Homeward Train Ride Short Fiction #1

31 August 2010
A Sexy Shade of Platinum
By Noah Buck
Marcie waited with mounting impatience. She sat alone in the brightly lit room; fluorescent lights making the white walls seem icy and unsympathetic. “One would think a doctor’s office should try to seem at least a little comforting,” she thought to herself. She was not accustomed to counting on other people for anything…especially anything having to do with her health.
She shuffled restlessly where she sat on the edge of the medical bed, her movement causing the tissue paper covering the dense cushion to crumple like crushed autumn leaves.
A moment later the door swung open and Dr. Bloomfield walked in with his gaze glued to the clipboard in his wrinkled hands. “Well,” he said with a sudden smile as he looked up at Marcie, “if it isn’t my favorite supermodel!”
“Hey Dad,” Marcie sighed. She hated when he used his silly nicknames. While she knew he meant them to cheer her but they somehow always seemed to have an inverse effect. Once, when she experienced a late onset of chicken pox during her Junior year of high school, he had called her his favorite leopard-print daughter. She stayed in her room for three days out of sheer embarrassment.
“So,” he continued, chipper as ever, “what’ll it be today?”
“I’d like to change my hair color.”
“I don’t know why. It seems to be a perfectly healthy shade to me!”
“You’re missing the point, Dad! I’m done with brown and that means my cheeks need some serious work!” Marcie took a tone of absolute seriousness which, had anyone other than her father encountered, they’d have thought her utterly crazy.
But lucky for both of them, Marcie and her father were equally ridiculous.
“Alright Pumpkin, you seem to have gotten yourself all worked up and I think a little lipo will do just the trick to calm you down and bring out that gorgeous smile of yours.”
Marcie cooled visibly, her expression now matching the austere white walls. Meanwhile, the doctor set down his clipboard and picked up a small red marker, uncapping and brandishing the implement as a painter might hold a delicate brush. Squaring himself opposite his daughter, he thoughtfully squinted his eyes, tilted his head from one side to the other, then began sketching in small red triangles just beneath Marcie’s strong cheekbones.
“Have you spoken to your agent recently?” he asked her without breaking his stony concentration.
“Felipe and I had lunch this afternoon,” she replied through tightly held lips. She didn’t want him to smidge the lines.
“And what did he say about auditions this week?” the doctor asked, stepping back a moment to review his handiwork.
“He said he thinks I’ll get a lot more call backs if I go platinum. Apparently blonde is huge again.”
“I can see that. All those pop stars. Porn actors- is that what they call them? Actors?”
“I don’t have any idea, Dad,” Marcie replied with a flash of frustration, “next I bet you’ll want me to try out for parts in that whole smut industry!”
“Well,” he replied, “I mean you could really make it in that industry. Look at you, you’re perfect for it!”
“Dad!” Marcie cried out, “I can’t believe you’d say such a thing! I’m your DAUGHTER!” Tears welled at the corners of her blue eyes.
“Marce, you know me well enough to know I am not the kind of person to judge. I just want you to be-”
“-successful! You always say that! Never once- I mean, have you ever- there’s plenty of girls whose parents want things for them- GOOD things! And what do you want? Just a trademark. To revel in somebody else’s compliments. ‘That’s my work,’ you’ll say. ‘Her eyes took four different procedures,’ you’ll say. ‘Not one visible scar,’ you’ll say.”
By now Marcie’s tears had begun running profusely, flowing blood red through the ink still on her cheeks.
Her father stood stalk still, the red marker still poised in his hand. His mouth opened then closed, open then closed. Like a fish. No words.
“Well?” Marcie demanded.
Silence.
“Well,” in an instant contrast she calmed. It was as though she’d had a coughing fit and only just managed to catch her breath. Her face went still again. The tears stopped. The red ink still ran a little, pooling just above her chin.
“I- I’m sorry doctor,” she said embarrassedly, “I don’t know what came over me.” Dr. Bloomfield continued to stand.
“I had a brief- there was a lot of wine in the sangria at lunch- we had lobster. Could we pretend that never happened? I’m ready now.”
The doctor stood a moment longer, looking over Marcie like an archaeologist puzzling over a newly unearthed skeleton. Marcie waited. Then, taking a large breath, the doctor sighed and said, “nothing happened. Nothing at all.”
He stepped in towards her face again.
“But now I need to fix all this damage.”

Momentous and Now

In order that the day not pass without note, despite it now being past midnight, I have to write a little something about what's finally come to be.

I got a job.

A real life job.

A Monday to Friday, actual salary, actual title job.

Moving here in January was something I did with a haphazard plan and a bundle of hopes. The plans unraveled, changed, became hybrids of themselves over and over. The hopes were challenged, wilted, nearly died, but somehow maintained just enough root to finally grow into something just now beginning to blossom.

And I couldn't be more grateful.

A friend and I were talking today about the importance of religion as it relates to the way humans go about their daily lives. Belief in something larger, ungraspable even, fuels the notion that the damn near impossible is actually within reach. Days like today remind of the truth in this idea.

Yes, I worked hard and will continue to do so.
Yes, I made my intentions known.
Yes, I refused to give up.

And no, I will not forget the difficulties of the path that led me to where I am right now.
All of the twists, turns, trip ups, and down falls have chipped away the superfluous parts of my person and left a young, soft, ready-to-grow form. The journey I now face includes the ways in which I'll carve a new face out of the battered features still intelligible on that form.
The craftsmanship is paramount.

I will commit to making it the best I've ever done.

The Internship -or- The Joy of Hearing What One Hopes

It began like any other morning on the upper east side: traffic down Lexington steady and innocuous, cotton sunlight fuzzying the facade of the building across the street as its combination of textured surfaces- brick, grout, glass- reflect the morning into our bedroom.

The feeling hovering about the apartment was altogether average. An average display of average things: average coffee, average shower, average two minute process of deciding what to wear.

The average AM ritual was consequently followed by further displays of the average quotidian activities. Average train ride to midtown, average walk, average cattle call trudge through the line for (yet another) coffee.

Culminating in an average kiss goodbye and similar-feeling exchange of "have a great day", the events to that point seemed to indicate nothing out of the ordinary. Neither better nor worse.

Then came the phone call, the new resume, the interviews, the successes, and the sudden novelty of sensing purpose, motion, a future.

Perhaps I'm over-dramatizing the whole situation. Be that as it may, I've yet to feel so elated at a professional accomplishment. In this case glimpsing a plausible light at the end of a dark tunnel filled with menus, wine bottles, cocktails, gluten allergies, high chairs, and special requests.

Sure, it's just an internship. But it's an industry I care about, a path I've longed to walk, a future I've been wanting to build.

No, I'm not counting my proverbial chickens before they're hatched.
I'm just happy. Happy and reveling.

Would that I could charge down this Open Road and see nothing but clear vistas of pathways bright and wide through landscapes lovely and thrilling.

All the while growing back a few of my very own curls.

Reveries of Robbery

It was the second less-than-sweltering day in a row. One could almost feel the invisible gratitude radiating off of the strolling mass of early morning commuters. No sweat stains today. I walked as everyone else in Manhattan walked on a midweek business day: with purpose. And yet, rising just above the determination, like vegetable oil rising to the surface of a pot of water, buoying optimism saturated my morning outlook.
Fifth avenue held its usual bustle of taxis, busses, and limousines, all bordered by sidewalks teeming with the particular flow of so many pedestrians. I imagined how, from the sky, the busy thoroughfare must have resembled a section of artery under a microscope, the people and automobiles like thousands of bloods cells, charging onward with the general current, clumping up at crosswalks and stop lights only to eventually rediscover motion.
I made my way from 53rd to 42nd, stopping en route to buy a few pieces of fresh fruit from a lone vendor. Once I arrived at my usual morning destination- the central branch of the New York Public Library- I mounted the grand stone steps, skirting the larger-than-lifelike lion statue and walking directly to one of the shaded aluminum tables with their rickety peeling-paint folding chairs.
After settling into my seat I couldn't help but overhear the conversation drifting over from my neighboring table: three construction workers were on break, smoking cigarettes, discussing a robbery committed by a man dressed- robe, mask and all- as Darth Vader. A series of laughs erupted from the trio as the expected jokes were made about the criminal employing the force to overcome the guards, cutting through the vault with his light saber, and emerging from the building with Princess Leia waiting in the gettaway vehicle.
I smiled to myself at hearing their jollity while imagining the incredible scene with no small amount of imaginative details: The starred glass over the teller's counter where Vader had thrown an impeding guard; the rhythmic, mechanical sound of his labored, robotic breathing; the weapons belonging to the security personnel floating peacefully above their heads, suspended by the Sith lord's dark capabilities.
And as the sun filtered down through the breeze-shifted leaves of the canopy of birch trees towering above the wiry sidewalk furniture, I enjoyed its soothing warmth and spent another five minutes radiating gratitude to see what I see, hear what I hear, live where I live.

