I told a story at the Moth on Sunday night. I hadn't been in the hat for a while, my stories kept spinning themselves apart before I could tell them.
I had prepared something finally for the Moth that was scheduled for Thursday, November 1st. But then it was canceled, along with everything else. I woke up on Sunday with the intention of bringing my fortunately-spared self out to Staten Island to try to be useful, but after bringing what supplies my friend and I could manage to a donation center, we found that they were turning away volunteers. I came home and saw that the Moth had been rescheduled for that evening, so I took myself across the river and finally got a chance to tell a story. As it turns out, I love telling stories on stage. But I think part of what made it so wonderful was the timing - we were moles coming out of our caves, eyes squinting at the light.
I've now had over half a year to watch people in this city, which I'm going to go ahead and call mine even though I may not have earned it yet. It's sobering to watch it so suddenly and completely grind to a halt, and then feel the collective groan of inertia as it tries to pick itself up again.
So there's something precious, and a little unbelievable, in the fact that not 12 hours after power had been restored to lower Manhattan, almost one hundred people gathered to tell stories to each other, if for no other reason than to be in motion and hear the voices of strangers.