Carving Initials with Gregory Alan Isakov

The Matchbook | 1.16.26

167 Chrystie Street, New York City, if you look close enough you’ll see us. At least I hope you still will. Small initials carved into a little chunk of repaired concrete, Gregory Alan Isakov, Sarah, and I, and I imagine they are still there.

The poem above is this moment, written twenty minutes after we scratched our letters, busted typewriter and all the words that came, simple words for a memory I never wanted to lose. 11 years ago now, 11 years. This is that story.

In case it’s hard to read, here is the poem that little typewriter sang:

Scratches in new concrete, untrampled
by worn out boots and legs grown old.
Here, where the wheels stopped rolling
and horns drown out the voices we should
have heard.  Broken streets filled
and our initials will stay, though we will go.
What will we be when it settles, when we
return?  Pants stained with wandering
and miles on our soles.  We are the miles
and the rising steam underfoot,
the misdirected glances, one hand held,
the other left waiting.
We are the letters in busted streets, the sharp
angled in the fresh grey.

-Tyler Knott Gregson-

Gregory was in New York City at the same time we were, a lucky happenstance for us to be together awhile. He had a show at the Bowery Ballroom, and it’d been a couple months since we’d gotten to see each other. We were in town for a weird job I had to do as a “model” for Ralph Lauren as part of a Denim & Supply campaign that did that combined poetry, art, and clothing. The time lined up, we got to see him play, and enjoy a city that was not our own but had become strangely familiar over the years.

I remember searching the local bodegas for whitefish in a can for Gregory to eat before his show, I remember the sound of our boots on the concrete, the steam that rose from the sewer grates, the hum of a place so alive with so many different people.

We rounded the corner, wandered into a shop for the snack he was searching for, and stumbled right into fresh concrete poured to fill a crack on the sidewalk. Just set up enough to hold a scratch, we used a rusty nail, and the butt of a Sharpie to carve in what we hoped would stay. GAI, TKG, and SL (as she hadn’t yet grabbed hold of the G she’d one day claim). Temporary etchings into a medium we knew to be ever changing, ever evolving, our own little mandalas destined to one day be worn smooth, chipped up, and concreted over again. I’d wager it already has been.

But.

We were there once, for a time. We were there, we made our mark, and for one brief and shining moment, a moment I’ll never forget, we etched ourselves into the wild tapestry of a strange and stunning city.

I remember feeling tired, too much travel in too short a time, remember sharing that with Gregory, he of incessant touring and so little sleep, and I remember treasuring those moments of stillness. The concert was beautiful, he and the band absolutely mesmerized an entire Bowery full of people, I remember Kenny, Gregory’s lighting guy who cut his teeth working with everyone from Jimi Hendrix to Bob Dylan, spraying me right in the chest with the fanciest cologne I’d ever smelled. About $6 a spritz he told me, imported from France.

It’s these memories that never leave us, these little carved out seconds in concrete and life. It’s the little things and it’s always been the little things. We’re stories and so little else, just the stories we tell, those we remember, those we’re brave enough to waltz into.

I love this and wandering life, I love the doors that have opened, those that have closed, the lessons I’ve learned from city streets to mountain streams. I love the people I’ve met, those I’ve been so lucky to love, to call family.

We are the letters in the busted streets, in the end, just like the poem says. We are the stories we tell, those we remember.

Here’s the audio version for all those who enjoy hearing how my voice reads its.

I love you all, and I hate to ask again, but really, if you’re able and have the ability to help keep this place going, about a cup of coffee a month, it really does mean the world and let’s me keep sharing with all of you.

Be good.