1.000 words of self-assurance

10 July 2010

I feel slightly unraveled today. Having ruined what had the potential to be a highlight evening last night by getting too drunk and having a bad trip at a huge concert, I stepped into today with enumerable misgivings about myself.
It was as if I took every single one of my worst thoughts and opinions about myself and not only affirmed them with my behavior but surpassed them in deplorability. I’m tired of these stupid situations that lead to me feeling ashamed.
It may seem overly romantic or idiotically idyllic but all I really want at this moment is for Jason to come walking into the room, sit down next to me, wrap his arms around me and say, “Noah, I love you. And everything is going to be okay.”
Perhaps it’s my life to this point having so few real obstacles that has led me to a place of needing constant reassurance. Whatever the prompting, the result is the same: I want to be protected, to be made safe, and to be allowed to admit I’m afraid.
The notion of fear tends to in some way indicate weakness and I am uncomfortable with the idea of being weak. This used to manifest itself in my constant bodily comparison to people who were more muscular than me. Then it transitioned into my never saying no when people asked me for help. The lifeguard in me then went a step further and I began to feel the need to fix things for anyone and everyone. It wouldn’t have mattered if it was a friend or a stranger, the moment I caught wind of someone’s problem- be it relational, financial, occupational, academic, spiritual, or otherwise- the synapses in my brain would start firing at top speed, madly concocting some sort of panacea for whomever it was that needed a change.
The pressure of this kind of habit is quiet, sneaky, and ultimately exhausting. Thus, I spent years of my life in a quandary as to why I would always end up hitting a wall out of nowhere, utterly spent.
I’d be going like gangbusters, everything seeming to be right where it belonged, only to exceed some invisible speed limit, evidenced by my starting to spin out of control. And then I would fall down and down, my energy seeping out of some giant figurative tear in the quickly deflating balloon of my happiness and success.
Eventually I would operate as a shell of the person I knew myself to be. Foods I used to love would become little more than incidental forms of necessary nourishment. Books would seem too hefty to lift, open, and read. Music would lose its appeal and ability to comfort. And I would be left to do nothing with myself other than go about my days like a robot: no feeling, no depth, just hardened emptiness.
It is during these times (and there have been several) that I search myself inside and out for a renewed sense of purpose. I beg the sky for a secret ladder to descend to my front door where I can simply mount the rungs and, one after the other, climb them higher and higher toward some eventual preset goal.
The charm of this fantasy is the idea that I’m not responsible to do anything other than pull myself up, one hand at a time. Someone or something other than myself establishes the path and destination. I simply stay on track. I believe this appeals to me because I know my capabilities and strength well enough to invest fully into anything I find worthwhile.
And, when I’m already operating on nearly dead batteries, it’s the quest for the worthwhile that leaves me feeling sick and hopeless. By the time I’ve reached the point where I’m little more than an inert lump of misery it’s all I can do not to give up on everything including myself. Thus the prospect of burrowing into the raw, messy truth of the difficulties of being sentient and alive in hopes of unearthing something tiny and beautiful seems beyond Herculean.
Yet somehow each of these episodes comes to a welcome close. My sunshine trickles back in, little by little, and I start to sense the potential all around me. At first it’s just the occasional thought that there is more to be found in everyone and everything, that there is possibility hiding beneath a thin veneer coating the whole world. This gradually becomes a hopefulness to witness something of that possibility. And finally, after catching glimpses of it in people and places all around, I feel excited, expectant, and thrilled to be alive.
Coming full circle I can see why this series of feelings and thoughts could become cyclical. However, on that same note, I do not at all see anything that would lead me to believe that it must.
There is a choice involved in everything I do. Even breathing, which is automatic, is something I must choose to do fully or only half way. In the same sense I have a choice as to my level of commitment to myself to break away from the possible sadness. I can choose to devote myself fully or only half way.
Life is a thing of marvelous complexity and, as such, I choose to regard it as a combination of minute details all playing together into one huge composition of beauty, pain, happiness, growth, and yes, total potential.
As someone who’s been curious about everything since day one, always asking “why, why, why”, I could not be more satisfied than to think of there being no end of mystery in the day to day, moment to moment. And I choose to embrace that mystery with a devout discipline and total abandon.
If I’m to overcome my misgivings, fears, worries, and disappointments, the one thing I can use as a constant assurance of my capacity for victory is that I have a choice: Fully or half way.

It happened this afternoon

Jason and I met with our future landlord today to sign the lease for our own Upper East Side, one-bedroom apartment.

I'm experiencing such a great deal in these ensuing minutes and hours: joy, relief, anticipation, peace.

We met at the new address during Jason's lunch break, both of us swimming in our own juices as a result of the oppressive heat. I had made a point of dressing slightly less casually than I tend to on these hot days in order that a continued impression of youthful professionalism be maintained. That said, corduroys and a cotton poplin do not afford the most forgiving corporal climate when trudging down blistering hot sidewalks during the peak of midday sunshine. My mid- and lower back were a veritable waterslide beneath the pale green stripes of my shirt.
Jason didn't seem to be in any better position as he was wearing patent leather shoes, navy slacks, and his own incubator-cum-button-up.
Although happy to see one another at this unusual point in any given work day, we were by no means at our sociable peaks what with the effects of the weather giving us both the feeling of being squeezed from head to toe by giant, greasy hands.

Luckily, Issa, the landlord, was ready and waiting for our arrival and let us in the moment we rang the buzzer, sparing us any unnecessary dallying out of doors. We entered his serious, cherry-accented office and within the course of less than five minutes we had reviewed the terms of the annual agreement, discussed a few last minute details, and signed our names on the dotted lines.

The apartment was officially ours.

We thanked Issa, shook hands, and headed back out into the heat, immediately making our way to the 96th street station in order that Jason return to work by the end of his lunch break. I, on the other hand, intended upon escorting him back to sixth avenue, where he would go north to the offices of William Morris Endeavor Entertainment, and I would turn south toward the main branch of the New York Public Library.

We exited the train at 51st street and began the trek to sixth through what could only be described as scorching Hell. As planned, once we came to sixth avenue the two of us said our goodbyes, shared a brief parting kiss, and went off in the directions of our personal destinations.

Still sweating to the point of utter disgust, I couldn't help but smile to myself at the accomplishments I realized I had made in the not-quite six months since arriving in this incredible city.

-A passable, mostly-lucrative job allowing me the ability to support myself.
-Numerous addresses in colorful parts of a variety of neighborhoods.
-Several writing projects of which I have grown increasingly proud and hopeful.
-New friends and acquaintances with whom I can see myself sharing long, beautiful relationships.
-Jason, a man of ambition, compassion, and humility.
-And a greater, more fortified sense of personal strength and capacity than I have ever known to this point in my life.

Yes, all around I feel I've done well.
And what's more, I feel I am allowed to say that of and to myself. I've worked extremely hard and I know that that will only continue, but at least I can look back on this choice and know, with utter profundity, that I am where I belong, I am who I should be, and both of those things are constant only in their potential to change.

Thank you, New York, you've chewed, clawed, spit, and fought...


...And I'm still hanging on.

A Complex Determination

When a child's parents tell that child to keep his or her hands to him or herself there is a certain complex determination born in the child's soul.
It is the combined desire to control him or herself to the point of obeisance and to secretly plan on waiting for the propitious moment to challenge the respected authority and find out, via practical experience, just why he or she was told to behave. Not to mention what might happen in the event of rebellion.

It might be said that this same complex determination is what matures to become nationalism, corporate loyalty, or dare I suggest religion. One is compelled to find a set of standards, a concise methodology for proper existence. But it is tinged with the notion of rebellion, the desire to dance on the wild side and challenge what one has chosen to embrace.

Present & Grateful

Six days ago I had no idea about the amount of distance I would be covering between then and now.
Since Monday, I have traveled somewhere in the vicinity of five-thousand miles, seen my whole immediate family for the first time in six months, slept a night in my old apartment, and spent time with a number of the friends who I thought I wouldn't be anywhere near until the end of the calendar year.

And all because of a death in the family.

My reactions to death have been elucidated in writing on numerous occasions and have always come to a conclusion that goes something like this: I'm not ruined at the thought of someone passing because I have yet to see the negative in death.

This is not to say that I will forever hold this stoic optimism. I very well could have someone taken from me by the silent black strength of death who I am in no way ready to be without. But the fact is that that has yet to occur. And until it does I shall maintain this somewhat ambivalent outlook.

Why? I already feel things far too deeply to allow something as tar-thick and compromising as the notion of a person's passing inside my clever walls. Like Meg in A Wrinkle In Time, I plan to look through the transparent atomic walls while not allowing anyone's passage through their see-through surfaces.

One might think of this sort of behavior as sociopathic in some form or another. But the truth is that it gets me up in the mornings and allows me to sleep at night. These are the key moments of any day- the start and the end- and I refuse to inhibit myself if it can be avoided.

Coming back around, the beauty to be found in this most recent bout with death is that I was permitted the opportunity to visit the family, friends, and places I have come to think of as my foundations at a time when I knew I needed some sort of direct encouragement, uplifting, affirmation.
In the end I was also able to obtain confirmation: I am supposed to be where I am, doing what I'm doing, trying as hard as I can to be present and grateful.

I guess that's really the best reaction one can have to the notion of death in close proximity: just be present and grateful.

Hateful Reveries

This morning, during the 20 minutes it took Jason to shower and make the coffee, I somehow managed to fall asleep and have a terribly upsetting dream.

I am in a large, wooden, lodge-style house. The crepuscule creeps through the large windows revealing that it is evening. There is some sort of large, extravagant formal party going on (I can tell because everyone is wearing a tuxedo or some sort of slinky black cocktail dress). I stand speaking to Amy Smart (I know, why her?) and I whip out my iPhone to take video of her for some habit-seeming although unknown reason.
Now here is where the first strange conflict occurs to me: Something about the style of dress, decor of the home, and sound of the music weaving its way amongst the partygoers implies that the timeframe is somewhere around the 40's. And yet I have an iPhone and use it with a seemingly automatic ease. I realize this in passing and then move my focus elsewhere.

