PACKING UP 50 YEARS OF HISTORY: FAREWELL STATEN ISLAND (PART ONE)
Phoenix Rising, Pizza, Gluten, Endings, and Beginnings
“Staten Island is like a quaint European country, the American music was twenty years behind and you could smoke wherever you wanted”
-Carrie Bradshaw, Sex in the City (Where There’s Smoke There’s Fire Episode)
Landing at Newark Airport was a shock. Only that morning, I had woken up to the buzzing of Steller’s Jays, badass crows, and the smells of the dry mountain air. Could both Newark, New Jersey, and my sweet mountain town share the same world? I hadn’t flown into NYC in 6 years, and the late-night summer humidity, coupled with the layers of parked cars stopped dead while they all honked for no apparent reason, drilled little holes into my fragile peace of mind. My mother, now 86, decided to sell our childhood home of 50 years, and I was meeting both my brothers there to pack it all up and say one last goodbye.
My mother called me frantically to make sure I didn’t get into the wrong car service. I'm 52. When the car arrived, I had to walk into traffic and between waiting vehicles to get to the almost-white Prius while holding my suitcase over my head to pass it to the driver. At that point, I was so frazzled and exhausted I barely cared who he was. I heard the words, "Welcome back to the third dimension, it’s a long way down." Ever since I worked with the sacred medicine Iboga in Costa Rica earlier this year, my inner voice is louder and clearer than it used to be. Grateful, once again, I jumped in the car.
My parents bought a house in Heartland Village in 1973, when I was just shy of three years old. There were five of us, so it was a great alternative to the two-bedroom Trump Village apartment of Coney Island we had been living in. I have scattered memories of spending the first few weeks after the move with my arms wrapped around my mother’s legs, crying while she talked on the phone in our new kitchen. I was devastated about the friends I left behind and the playground I missed. Letting go was always a challenge for me, I guess. Little did I know there would be a new crew of soul family members that I would spend the next fifteen years getting in and out of trouble with. When I arrived at my old house and looked around, it hit me: nothing had ever been thrown out, and no closets truly emptied in the past 50 years. Where would we begin? What was hiding in here?
My childhood room, once completely lavender, including my phone, was still fairly intact, with a closet filled with all my old letters from grammar school, junior high, high school, camp, and college. Despite coaching myself on the flight back East about getting sentimental and wasting hours sifting through old memories, I did it anyway. It’s a spinning vortex that can’t be resisted once it unfurls. So, I let go and took a deep dive into the past for one last time.
One of the things I remembered about waking up in the summer in that bedroom was the smell of the grass mixed with the hot, humid air. We didn’t have a lot of grass; our backyard was tiny, but that little strip near my bedroom activated something in me first thing in the morning, especially during my teenage years. Looking back, I understand now that when the pineal gland (or the third eye) is open and healthy, it creates a strong connection between you and the universe, and the day feels wild and bright without much effort. I miss that feeling. Now, almost 35 years later, it takes several hours in the morning for me to get to that place (or almost to that place) through grounding, praying, and shamanic energy work on my body. Oh, and cacao mushroom coffee.
My head hurt for two days after I landed. I was only going to be there for three days, so I had to push through. I smelled mold in the downstairs den where I was sleeping. We still had the fake red brick wall paneling down there, but the faux hardwood floor carpeting was sadly replaced with actual hardwood floors. There were trophies of mine lining the shelves (reminding me that I was once an athlete) despite having had my health completely obliterated 9 years ago by a vaccine injury. This sneaky missile loaded with heavy metals and pathogens blew all the hardwiring, electrical systems, and grounding abilities I once had — but staring right back at me was my original blueprint. Strong and solid. I just hadn’t seen that person I used to be in almost a decade. Maybe it was time to bring her back into the fold.
Incapable of sleeping, I followed the smell of mold to the 1960s brown Frigidaire refrigerator in the kitchen area of the den I was sleeping in. This reminded me that for the first 15 years of my life, I thought all refrigerators were called Frigidaires. I was shocked to learn that this brown box was known as a refrigerator in most homes. There were a few words I grew up with that were a mixture of Yiddish, English, and just plain incorrect terms for things. My parents called suitcases valises. I did too until I realized that was not common, although it wasn’t incorrect. Aren’t we always just trying to fit in?
Knowing that my body was being flooded with a ton of new toxins, I made sure to stay on my morning and evening dose of Ivermectin, which is a parasite cleanse I am currently five months into. I felt it would be a layer of protection. Memories flooded back of living in that den in 2017 when I fled my LA house to travel around the world in search of healing from my “mysterious” illness. Still fragile even now, my body can become depleted and dehydrated in a matter of minutes. An important part of the Ivermectin protocol is drinking large amounts of lemon water, but traveling generally derails me. One wrong move, and I could be laid up for days "herxing." Instead of traveling around the world in 2017, I ended up living in that den and working on a soul-crushing Staten Island reality show while I saved up money to continue my journey to an unknown place to discover a secret cure to a "mysterious" disease. Every day was still a lengthy and painful battle at that time, as I was just beginning to chelate vast quantities of mercury from my brain.
