable and provided vital details interwoven with an intuitive hunch to stitch together a tapestry.
Said warp and woof expounding upon important data pertaining to Canarsie, which I gleaned, molded and secured digitally from Wikipedia.
Attentive to the voluntary wearisome task attendant, expectant and incumbent to rube bricks and mortar of believability, the effort figuratively banged, cobbled, and essentially darned together.
This self-imposed literary exercise hopes to interlace electronic factual minutiae (secured via accessing legitimate websites as per the one listed above) plus requisitioning any unknown raw bits of data by tapping into thine reservoir, where multi-purpose blanks arrayed, inlaid, and quartered alphabetically for a writing endeavor with suppositions.
Aswarm and mentally egged on with this occasion of a sudden wanton (soupy sails) see Nile supreme task, an interplay for me to interject commentaries to maintain continuity, and attempting to remain within the very amorphous parameters such an academic aspiration incorporates.
Thus fuzziness fuels fudge factor, especially when striving to return the Reddit (ready) reader rabbit to general tidbits topographically touting tremendously trenchant worsted yarn not going to bull left.
Canarsie is bordered on the east by Fresh Creek Basin, East 108th Street, and the BMT Canarsie Line (L train); on the north by Linden Boulevard; on the west by Remsen Avenue to Ralph Avenue and the Paerdegat Basin; and on the south by Jamaica Bay.
It is adjacent to the East Flatbush, Flatlands, Mill Basin, Bergen Beach, and East New York neighborhoods.
Within aforementioned boundary buffered cops dominate domain equipping holsters holding with heat, thence bolstering safety akin well pistol packing Janissary.
A veritable tried and true cadre sans seventy sics (Sikhs) solemnizing men in blue form IdentityGuard brotherhood, which doth Kindle Landsend perimeter per Brooklyn Community Board 18, which falls under the watchful NYPD’s 69th Precinct. Canarsie also oversaw by Engine 257, Ladder 170 of the FDNY, and Station 58 of the FDNY Bureau of EMS.
Ethnographic relics purportedly, convincingly and archeologically ascribe the Lenape language credence to those Native American occupants, whose association of the word “Canarsie” modified sans English phonology, which essentially ascribed “fenced land” or “fort” to indigenous people rooted within their Utopia.
Early European settlers frequently resorted to delineating a swath of ground per the indigenous tribes, thus finding such happy grounds tied to the “Canarsee Indians”.
Though reduced to an insignificant marginal population, the present day residents racked up approximately 84,000 persons counted during the 2010 United States Census.
Synonymous with the dislocation of aboriginal “noble savages”- as would Jean-Jacques Rousseau most likely invariably peg such children from the womb of Mother Nature, the present day demographics offspring from the “Old Country”.
Even today, the current neighborhood of Canarsie ensconced within the original town of Flatlands, one of five supposedly Dutchtown on Long Island. Swampland dredged colluded to berth Canarsie near Jamaica Bay and the fishery industry into the 1800’s when water pollution contaminated the oyster beds.
The 1920’s witnessed settlement of Southern Italian immigrants in tandem with Jews, whose established habitats in recent years decreased. General declination to and fro this paradise lost, especially fizzled noticeably when fewer sojourners forewent being ferried access sans the once popular Canarsie Pier after the building of the Marine Parkway-Gil Hodges Memorial Bridge quickly advanced the turning tide away from once entrancing, jingling, and ogling lure of this Shangri-la bracketed within coordinates 40.6402° North, 73.9061° West.
Though homelife unseemly for thy mollycoddled mom, her homelife sown with many gripes dealt with via the infamous silent treatment.
Escape from a squelching, stifling and suffocating domestic toxic brew, could be temporarily by taking a ride on Murphy’s Carousel, which landmark attraction created in 1912 by the Stein and Goldstein Artistic Carousell Company, where it operated for twenty years.
Editorial hype vis a vis The New York Times alluded to craftsmanship with “The horses carved in Coney Island Style, which eschewed the look of docile ponies, and prancing fillies, and exhibited accentuated cloven-hoofed, fierce some, head rearing, teeth-baring realistic looking animals chomping at the bit.
Girls languorously lollygagged atop immobile steeds evinced ho-hum interest in league with je nais sais quois hormonal Kickstarter physical maturation. Aside from long gangly legs dragging while athwart an immobile steed, these habitués qua ingénues, who relished pretending to be atop a live beast envisioning their prince charming sitting stalwart stationary upon a painted ponies in near proximity evinced diminished thrill per subsequent rides.
At first, a roundly solidified grip bound tight small hands held fast to the molded mane. Attendant with pronounced arc aided prepubescent per showed as signs of well-worn weather-beaten ground hydraulics subjected to physical each lone reinjure uber lifted them went up and down witness transformations).
EPILOGUE: Though this epistle heavily fraught with speculation, rumination, and intimation, a kernel of veracity can be discerned by the mention of specific dates, which data encompassed going in one direction to NON-FAKE online web pages referenced only those approved one trumpeting true boar don.
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