As I am recording Amy, watching her comely features wrinkle into an impish smile, I hear some kind of low hum coming from outside the house. It's not unfamiliar enough to immediately raise my attention but Amy's face goes from cheerful to confused and then all of the way to frightened.

"What is it?" I ask her, stopping my recording.
"It's an air raid," she responds urgently, looking at the ceiling, her face growing more and more creased with fear.
"Air raid?" I am completely confused? Why would there be an air raid?

Then the first bomb drops.
Somewhere within the surrounding mile radius of countryside an explosion tears up earth, shreds lazy tree branches, and sends vicious tremors through the ground, shaking the house at its foundation. All of the guests have become aware of the outside threat and have begun the quick decent into mass hysteria. Ladies shrill voices calling for their husbands pierce the drumming noises of collective panic. Somewhere a child begins to cry, a desperate, terrified sound.

By the time I collect myself enough to begin moving I am already caught in the rampaging motion of dozens of guests trying to make their way to the basement for shelter. Hustled along by a sea of glitzy jewelry and black velvet, I strain to catch a glimpse of the landscape outside. Eventually, after struggling my way to one of the frames along the hallway, I pull aside the drapes. Outside there are patches of flame riddling the surrounding forestation and from the trees come a multitude of green-clad soldiers (reminiscent of the hollywood notion of Nazis).

I continue being pushed along by the crowd of scared guests (realizing that I have lost Amy amidst the throng) and eventually end up on the main floor (apparently the whole beginning of the dream happened with me on the second floor). At the base of the stairs there is an eerie quiet and all of the once-crazed guests stand in a still, silent daze in the main room. At the center of the space, in front of the giant stone fireplace, stands a regal looking officer wearing a brimmed hat and the same green-colored uniform as the outside soldiers, only his lapel is patched full of bright ribbons and medals. I cannot make out what he is saying but I know that he is delivering the "you are all my prisoners and you are all going to be shipped out to a containment facility immediately" speech.

In my bewilderment I turn around hoping to find somebody to ask precisely what is going on. I come face to face with a frumpy, smug looking female officer with a large scab running diagonally across the arch of her nose. It's terribly distracting and for a moment I am too taken aback to form a complete sentence. However I quickly regain my composure and try to ask her why I am being rounded up to be taken.

"Our directive is to gather and relocate the local Jewish community," she said with a cruel half smile.
"But I'm not Jewish," I tell her, only slightly frustrated (I don't want to seem difficult).
"That's not the reason we're taking you," she says with a knowing sneer. Had she continued to speak I knew her message would be something like, "you disgusting faggot."

There was an insidious, dripping hatred oozing out of her so palpably acidic that I rushed away from her as quickly as I could. I felt so angry, so scared, and so injured. It was as if I had just been set upon by a swarm of insects whose venom filled me with a sense of dirtiness, of foul, disgusting imperfection. I felt as I was disfigured.

In the morning the whole party is made to empty onto the lawns where a number of large trucks with gated beds, like the kind used to transport cattle, are parked along the edge of the grass. In front of these trucks are three or four white pavilion tents with picnic tables beneath each one.

We are all forced to file into the gated rear portion of the trucks, jammed in, closer and closer until it is quite obvious that there will not be room enough for anyone to sit down. I manage to position myself against the side of the cage so I can see what is happening around me. At the tables under the white pavilion tents sit all of the servants who had been serving the cocktails and the hors d'oeuvres at the gala the night before. They now sip coffee from china mugs and snack on biscuits on silver serving trays. They behave as if absolutely nothing is out of the ordinary. I want to cry out to them, to beg them for help, but I know they will simply ignore me and continue on with their mornings as if my pleas are no more than a few pesky summer flies.

I am beside myself with terror, wonder, and utter despair.

And then I woke up.

Veering in a new direction

Following yet another rejection from a prospective employer, and again on the grounds that I am "too big a personality to work in literary representation", I've decided to take a new approach to the beast that is my occupational future.

I'm tired of questing for something mysterious and foreign. I've begun to realize that perhaps this whole notion of orbiting aimlessly around the idea of writing is the one thing holding me back from diving into something at which I could really excel; that could invigorate and thrill me in a more immediate way; that could permit me access to the glamour and excitement I've always been too ashamed to own outright.

It's not to say that I don't want to write. Clearly I do. It's just that the notion of writing being this sort of work-in-progress device for flying is beginning to feel slightly unrealistic. I'd rather climb onto a plane and have someone teach me the controls while I craft my own original form of flight on the side, a sort of hobby to fill up the lazy evenings and weekends.

And this is my plan.
I'm in the midst of a period of assessment, a moratorium of pursuits and aspirations. All I want to do is to be successful, bombastic, glitzy, and still taken seriously by those who really know me.

In the timeless words of somebody I don't remember, "fuck 'em if they can't take a joke."

The latter, better choice

This is the first time in 11 days that I have not had to work.

It's a silly, giddy feeling, knowing one is actually free for the day. Already there is a crisp lifting inside my chest like when looking over a high ledge. And all I can contemplate is how much day is left for me to spend as I see fit. Magnificent.

Touching back on the subject of my recent bout of workoholism, as its presence has prompted this day's appreciation, I will give myself the credit of acknowledging that I elected to work hard, save money, and be prepared for the future. I feel these last two weeks of work have been directly related to that very endeavor and I must say that I am quite proud of myself for having weathered the storm and come out on top.
Sure, I'm a bit more tired than usual, I started smoking again, and yes, I drank the alcohol. But I'm happy.

Goals hang in front of me like dangling carrots only I refuse to be fooled into thankless mobility. The moves I make are based on rewards I craft for myself out of what I already possess.
I think this may be part of the mysterious arcana that is searching for purpose.

But here I sit, wasting away this free day of mine in front of a colorful screen, when I very well could be running wild in the streets.
Lord knows that latter is always the better choice.

Planted

It's been my here-and-there custom to spend some of my New York days in Marc and Floyd's swanky Murray Hill apartment where Marco and I have established a rather lovely writing discipline:

A white porcelain tray full of tea things (including a white cow-shaped creamer...for milk, get it?) sits on the tv-stand-gone-coffee-table where we both take turns resting our feet and/or our laptops. The two of us sit languidly on the oversized red couch strewn with notebooks, scraps of paper, and reference books. We stare out the large windows overlooking the East Manhattan skyline as it stair-steps toward the river, contemplating the next line, paragraph, chapter. And we take the occasional break to brew more tea, grill a ham and cheese sandwich, or hit the John.

All in all, I'd say we're both happy as clams about the whole setup.

Just today, having dug up an old piece of somethingorother I had tucked away in a forgotten notepad, I began transcribing some of my hurried scrawl, editing along the way, and my eventual product was something unlike anything I had crafted before. It was concise without a hint of terseness, imaginative without losing a strong descriptive foothold, and had a literary risk to it that I normally reserve for love letters.

Marco was wonderfully supportive and showered me with accolades (which was a much-needed bit of affirmation) and now I have the pleasure of going about the rest of my day with a delightful sense of new possibility. I only hope that in continuing in this piece I'll maintain the gravity of the beginning.

Maybe the maxims muddy the line

People say that believing hard enough can make anything happen.
I've always found such ambiguous maxims to be something of a false assurance. It's as if we're placating ourselves with the notion that saying something remotely spiritual disables the looming terror of defeat without so much as a thought given to the possibility of real consequences.

The key to success is a thing made up of many parts, belief being chief among them, to be sure. But what of planning? mindfulness? strategy? and the good old worst case scenario?

I remember getting angry with my father for being a naysayer because of his advising me to keep aware of these very facets. But the end of the line has come, the bell is clanging in a thankless rhythm, and I'm sure of only a very few things: I'm sure that I'm where I am supposed to be; I'm sure that I'm doing the best I can considering the circumstances; I'm sure I am loved.

Frankly, I wouldn't have it any other way.

Life as a pot of tea

This week has proven itself more exhausting than usual.
Perhaps it's the manic nature of the weather, perhaps it's the daunting responsibility of financial planning for a new life, or perhaps it's simply me experiencing a tiny burnout.

The lovely thing about living in a city so full of ceaseless movement is that one is totally aware of their potential for resilience.
In being an active person with a will to live fully, and even to excess, I look in the mirror at a face outlined with determination. There is no other jaw set so concretely as mine, no other brow furrowed as cautiously as mine, no other eyes narrowed as crisply as mine, and thus shall I ensure my successes be not only constant but comprehensive.

This is the time of my life where everything must have its value leached out as a tea bag has its flavors steeped from it.
And I shall toss aside the disappointments like silk sachets full of water-logged herbs, looking to come upon the next most flavorful venture.

A motherless mothers day

Sundays bring their own sort of happy sorrow to many people for many reasons:
It's the last free day before the work week grind revs back into action; It's a reminder to church-goers that they're still not quite blameless; It's a the football game that always seems to rocket newlyweds from romantic love to real life.

And this Sunday is that annual jab in the ribs to any and all who live too far from their mothers for a genuine hug.

Mothers day brings to mind images of red roses, dark chocolates, and tablefuls of bickering siblings hellbent on declaring themselves as the favorite child. These things may be all well and good but they are just images after all. Imagined ideas that comfort without quite satisfying. The same way that thinking about a breeze doesn't actually quit the swelter of a blistering summer day.

Today I miss my mother.
Not any more than usual. The only thing I feel at a slight increase is a pestering guilt.
Guilt at being remiss in calling as often as I ought, at not writing as many letters as might make her sure she's on my mind.
And it's nothing of a Catholic guilt by any means, simply a tiny sliver of unrest in the space behind my eyes.