Back then, I had hundreds of supplements scattered across the marble-esque counter, and the futon we had was broken on one side, so my hands hit the floor when I slept. I could always come home, no matter what shape I was in, but it was a double-edged sword as that house is heavy with energy and memories that are complex. I was very sick during that period of time, and parts of me weren’t sure there was a way out of that dark tunnel. I was barely able to work, and each night I collapsed into the broken futon praying the next day would be easier.
If you want to read my full story, this is the link:
https://www.newearthalmanac.com/survival-from-mysterious-illness-to-spiritual-awakening/
Now, returning five years later, I had another mission: to clean out my old bedroom. Despite my headache, I was amazed at how much I was able to accomplish. Small things are miracles in my life now. I found boxes of letters, some from people who I was certain I would be inseparable from for life and some from friends who had already passed away. I read letters from people I couldn’t remember, signed "best friends forever." How does life just melt into something totally different right before your eyes? Looking back, it happened so fast, but at the time, the days felt endless. I was lost for so very long. I wandered and drifted from year to year, never listening to the whisper of my soul, always trying to guide and direct me to a higher plane. I struggled to follow my gifts and instincts despite the constant voices in my head misguiding me at every turn. Who were they? Always trying to fit into some tight-fitting model of a life I did not want. The world around me made little to no sense, yet I was desperate to be a part of it. Looking back, the only aspects of my existence that were ever truly real were the ones spent being completely myself, with people I loved. Everything else was a mirage that I endlessly tried to make real. Eventually, it all caught up with me. The self-destruction I endured as a result of living a life that didn’t align with the real me taught me a lesson that was harsh and will stay with me forever. Never turn your back on your soul’s mission because it’s attached to you like a thick umbilical cord, and IT will always win.
After a long, hot sticky day of packing, my mother and I decided to order some pizza. I have to admit I was excited to have the Staten Island version of gluten-free pizza, anticipating that familiar tangy red sauce and thick crust that only NYC water can create. I drove us to Joe and Pat’s, one of the oldest pizzerias on the island. The traffic was far worse than anything I remembered, and it reminded me why I don’t live in a city anymore. I wondered when some of the people honking and speeding would eventually realize that they are in a dizzying rush to careen deeper and deeper into a state of unconsciousness. The faster they move, the slower their ability to be aware becomes.
Every neighborhood has its own pizza place, which each person swears is the BEST on the island. Joe and Pat’s was not in the neighborhood I grew up in, and it was not Gino’s, which is where my mother likes to go with her crew. Consequently, she was extremely agitated that I insisted on going to Joe and Pat’s. When we got home and opened the box, I was disappointed. It looked nothing like real pizza. The crust was so thin and semi-burnt that it tasted like tomato sauce on matzoh with partially melted vegan cheese. Was Staten Island losing its touch, or is being gluten-free so fringe here that they don’t even try? I guess pizza will be one less fantasy to have about the place I used to love.
The next morning, I walked down Shiloh St. as I had done a thousand times before over the decades to "up-front," where there is a Rite Aid now. "Up-Front" is what we named the strip mall on Richmond Avenue when it was first being built. We moved to Staten Island when there were still farms, and I can even remember the horses that used to ramble down our street. Prior to that, the only place I really knew was Brooklyn, and the only horses I had ever seen in Coney Island were on the merry-go-round. What is now the Staten Island Mall (and the epicenter of the island) was a heliport. There was a small window of time in the seventies before everything became developed into oblivion.
I headed out the door into a 90-degree humid day that made me feel as if I was walking into a working hairdryer. The heaviness of the air and the moisture just drained the last little bit of hydration I had left inside my body. I walked down Shiloh for the last time, wondering if my body would feel lighter after this trip. A big part of recovering from any illness is about letting go of the stored emotions and releasing hidden baggage. Healing can be a circular journey, peeling back layers only to find you’ve peeled back the wrong one and need to retrace your steps for a while.