In observance of this most hallowed holiday I took it upon myself to celebrate sans matriarch.
Jason and I planned a meal, invited a fellow mother-missing friend, and prepared ourselves an orphan's brunch.
One would think that such behavior might inevitably drive the three of us to talk about our childhoods, reminiscing about the best of times and most comical of incidents involving our mothers, but in actuality the conversation hovered over such topics as sex education and performance art.

I will be the first to express my strongest feelings of defense on all of our behalves in that our mother's would be proud, one and all, at the three of our genuine concerns for both contemporary awareness and intentional culture.

In a roundabout way I guess what I'm trying to say is that our mothers must have done something right. We're all happy, healthy, and ambitious. And on top of that, we all know we're loved without reservation.

Frankly, if left up to me to describe, I'd say that is what mothers day is actually all about.

Revue Review

Each weekend carries a certain sense of adventure.
Especially now that I have a marvelous comrade of conquest, one Mr. Jason Alan Knight.

Mr. Knight and Mr. Buck enterprises have made it a strong point to be highly involved in the arts community in New York as mutual scheduling permits. As such, weekend adventures frequently involve some sort of performance: musical, dramatic, artistic, etc.

This most recent weekend saw Misters Knight and Buck visit Theatre of the New City for the final performance of Denial: Time to Face the Musical.

The show can be summated in a single word: travesty.

Not to say that the concept was uncreative, it was simply tired, washed up, and poorly executed.
Mr. Buck felt it unkind and lacking in class to comment to this point however his staid behavior is completely counter-intuitive and he has thus opted to put off his politeness in an effort at fully explaining the horror that was a musical about a black girl who thought she was white.

You did not misread the last line.

Filled with catchy tempos and passable instrumentations the show's lyrics and dialogue fell to the wayside...

...as in I couldn't hear hardly any of them.

Blame it on the acoustics of the basement being passed off as a performance space, or perhaps the fact that the actors had little to no perceivable talent.

The lead was a poor excuse for a diva with a disproportionally large head and an even larger unawareness of her musical pitch (or lack thereof). This came as no surprise: the girl's bio contained the words "grateful to be making my New York debut in a brilliant musical I wrote myself". Some people would go so far as to call that assuming.
I would take it to the level of misguided insanity.

Either way, the first half was bearable enough: a sort of pleasant romp not unlike watching Cher dancing in a Chuck E. Cheese ballpit.
The second act caused me to begin contemplating methods for taking my own life.
There was the moment of revelation where the (clearly) black lead discovers that she is not, in fact, white and I'm pretty sure the entire audience was just about as uncomfortable as they would have been in a screening for Gigli 2. Only the show had less character.

I feel that I lost something during that show (and I am not merely speaking of my dignity) and I'm relatively sure it was approximately two hours of my life I would have rather spent reading Twilight.

Alright, alright, that's terribly dramatic. Unlike the show.

Where I run

Here I sit in Marc's apartment with nothing but my stories prompting me to make another keystroke.
I don't have a 5 year plan, I don't have a 401k, and I don't have my dreamjob.

But the long and the short of it sounds something like this: I don't need them.

What I do have is far more valuable to me than any of those would-be essentials: I have a belief in the potential for anything.
Sure, I now live in the city known for housing some of the most unhappy, unfulfilled, and never-quite-good-enough people in the world and yet I can't help but chuckle to myself as I realize that I have it within me to decide all on my own never to be one of them.

And I have decided, flat out, that I will not only shy away from those lacklove outlooks, but I will break into a dead run in the opposite direction.

Wherever I end up, out of breath, covered in perspiration, at least I know I'll be all the further from gray malaise that is an unhopeful life.

Mountain to mountain

Rain kills my drive.
It's as if my whipped topping has been pelted by so much pea-gravel.
And it's not pretty.

Not to say that I'm in any way less determined, it's more that I feel like every step takes three times as much energy, focus, and strength as it might if there were blue skies and yellow rays instead of this gritty drip drop.

The dry skin around my fingernails reminds me that the precipitation is only temporary.
Brighter days really are just around the corner.
And what's more I'm not completely without light, happiness, joy.
There are so many, many things for which I am undyingly grateful:

-I'm working
-I'm writing
-I'm seeing & hearing
-I'm peaceful
-I'm not lonely

Whenever the clouds roll in and the city goes back to being an ashy cave I want to roll over in bed and go back to being asleep and inert.
But this cannot (and will not) be.
There is too much I am finally understanding, finally accepting to run from it in light of the weather.
No more shall Phaeton's presence (or absence) dictate my actions.
I've gone too many days, weeks, years living on a leash fastened to that golden chariot.
It's high time that I cut myself free and run amongst the horizons choosing my own.

The plan that is no plan

Today I realized the beauty of being a willing wanderer.

There are far too many beautiful places I've come across in life as a result of simply meandering through various streets and byways to allow for any dissuasion from the value of such aimlessness.

On foot for the better part of the day, I walked through Brooklyn with no agenda and finished the day with a full list of experiences.
I found a typewriter in the annals of a densely packed antiques shoppe. I met a nanny and her two talkative trusts in a miniature organic frozen yogurt parlor. I saw a movie about which I knew next to nothing...and ended up loving it. And finally, I was introduced to a new route home filled to the brim with block after block of ornate and signature brownstones.
I couldn't have been happier with the day.

And now I'm permitted to relax in the comfort of a safe space.
I'm preparing to whip up a batch of my world-renowned scones.
And the night sky beckons me to the bed where a set of long arms will wrap around me and press my warm skin into my slender bones.

I love the plan that is no plan.

On Mornings

If the the clatter and smash of kitchen sundries falling from a fourth floor window are my wake up call
I know I'm in the city.

If I can tell exactly who is filling their coffee pot by the variation in temperature of my shower
I know I'm in the city.

If walking the dog means dodging buses
I know I'm in the city.

If I wake up happy and stay that way
I know I'm in the city.

The Beautiful Gift of Possibility

When I lay here, full of exhaustion, emptied of sleep, a small desperation springs to life in my temples.
It could be the result of too much contemplation,
too little protein,
some misplaced sense of fear.
Whatever the case, desperation, even in small amounts, can drive a person to behave erratically.

This might explain why the part of me who understands that sleep is best coerced into visiting when prompted by reading a book is bowing to the part of me that knows the internet is my number one waste of time.

It seems as if I have a serious problem listening to my inner knowledge and this is upsetting to me.
As someone claiming some kind of super-developed sense of awareness and maturity, I'm certainly not behaving in any way that might assist in corroborating my professed prodigy.

But this is all tempered with the realization that I believe I am finally opening myself to the brilliance of luck again. I'm seeing the bourgeoning happiness of an age now not so far off. There is hope and I am drinking it in like warm, soothing tea.
It's on my chin, soaking my collar, and warming my bones.

And with it comes the beautiful gift of possibility.
Any possibility.

For instance the possibility that my musings will one day amount to something worthwhile.
The possibility that I might find honest, genuine romance.
The possibility that I can own my placement in life and in the world with complete gratitude and meditation.
The possibility of anything.

And just now, three days ago, I believe that luck and possibility may have very well joined forces on my behalf.
Because it's not everyday that you get Earth on your face.

My favorite daydream

Every once in awhile I catch myself slipping into daydream at the most inopportune times.
I'll be walking down a crowded platform through droves of eyes-straight-ahead strangers attempting to avoid their multitude of moving obstacles when suddenly I begin to contemplate just how wonderful it would be if I could simply leap up to the ceiling and crawl along the metalwork above all of their bouncing heads.
The more I allow this image to gestate the less I pay attention to where I'm going and inevitably I walk straight into the only person sipping a scalding hot cup of coffee and holding a baby to their chest.

Then there are the times when I'm dancing around like a fool in a bar full of I'm-far-too-sexy-for-you drinkers and have the secret vision of myself where I mount the nearest table, barstool, or the bar top itself, whip out my cleverly concealed batons and with a flick of my wrists launch the ends into rapturous flames and proceed to shock and impress everybody with my incredible array of daring stunts and fantastic confidence.
By the time this fantasy has completed itself I'm spilling beer onto the only girl wearing a white shirt and she turns out to be a lesbian and thus thinks there is absolutely nothing sexy about it.

And my favorite daydream would have to the one where, when walking through the dodgy part of anyplace, I imagine a whole slough of armed and dangerous individuals crowding around me, brandishing a variety of menacing weapons.
I look around at them, smirk slightly, set down my bag, then say something uppity and just-a-little-condescending but ultimately icy cool like "you really should've stayed home" or perhaps "this just isn't your lucky day". And flying into a myriad of jaw-dropping martial arts moves wherein I climb up walls, flip over whole piles of people, and transition between each blow with the precision and grace of a seasoned gymnast, I completely disarm and totally incapacitate each of the would-be marauders. This ends with me standing in the center of all the fresh carnage where I brush off some stray dust from my shoulder, pick up my bag, and step over the leader of the pack (who's favoring his recently vacated eye-socket) and utter a timeless parting line like "I wouldn't try that again if I were you" or "next time leave the fighting to your mother...oh wait, she's dead, you see I killed her with my thoughts."

Or something like that.

And again, by the time I've allowed my mind to carry me this far I've completely lost track of where I was walking and then begin to realize that I'm totally turned around and about as likely to conquer and crowd of roaming miscreants as I am not to need directions.

The worst part of these cruel fantasies is that they provide me with such a genuine thrill, a rush of excitement and adrenaline, like the world actually is full of the potential for such adventure and dashing affair. And then it's gone.
As soon as I am made to remember that they're only in my head I come down so hard that I feel every tread in my shoe's footprint like there's a giant weight pressing me further into the ground with each stride.

And from such a gritty grind there is no waking.

When it don't come easy

Whenever I meet with a time of particular trying inactivity I feel my patience being forced into a hundred and three pushups. With every hope of a new opportunity there is the surge of energy allowing me to rise up and glimpse the possibility that my waiting is at an end. Then with every disappointment I sink back down until my proverbial nose touches the floor, inhaling a fresh dose of oxygen, looking for the inspiration necessary to make me press myself up again.

Even as my will wains I know that my patience is being conditioned into a stronger, more dependable core element of my humanity. I'm getting those few steps closer to accomplishing a genuinely meditative existence. This is a constant goal albeit I find enough distractions en route to its accomplishment.

I refuse to be held to the ground by mere gravity. It's a constant and therefore I am already well aware of its persistent pull. I have built up a resistance to its finite limitation. I have superseded its deadweight. While I may find myself in limbo at this time it is no guarantee that I shall never reach the base of the mountain, beginning my lofty climb.

And soon, so very soon, I shall reach the summit, above the clouds, and see the stars.

Pupation

It's been a month since I've posted here and I'd say it was one of the more evolutionary months I've as yet experienced.

This is a terribly unfair thing to say when the previous four weeks have been less that adequately documented. Even so I'm certain I shall refer back to them on many an occasion in the coming writing considering how much groundwork has been laid during that time.

I wish I could begin listing all of the magnificent things I've been able to solidify during the whole of February, things like a job, an apartment, a 401k, a partner, and a pet (perhaps even a novel in the making). But sadly I cannot. Mainly because none of those things have happened yet.

Sure, I'm working weekends at a lucrative (although all too briefly scheduling) restaurant, I'm living comfortably enough as a result of the kindness of friends, and I've managed to begin a number of new friendships with remarkable and diverse individuals. While in no way would I discredit any of those accomplishments I can't help but feel slightly impatient. In fact I would go so far as to say, going off of my track record, I ought to be running in crazed circles and clawing at the walls.

That's just the thing: I'm actually learning to develop my willingness to wait.

To wait for completion, for a job, for a home, for relationship.

And in that waiting I am additionally learning to find the worthwhile nature of everything in such a refreshing, affirming manner. I look around me and instead of seeing the failures or slow-coming goals, I see the orchestration of joy that is organic to a peaceful life. I make time to read, I make time to walk, I even make time to sit and think. Just to ponder. Meditative and quiet, I come into a better and more comprehensive grasp of myself as an entity within a huge system of entities. And we are all so very, very beautiful. Tragic sometimes, inspiring at others, and ultimately awesome (I use the literal definition).

That so many, many tiny parts could fit so perfectly together to form the giant organism that is life in this huge city, this country, this continent, and the world is boggling in a way that reminds of splitting the atom. And just as some atomic activities are clumsy, violent even, their existence alone negates the vitiation of their sometimes unfortunate byproducts such as selfishness, pain, and cruelty.

I'm rising above. I am aspiring to great heights where membership is not a question of merits but a just reward for efforts genuinely made.

And while I quiescently wait to find what my final form will look like, feel like, and how it shall fit into the rest of the ever-changing forms by which I am surrounded, I am allowed the comfort of seeing my whole self wrapped up in the chrysalis of my will to grow, to mature, to gain in wisdom.

Soon the blood will flow into my new wings and nothing will hold me to the ground.

Happy Birthday?

If there's one thing I've yet to foster in my garden of personality it's a flourishing blossom of patience.
Frankly I doubt if I've even opened the packet of seeds.
It's most likely sitting on some dusty shelf right next to the rusting shears meant for use in trimming my vanity.

It's been one week since I moved to New York and already I feel like there's a pile of rocks in a gritty burlap sack nestled punishingly upon my shoulders.

The pressure I placed myself under upon first deciding to make this move was something entirely novel to me considering I'd never made such a decisive life alteration. But in the efforts of making my life fit my person the alteration was certainly expedient enough as to cause my urgent and direct action: thus the moderately short amount of time between the decision and the action itself.

And now the express train of the last two weeks has finally begun to slow and I feel slightly wobbly-legged like a freshly birthed giraffe.

My spotted, gooey, spindle-legged body has been drug through the process of interviewing on enough occasions in the last week to last me until my next birthday. But I'm far from through with it.

Since my last post I have spoken/interviewed with representatives from Sanford J. Greenburger and Associates, Inc, the Ace Hotel, Bella Vitae restaurant, and today marked my first visit to a temp agency (I can understand why they're referred to as "head-hunters", everyone working there had something of a savage and unquenchable desperation).

Forrest Solutions is located in a high rise near Times Square and the waiting room plays stage to the dreary dramas of weary wanderers from every imaginable background. One particular character was a pock-faced boy who looked to be no more than 18. He seemed slightly less eager than the others keeping quiet vigil in the employment offices. But at the same time he seemed to possess an enviable collection.

Modeling myself after this youth I somehow survived three rounds of clerical assessments and as many meetings with a woman named Gail whose bottom teeth resembled the brown crags of rocks posing a threat to shore-bound yachts.

That's not to say she was unpleasant in any way, just a bit abrasive in her floral sweater and deeply rouge lipstick.

Promising to be in touch about up-and-coming openings, Gail eventually released me to claim what was left of my birthday afternoon.

I'll be honest in saying I was a bit deflated by the time I departed the building but I was within walking distance of Stumptown and elected to reassure myself with the reminiscence of home.

And how I'm back the Bleecker flat, Drew's just arrived home, and we shall simply have to see what this evening will turn into given a little time.

It's been a strange birthday to say the least.
Thankfully I took the time last night to go and meet Jillian's best friend, Pedro, at his restaurant last night and he subsequently received a birthday glass of wine at midnight (maybe a little before). Todd met us after the place closed and we had one more drink at a local bar followed by a number of New York hot dogs and finally I turned in for the evening.

And thus began this strange day.
Oh, that it might end nicely.

A Laugh in the End

Coaxing myself out of bed yesterday morning was only slightly less difficult than the wading through clay mud. I can’t seem to shake the west coast timing. Perhaps I simply haven’t been trying hard enough.
Eventually forcing myself to face the drizzle and gray of the first truly rainy day here brought back the expected doubts and frustrations of this unavoidably heavy season. I knew it was coming and still I felt as if I were clad in soaking layers of dirty cotton balls. Despite my efforts to the contrary I sank into a somber state not unlike slipping down the wet trunk of an unfriendly climbing tree.

Most of the morning was passed in conversation with various Portland friends along with a good amount of reading and contemplation. Thought after thought carried a certain sense of sobriety and eventually I found myself looking for a reason, any motivation to leave the apartment even if only for a brief spell.

Finally breaking from my cemented position on the cushions of the living room’s solitary easy chair, I dressed and walked to the Porto Rico Roasting Company in search of fresh coffee beans. Choosing a half pound of something unfamiliar with a name that included the word “peaberry”, I stopped into a small grocery store on the way back home to purchase half and half.
It’s silly how seeing a dairy brand from my old home town could temper my coffee with the irreversible flavor of doubt. But by the time I poured the second cup I was feeling a resurgence of confidence nearly as stimulating as the caffeine I so blithely imbibed.

“This is all going to take some time,” I told myself, “Just give yourself a few weeks before tugging at the rug beneath your own feet.”

As if on cue, my phone buzzed with the notification that I had received a fresh batch of electronic mail. Checking impulsively I was elated to find a message from the head of HR at the Manhattan Ace Hotel. Ryann (for that is her name) wrote to inform me that she was very much looking forward to meeting with me and wanted very much to seek out a position for me at the local extension of the Portland-based chain.

Work was beginning to seem more immediately likely.

Following Ryann’s message was a note from Alana informing me that her boss had been given two reserved tickets to that evening’s Upright Citizens Brigade Comedy Show and would not be able to attend. Asking if I’d like them Alana encouraged me to invite someone to go and enjoy a few laughs on a Monday night.
I sorted through my (incredibly short) list of local friends and thought I’d see if Todd might like to go for a round of rousing one-liners.
Following a brief conversation with him wherein he confirmed that yes, he would be my plus one, I replied to Alana’s e-mail saying that I would love to accept the invitation and requested the details.

The show didn’t begin until 11:00 so I spent the last couple of hours before I would need to leave straightening the kitchen and Drew’s bedroom all the while focusing once again on my need to give myself a bit of patient leeway with regard to getting my occupational side satisfied.

Todd and I had agreed to meet at 10:15 in order that we be sure to get decent seats inside the small venue. It was approximately 9:40 and I was amping up my confidences: tonight would be my first attempt at solving the riddle that is the Manhattan Subway System.

I walked to the appropriate cross streets and descended the stairs to the pallid tiles of the dank station. I’ll admit I was unsure of exactly what I might encounter but I felt that no amount of procrastination would quiet my trepidations surrounding this new city’s mass transit. So I dove in head first.
Purchasing my Metrocard went smoothly enough (aside from the first machine refusing to accept my cash which prompted me to use my card at the second) and while I missed my first train I chalked it up to learning. One doesn’t make connections standing on the wrong side of the tracks.

By the time I disembarked and resurfaced at street level it was still 20 minutes prior to Todd’s and my agreed upon meeting time so I located a pizzeria where I could grab some affordable and greasily satisfying victuals.