While I was strolling past the stores, which are mostly new since growing up, I noticed that the old Heartland pizza place had turned into Mr. Pizza. They had the best pizza on the planet, and I reminisce about it often, especially since I can’t eat gluten or dairy. Food took on a larger-than-life role in my mind ever since I was a child. There’s been an emptiness in my soul since I lost gluten and dairy that I just assumed could never be fulfilled. It was my heroin. I loved it like a person, and I have deep empathy for any recovering addict because I am one too. A food addict. It’s just a hole that I thought could never be filled, until I began healing my body and killing the parasites that were ruling my mind. Now, miraculously, I don’t care about the Heartland pizza place. I did walk in, just for the hell of it, and asked if they made gluten-free pizza. The young guy behind the counter stared at me for what felt like an eternity and then said, "No." Living in California, I have become accustomed to all pizza places carrying gluten-free pizza. Then, a few stores down, I noticed that Heartland Bagels was still there. Hands down the best bagels ever! I used to roam the streets of Manhattan when I was a student at NYU in the mid-nineties to find bagels that compared. I never could. So, I cautiously walked in. The smell didn’t make me want to melt down and cry like it usually does. I told the woman behind the counter that I grew up here and they made the best bagels, and asked if they carried gluten-free bagels. She too stared for an awkward amount of time and said, "No." An old man next to her said they used to carry them, but they stopped. I asked why, and he said, "They weren’t very good." Well, at least he’s honest. That’s another thing I miss about this place. The honesty. I’ve been a resident of California for twenty-five years, and I still find myself on shaky ground with most people. The California culture struggles with the kind of direct, person-to-person communication style that was a fundamental part of my upbringing. Longing to combine the landscape of California with the people of NY, I often took film jobs on the East Coast just to remind myself how to connect on a deeper level. Once the "mysterious" illness took over my body and opened my eyes to the real world, those connections with others regardless of what coast I was on became strained and nearly impossible to hold onto. Once COVID washed over the land like a muddy rain, the few relationships that were left seemed to evaporate. We no longer had a common language. My beliefs and my story were now not acceptable in this new land.
I stood in the Heartland Bagel shoppe for a few minutes looking around, wanting to see the refrigerator that had always been stocked with Yoo Hoo and the Manhattan Special soda I loved so much. I would come here with my best friends after school in junior high, and first, we would load up on sugar and caffeine, then race next door for pizza. I recall curiously noticing the oil drip down my arm as I ate. Once I hit 8th grade, we frequented the Superette for Capri cigarettes and wine coolers. Those were the days. Who knew that I was creating a breeding ground for the illness that would ultimately take me down at the age of 43? Over the years, the food supply changed, and that innocent slice of pizza or the soft chewy bagel became a vehicle for cancer-causing herbicides like glyphosate, genetically modified food products, natural flavors, and wheat that is now indigestible for most people. This has all contributed to the epidemic of leaky gut, which plagues most Americans and is the root cause of what we consider "autoimmunity." Combined with the mouthful of metal fillings I had, the perfect storm was just waiting to erupt, given the right trigger. It’s hard to let go and have fun sometimes when you know the truth. Being awake shines a light on the places that it feels good to numb. I walked out of the pizza place, wondering if fewer people on Staten Island were gluten intolerant or if more people were sick and didn’t know it. How many people in this neighborhood were laying in bed, in the dark, as I thought these thoughts, writhing in pain and wondering “why?” Mainstream doctors don’t have answers. They don’t study nutrition. They don’t deal in truth. That’s not their thing.
As I looked around at the people rushing by me, I wondered if their bodies hurt. Or if they felt unwell. People here don’t look the way they used to. It’s not just that everyone looks older to me; it’s that they don’t look right. In fact, everywhere I go now, I feel like a visitor from another country. Basic communication is strained, and there is a vacant look in the eyes of the crowds drifting by. I don’t even see any kids around. Where did all the teenagers go? As I walked from store to store to see if there was anything else I remembered, my mind tried to meld the past with the present, to reconcile all that I had gone through in the last decade of my life. The death of my physical body and the re-birth of my spirit. The death of my father, getting married, and awakening to all that is. Was it worth it? Yes. But it’s time to move on. It’s time for my body to release the last layers of this physical illness and complete my initiation. I heard…let’s pack up the past, now that we’ve looked at it, and hold the present in the white light of forgiveness.
Phoenix Rising, acrylic on canvas. Available on https://www.artpal.com/katz
TERMS AND DEFINITIONS:
"Mysterious illness" refers to a condition rooted in an overload of toxicity from an unknown external source, creating an environment where conventional medicine may employ gaslighting, name-calling, and over-prescribing of unhelpful and exacerbating medications.
"Up-front" is the term used by most residents of Heartland Village, a small community in the middle section of Staten Island, to describe a strip mall located on Richmond Avenue.
"Tchotchke" refers to the little things one finds all over a home, of unknown origins, with little to no financial worth but possibly immense sentimental value.
"Herxing" is when the body detoxifies faster than the liver and kidney can keep up, causing symptoms such as migraines, dizziness, fatigue, body aches, and vomiting.
"Ivermectin" is an anti-parasitic medication that has cured nearly 5 billion people since its discovery, earning it a Nobel prize in 2015. It is considered one of the most effective treatments to date for COVID-19 and various other conditions. Its use for COVID-19 was widely restricted throughout the United States during the pandemic, and its availability to doctors and hospitals was limited in favor of high-risk/low-success treatments like Remdesivir (RUN DEATH IS NEAR).