Tossing my oil-stained paper plate into the public trash can once I finished scarfing down the melting cheese and crispy dough I noticed Todd strolling up the block in my direction and I greeted him with a hug and sincerest gratitude for accompanying me on this late night excursion into the world of stand up vulgarity.

We waited in line for our seats and proceeded to enjoy a number of comical narrators recounting anecdotes upon anecdote about everything from sex education, sexual positions, and sex involving animals in Ireland. I have to say I found the rare jokes not circulating around copulation quite a lot funnier than the tried-and-true salaciousness.

Perhaps I’m just a prude.
(Yes, even I’m laughing at that notion.)

After the show Todd and I walked a ways before ducking into Cooper’s Tavern to have a night cap. Whiskey in hand, we spoke of our reasons for having come to New York and I feel we were both afforded a little better idea of the motivations essential to our ultimate ideas of full life and genuinely satisfying success.

Pulling the last drops of Knob from my ice-filled tumbler I reflected on the similar evenings in the recent weeks leading up to my departure spent with all of the friends I knew so well and how even with all of that cultured familiarity we still found novel elements of each other. Like watching a movie for the fourth time and still noticing things you never saw before.

Todd and I said good night and he asked that I fill him in on the following day’s meetings and conquests. I promised that I would and wished him luck in being alert for his morning class. And with that we went our separate ways. I boarded the subway for the second time that night and happened to step out a stop too early. Still invigorated from the stimulating evening I elected to walk the rest of the way home thinking it would be a good exercise in familiarizing myself with that portion of the concrete jungle.

The cool night air whipped into cruel daggers as the wind surprised my skin with sharp reports of icy mayhem. And still I smiled to myself. Another day of this place being my home meant I had unconsciously gained just that much more membership, that much more belonging.

And even when a person belongs somewhere they still need time to accept it.

When Noah Met Charley

If there’s one thing that I’ve begun to realize about my adopting this pace of living it’s that I can’t sacrifice the well-being of my cuticles in the process.
My nails are in ruins and it’s most likely because I haven’t been busying myself with the proper level of productivity.
Either that or I just have a very bad habit.

Even so I awoke on Sunday morning with an all-too-painful awareness that a peevish hangnail on my left thumb was throbbing unmercifully where the dried skin had begun to tear. Disgusting as this image may be it still managed to get me out of bed and into the shower in order that I might rehydrate my dermis and thus quell the digital aching.

It was after suiting up for yet another New York day that Todd and I agreed to make another trip to Union Square only this time for much more pragmatic reasons. Donning coats, scarves, and gloves, we headed for the door, snatching up the reusable shopping bags on our way out.
Among many other noteworthy things, Union Square plays home to the first Trader Joe’s to have been incorporated into the cityscape of Manhattan. As one might imagine this also means that it was small by default and therefore jam-packed with weekend grocery-meisters.
Todd had warned me ahead of time that the check-out lines may very well wrap around the whole interior of the moderately claustrophobic store (as it turned out he was entirely correct) and thus we concocted a game plan: we would take turns holding a spot in the “12 Items or Less” line while both hunting down the items we required to make a stellar brunch, dividing them up between our two bags at the end in order that we not be breaking any rules when we eventually reached the cashier. Luckily, considering we were not terribly picky about the elements of our would-be omelette let alone any accoutrements, we only ended up with 10 items between the two of us so we were spared the scorn of our fellow queue members.

I’ll note that while inside I received not one but two compliments on my wolf sweater (again, I feel it was a worthwhile purchase).

Following check out Todd and I made our way back to Bleecker opting to take a new route home in order that we be able to discover new little niches within the city. We ended up traversing the NYU campus quite by accident and I must say it is a much different notion of “urban campus” than Portland State. Not that I didn’t like it, it was just a concept of its own: classrooms stacked upon classrooms stacked upon dorms stacked upon classrooms. Quite efficient if you asked me.

We arrived home, prepared a sumptuous bacon, sharp cheddar, and shallots omelette, and then Todd headed homeward to work on coursework for his coming school week.
I on the other hand called mother and dad for the promised Sunday check-in phone call. I elaborated on my activities to that point and told them I would be spending the coming week on the job hunt. They once again told me they were proud of me and offered what little advice I would field about how to present myself, what to expect, and so on.

I had to utter a hasty good bye once 5 o’clock rolled around considering I had a dinner date a 6 with my friend, Charles Loffredo, another internet acquaintance who I’d yet to meet in person.

I layered up before exiting the apartment considering how cold I had been during the walking portion of the prior day but approximately half way to Charley’s flat I was sweating unbearably and felt obliged to remove my scarf and unzip both my lined hoodie as well as my cardigan, allowing my chest to breathe in the cool (although not at all cold) evening air.

Arriving at 6 on the dot, I rang Charley’s number on the apartment call box then stepped back and took in what little of the neighborhood I could make out by the streetlights. It was a charming, historic little rue. Rows of brownstones and colonial-seeming apartment sets bordered a somewhat narrow street with lines of cars hemming in both sides. Trees were planted every ten to fifteen feet, trunks disappearing into those little cement rectangles on the sidewalk. And every residence seemed to have an iron gate around the front stoop which I found awfully romantic.

The door buzzed annoyingly reminding me that I was supposed to be going inside as opposed to standing there scrutinizing the street. When Charley and I officially met there were a few moments of shock-ridden, somewhat jilted stammering. Having shared numerous in-depth literary conversations over the last year the two of us never thought it possible that we’d be having this moment, this official encounter. We shared a giant hug and a number of “I can’t believe I’m actually meeting you” sentiments. Then Charley insisted he show me around considering I would be subletting the space from him beginning in February.
“How was London?” I asked as we settled onto his small couch located on the opposite wall from his full-sized Murphy bed.

“Oh, it was really great,” he responded with enthusiasm. “The show seemed to be doing very well by the time I left and what little I actually got to see of the place was gorgeous. I can’t wait to go back and spend a larger amount of time there.”

Charley had just returned from Great Britain where his self-owned, self-run theater company had mounted a one-man show which had only that week begun receiving celebratory reviews from a number of London publications. As the director he was able to set the beast in motion then jettison back to Manhattan where he could continue to perform his duties as the accountant for a small collection of successful publishing agencies (one of which I would be interviewing during the coming week).

“It’s so marvelous to have you here,” he told me, grinning ear to ear.

“I still can’t quite believe it myself,” I replied with a sigh.

“And now that you’re here I can show you around!” Charley seemed quite energized at the prospect of introducing me to the neighborhood so we headed out into the now only slightly colder evening for dinner and a little strolling.

He took me to a petite Italian restaurant with a name I didn’t happen to notice and food I’ll be hard-pressed to forget. The portions were enormous and the flavor was magnificent. We enjoyed traditional Spaghetti Bolognese, Gnocchi with Gorgonzola, and that evening’s Chicken special with Asparagus, cheese sauce, and Herb-Roasted Potatoes. To top it all off the bill only came out to be $39! I remember thinking to myself that a dining experience of that caliber and quality would have run somewhere along the $50-$60 range back home. Charley informed me that the small restaurant had an enclosed garden in the back with table seating available on the busier nights. What with it being Sunday the space was closed but Charley assured me that it was indeed worth returning to see. The food had already convinced me.

Afterward Charley led me around Chelsea and listed the areas of note as well as a bit of the cultural history of one of New York’s oldest gay districts. For the first time in quite awhile I felt a certain sense of pride and membership being a part of this community. It was as if even though I’d never been there I still had a place waiting for me when I arrived. And even through the cloudy blur of booze and cigarette smoke, I could see why it must have been such a mecca during the previous eras in American history when in many places, to be indicated as possibly homosexual was an element of exclusion all to itself. Yet another reason why I felt even more aware of my move being so perfectly fitting.

Charley finished the tour with a stop by Billy’s Bakery where I was given my first taste of a New York Red Velvet cupcake. I’ll admit I came into the situation with a certain level of foregone skepticism considering my as yet unchallenged allegiance to Cupcake Jones. Even so, the confection was quite marvelous. . .

. . . although I have to say that, to me, Lisa Watson is still credited as being the best Red Velvet artist I have ever encountered. There’s nothing that compares to how incredibly insouciant I feel at the first bite into every single one of her beautiful little rose-petal-topped treats.

Back to the east coast. . .

Charley and I ended the evening with a discussion about my interviewing with one of his agencies during the week as a personal assistant. Having looked forward to this opportunity for the whole month up to departing Portland I was in the mood for details. I needed to strategize about ensuring my competitive edge be the keenest.
Charley’s advice was to simply be my usual self. He felt that when Heide Lange met me in person, heard me speak (and in particular my vocabulary), and noted my aplomb, she would be very impressed and thus highly likely to burn down the building and run away with me into the sunset.

Actually it was something a little less dramatic than that.
But oh, how I do love a good ending.

Making my way home following the last hug from Charley along with a final “I STILL can’t believe you’re actually here”, I was hit with the first genuine pangs of homesickness. Maybe it was the misty weather, or perhaps the fact that it was the first lengthy walk I was taking on my own. Either way I had a number of my fondest remembrances of Portland begin floating in front of my mind’s eye: biking across the river at midnight in Summer, piling into somebody’s car and spending the whole day at the Washougal, frittering away the hours crouched in the Philosophies section at Powell’s, the antics of my neighborhood Stumptown baristas, evenings smoking on the back deck at the Aalto.

By the time I’d fully processed all of the lovely little pictures I was arriving once again at the green door with the bronze 2,4, and 7 nailed to the painted wood. And as much as I love to think back on the beauty of my former life I know I shall eventually have just as many beautiful memories about this place: favorite haunts, lovely happenstances, strange discoveries, and good friends.

But until then I remain so grateful for all of the beauty that has brought me here.
And that will continue to sustain me.

Cyber Friends and Tourist Trends

It began last night at “Blind Tiger” while Alana and I enjoyed pints of something pale and foamy called “Allabash White” (a beer whose real name I can’t remember for the life of me): I finally met the flesh and blood version of a friend with whom I’ve only shared electronic correspondence up until now. It was similar to meeting a pen pal only less of a surprise due to the magic of webcams.
Scott McAuslan walked up to me wearing a pair of mostly-for-looks glasses and a half-grin that said, “so this is how tall you are.” We hugged and laughed and took a moment to let it sink in that we were actually occupying the same space and time zone.
Upon introducing Scott to Alana there was an instant amiability and as soon as casual conversation began between the three of us it was clearly understood that we wouldn’t be bored with each other any time in the near future. The three of us left the pub and headed back toward the flat with a careless indecision as to what our plan of action was to be for the remainder of the evening.
What started as a quick break at the homestead turned into a lengthy conversation punctuated by countless cigarettes, several beers, and a genuinely stimulating set of topics including but not limited to: the relationship between religion and ethnicity, specific forms of intellectual superiority as they are stereotyped people of different races, and the development and disbursement of iPhone applications.
(You can take the boy out of the literati...)

By the time Scott bid Alana and me good night the three of us were silent in our resolve to maintain the clearly blossoming friendship.

I went to sleep contemplating the days to come and the freedom I would soon find upon copying Alana’s house keys.

Oh, the places I’d go. Oh, the people I’d see.


I’ll admit I was a bit lax in forcing myself out of bed Saturday morning. I think the slight amount of jet lag I had been too thrilled to notice upon arrival was finally taking its toll.

I eventually coaxed my tired bones into the shower and made a mission of finding a new place to obtain a cup of coffee. I didn’t have to go far. Across Bleecker street is a lovely little corner cafe called “Amy’s Bread” and I had been informed by Alana that both she and Drew made regular appearances and thus were on moderately familiar terms with all of the staff (in the world of food service I was well aware of the fact that this most likely meant the two of them occasionally received their caffeine and sugar free of charge. I may or may not have made it my own secret goal to achieve such familiarity).
Borrowing Alana’s keys I made my way across the thoroughfare to see just how many people I had to impress before finally being able to call myself a “regular”. I’ll admit that I was somewhat surprised to find that within a space of about 350 square feet there were still five employees shuffling busily behind the small cafe bar. I ordered my americano along with a ham and cheese on ciabatta and attempted to use my most winning smile.
Everyone was kind enough but let’s just say the next smile is going to have to be something of a championship.

I spent the next half hour wandering about the neighborhood trying to locate a place where I could have the house keys duplicated and finally found an ACE Hardware on 3rd. While having my keys cut I was informed by the attendant that they were at present out of the generic bronze renditions of one of the keys I would be copying. Therefore he offered me an array of novelty keys with everything from neon leopard print to Mets logos. Not finding any of them particularly appealing I left the decision up to him: exiting the store approximately four minutes later I was less than excited to show Alana the brown, beige, and black camouflage atrocity I had so generously been gifted by the local hardware emporium. I think I would have rather gone with the leopard print.

It was at this point that Todd called.

Todd Raina Pinsonneault is yet another internet friend with whom I had shared an exclusively web-based relationship. Having met him through my dear friend Lucie I was quite happy imagining the both of us calling her and synchronously informing her of how much love was waiting for her on the east coast.

Todd was on the subway heading in my direction and we planned to simply walk about town for a bit exploring the nooks and crannies. It’s funny how the simplest of plans can quickly develop in the grandest of activities.

Following the first greeting, hug, and moment of “well, it looks like I can’t un-friend you on Facebook now”, Todd and I began walking towards 6th Avenue on Bleecker.

“Have you been to Union Square?” he asked me as we reached the busy cross streets where Bleecker crosses 6th.
“I sure haven’t,” I replied with a shrug and a smile.
“Well then let’s head in that direction first and see how we feel once we get there.”

How we felt ended up being quiet adventurous. From Union Square with its crowd of purveying artists and gawking tourists we set out to find coffee which led us to the Midtown ACE Hotel (for the record: much friendlier than the ACE Hardware) and ultimately Stumptown Coffee.

Stepping into the familiarly decorated and staffed cafe I was immediately teleported back to 10th and Stark in downtown Portland. Completing the west coast reminiscences was Daniel, a formerly Portland-based Stumptown barista with floor plans tattooed on his arms. He recognized me and welcomed me excitedly to what had only recently become his new home as well.
Todd and I ordered our coffee and decided to enjoy it in the comfort of the ACE lobby which was simply a larger-scale rendition of the lobby in Portland I had haunted so frequently during my days as an angsty PSU student.

Entertainingly enough, as we sat sipping and chatting, a couple climbed into the instant photo booth next to our couch and deposited payment for their foursome of photographs only to be abruptly called away. What with the machine already in action and no subject matter to capture, the empty closet-sized space flashed its quartet of blinding whiteness and I laughed at the peculiarity of such an occurrence. My ambitious curiosity had me hawk-eyeing the slot where the strip of film would show up after development. Sure enough, once the slim rectangular bit of monochrome jumped into view I snatched it up greedily. The four gray scale panels contained a repetition of lonely emptiness which I happened to find quite fascinating. I had never encountered a completely absent set of prints before. From the capturing to the captured there existed no humanity at all. It was as if the whole concept occurred outside of comfortable reality. And all for only $4.

Once we finished our drinks Todd and I headed back into the chilled evening air. With the increase of darkness came an increase of cold. The climate combined with my contemplative cup of coffee of course prompted me to crave a bit of nicotine.
If there’s one thing that will end my terrible, cancerous habit it will be the $11 per pack I’ll be paying for what used to be a mere $5.99.
Gotta love New York capitalism.

By that point it was dark, brisk, and still quite early. Then Todd had the brilliant idea to visit Times Square considering my never have been there before. He was giddy as a school boy to be the one introducing me to what he referred to as “one of his favorite places on Earth.” I was pretty ambivalent about the whole notion.

Who am I kidding? I was jumping up and down practically howling with excitement.

What began as a stroll down Broadway quickly evolved into a hasty trot as I sensed the electric crackle of enumerable neon lights and flashing cameras. By the time we reached the red-lit steps in the main area of the square I was aware of little more than the intoxicating sensation of disbelief filling my every limb.

It was so much better in real life.

We sat for a bit and just took the whole spectacle in: hundreds of people from a plethora of nationalities speaking twenty different languages striking a gaggle of poses.

“I’m going to be on one of these one day,” I informed Todd matter-of-factly gesturing to the myriad of illuminated surfaces bordering the traffic and tourists.

“Which one?” he asked with an air of amusement.

Looking around it was difficult to decide just where I wanted to end up amidst the frenetic squalor and bursting chaos. And then I saw it, just above the enormous Coca-Cola LED screen. My panel.

“There,” I pointed excitedly, “right above the huge bottle of Coke.”

“I’d say that’s just about perfect for you,” responded Todd through a genuine smile.

Once we’d had our fill of the strobing lights and teeming masses Todd once again suggested a perfect destination.

We walked for about ten minuted before finally arriving at the spot: we were going ice skating at Rockefeller Center. Obtaining our rental skates and tickets we exchanged them for our shoes and laced up tight for what would prove to be a lesson in dodging small children who must have been born with no motor skills whatsoever.

Stepping onto the gleaming ice just as the Zamboni finished its rounds, Todd and I took about two minutes to get our skating legs and then proceeded to zoom around the rink for nearly 45 minutes with not a slip or tumble the entire time.
I couldn’t say the same for the girl who spent about ten years getting through with a single round considering her vice-grip to the side railing and complete lack of coordination. However her banana yellow pants certainly provided ample warning to anyone not wanting to come into unfriendly contact with her nearly sedentary form. Todd and I made something of a game of trying to figure out the genders of the showboat skaters who couldn’t resist pulling a few stunts and tricks in the center of the rink. Somehow nearly all of them seemed completely indecisive as to which side they wished to belong. Somehow I am pretty certain they weren’t exactly trying to be progressive.


Several circuits later we agreed upon one thing: we were freezing cold and deathly hungry. Making our way back to Bleecker St. we kept our eyes peeled for any place that seemed to offer a hearty burger. We were feeling très Americana. En route we happened upon one of the many H&Ms in the city and what with Todd’s desire to step up his sartorial standards (not to mention he’d never been to one) I insisted we take a whirlwind tour just to give him a taste of the magic that is affordable style.

Yes, alright, yes. I bought something. A sweater.


But it was only $10 and it has a wolf on it. A WOLF!
And it’s cold here so who’s to judge the purchase of an inexpensive form of self-sustenance?

(I’m not actually interested in an answer.)

Following the shopping we stumbled upon the Silver Spur, a traditional diner-style burger joint complete with black and white checkered floors and stainless steel chairs.
I had something involving ham, onions, and bacon. Todd had something involving cheese, BBQ sauce, and bacon. We were both mostly into the bacon.

Following a seductively creamy piece of carrot cake the two of us were properly stuffed (with leftover sweet potato fries in a doggy bag) and shuffled home. By that hour it was colder than it had been the whole day and I opted to wear my new sweater in an effort to combat the elements (see, it was NECESSARY).

Once home Todd and I were introduced to Alana’s friend Anne who was bombastic and cheerful. Her enthusiasm for life seemed entirely contagious and even though us boys were well tuckered out we still managed to keep up our spirits for a round of thorough laughter and a few yoga poses (the yoga part was just me).

Todd and I then retired to the comforts of a movie and some much-needed down time.

Just before bed I decided to realize a dream I’ve had since the night my darling Aunt Linda gave me a copy of Chris Botti’s album, To Love Again: a New York roof top, glass of wine, cigarette, and smoothly haunting Jazz.
Seeing as how there was an apparent lack of wine I opted for Budweiser (would you believe I’d never had the stuff before in my life?). And while it was no Cabernet Sauvignon it wasn’t entirely regrettable either.

I remember looking around me and seeing the mosaic border of contrasting roof lines biting into the starlit sky and thinking, “this is all I’ve ever wanted. Really it is. And I’ve got it.”

It was enough to make me completely lose myself in staring up at the new orientation of the Big Dipper without a care in the world...

...if it wasn’t for the Catholic primary school bell tower blundering into my thoughts with a juggernaut tone of hourly announcement.
Slightly jarred I still allowed the romance of a church bell filter through the night air. Right up until the final chime...which didn’t sound.

Apparently the final toll was silent as a result of that particular bell being in a state of disrepair but Todd and I burst into laughter at the awkwardly ruined anticipation.

Our laughs eventually took us back down to my room where we attempted to stay up talking about schooling, work, the future and a number of other pleasantries. But by the third or fourth collective yawn we knew we were fighting a losing battle and decided to call it a night.

And once again I drifted off to sleep with the symphony of street noises reminding me that this adventure was still little more than infant in its development.

What would the next day hold? And what might I see and learn?

‘Twas all up to fate.
And that’s just how I like it.

The first day I awoke in a new city

Having spent a large amount of today exploring my present living space I'm obliged to say I feel incredibly lucky.
The three floor, three bedroom, brick-faced apartment is so full of character and detail. From the creaking hardwood floors to the cascading fountain-style bathtub. Let's not forget the rooftop access and the constant activity just out the front door.

I had my first taste of New York coffee today...


...and it was sadly terrible.
But terrible in the charred, acidic way that reminds me it's not Portland which reminds me that I love Portland which reminds me that I'm setting out to do something new and unfamiliar which reminds me that I am on fire right now!

I met Alana, my friend Drew's roommate (and thus my temporary roommate), and have decided that she is fantastic. An Israeli New Jersey Jew, Alana has beautiful dark hair and clever eyes along with sultry voice and apparent intelligence. In other words, she is exactly the kind of girl I would be drawn to in any random social setting yet I have the good fortune of residing with her for the next couple of weeks.
And since she hadn't had the time to make key copies prior to my arrival I was obliged to stick around the apartment today so I wouldn't have to leave the door unlocked for the duration of my absence. One can never be too careful about such things. Thus while she was at work today I took the liberty of building her recently purchased IKEA furniture. It helped to calm my wanderlust just long enough to allow me the presence of mind required to talk to Eva, Carrie, Michelle, Lucie, and Taylor without seeming like a caged animal.

Already I am beginning to feel the energy of this busy, busy place seeping into my skin and curling my hair even tighter than before. There always seems to be some kind of motion, some kind of new sound, sight, smell, taste, or touch.
And I am intoxicated by all of them.

The weather was so lovely today: sunshine and a brisk chill without a hint of bitterness.

I sat out on the rooftop for awhile and enjoyed the bright rays, the cool invigoration, and the constantly banking flocks of pigeons weaving to and fro amongst the buildings. It was as if they felt compelled to follow the streets even without the moor of gravity as a tether.

Tomorrow I will getting my own set of keys and thus I'll be able to venture further from the apartment.
This I am looking forward to quite incredibly.

As for now, I have just finished my first slices of New York pizza and I have to agree, it's just better here (sorry Rocco).

I believe Alana is going to take me to one of her favorite beer bars shortly so I shall be signing off a bit early.

But here's to a more adventurous tomorrow.

Chapter 1 - The little prince takes flight

The Portland sun shone down generously as I hassled my sizable bags into the back of Taylor's midnight blue Volvo. It was 8:06am and every molecule of moisture in the air seemed to arc and crackle off of my skin. I had already gotten my final Portland Stumptown americano and said farewell to the baristas of which I had grown so fond.

When the girls arrived to escort me to the airport I fought the rising emotions threatening to spill over my eyelids. There wasn't time for that. Not yet at least. Carrie, Kat, Eva, and Lucie walked with Taylor and me down to Pine State where I said a second set of good byes to the lovely ladies (and gentleman) who had on so many, many occasions brightened my days with fried chicken and cheese. How I'll miss Talia, Jenny, Margot, Hannah, Clara, and Nathan. Almost as much as I'll miss those biscuits.

Following a phone call from the airline notifying me that my flight had been delayed, my entourage and I enjoyed a somewhat leisurely breakfast and then set off for the airport. Once there the group waited patiently as I was reassigned from US Airways to a Delta flight and checked my large bags. I knew they were going to exceed the weight limit but I was moving nearly everything I owned. After a few bats of my naturally curly lashes I was able to coax Christi G from customer service into waiving the excessive weight fee as recompense for my new flight arriving an hour later than my original reservation. She was quite nice about the whole ordeal.

I was then escorted by Taylor and the lovelies to security check in where of course I was reduced to a puddle of nostalgia and adoration. This would be the last time I saw my closest loved ones for quite some time.

Eva photographed the entire ordeal while Lucie somehow made her doe-eyes even larger and more emotive than usual. Carrie gave me a kiss and told she was both proud and envious. Kat's china-doll cheeks went rosy with joy and angst as she hugged me tightly and told me to take over the Big Apple. Taylor wrapped me up in his long arms and rested his bearded chin on my shoulder telling me he would see me soon.

Somehow in the midst of all of the well-wishing and affection the security line formed in front of and behind us. It was like I was being sucked into the movement of the whole process like a surfer being sucked out to sea. Only I wasn't swimming towards the shore.

In final farewell Eva, Carrie, and Kat made a human pyramid and smiled their gorgeous grins while I laughed through the shower of tears.

By the time I boarded the Atlanta-bound flight I was calmed significantly and immediately pulled my book from the squished contents of my little blue carry-on bag, losing myself in its pages from take off to landing.

Arriving in the Atlanta airport I squeezed my way off of the plane with the urgency of a birthing giraffe. The water and (atrocious tasting) coffee saturating my bladder seemed just as eager to exit.
Making my way to the nearest restroom I barely had time to stuff both myself and my carry-ons into the cramped stall before I let loose like Niagara Falls.
Sweet release.

The next pressing urge dawned on me shortly after washing my hands and narrowly dodging the herd of paunchy business men crowding the entry like a pack of desperate belugas: find food.
And smoke a cigarette.

I’m pretty certain the ham and cheese I ended up procuring was more of a health threat than the cigarette. I was somewhat relieved that the server forgot that I asked for potato salad and brought me a bag of chips instead. Sealed packaging seemed ostensibly less risky.

Thinking back on the plane ride itself I must say I was somewhat puzzled at entering the lavatory where there are countless signs posted forbidding smoking while a clearly marked ash tray resides directly at eye-level from the commode.

Having requested a seat change in order to be in an exit row (let’s be honest, my legs like even a minor amount of mobility) I found myself flanked by two middle-aged men both of whom seemed to be rather unremarkable. To my left sat Cliff. From what I could gather he was some kind of doctor or perhaps a member of some other facet of the medical world considering his choice of reading material contained a gaggle of images depicting x-rays of severed digits. Appetizing. To my right was a man whose name I would later learn was Mick. He spent the ride engaged in multiple rounds of the in-flight trivia game available in the seat-mounted touch screen. I’ll be honest in saying I occasionally peeked over my book to see how well he wasn’t doing while simultaneously guessing whether or not I would be any improvement.

Mick and I had a few moments of brief conversation wherein I told him of my move and he recounted his own temporary relocation from Portland to the big city several years prior, accenting how it was the best five years of his life. Living once again in Portland, he was en route to Florida where upon meeting his girlfriend the two would be off for a weekend at Disneyworld.

I happened upon him after disembarkation in the smoking lounge where I was served the fetid sandwich. We chatted a bit longer and he complained of his Blackberry refusing to connect to the internet while I googled possible solutions. Oh, the technology age. Eventually he headed to his gate offering me a kind farewell and “good luck in New York!” It was terribly Hallmark.

Just after Mick left, a strikingly beautiful woman in a black pants suit and glittering silver and onyx necklace settled into the table next to mine. By that point I had pulled out my laptop and started writing about the day’s events so I was afforded a silently detached vantage point as she order a glass of pinot grigio and lit a Marlboro light. I couldn’t help but notice her poise and subtle elegance. Not to mention she had the brightest eyes and hint of a smile playing on her lightly shaded lips.
Eventually my curiosity got the best of me and I decided to strike up a conversation. Considering what little I knew about her I decided to call upon the environment as a means of beginning discourse.

“Don’t order the food here,” I said in a lowered voice, leaning over to imply some sort of clandestine insider perspective. I thought it was a friendly enough way of gaining immediate trust.

“Oh,” she replied turning to me with her sparkling gaze, the smile actually making itself fully visible. “Thanks, I wasn’t sure. Your sandwich made me consider it for a second.”

Glancing back at the two half-slices of dried rye barely maintaining an embrace of wilted lettuce, mysteriously colorful ham, and drooping Kraft singles (not to mention the soggy, mealy tomatoes) I looked back and simply told her, “looks can be deceiving.”

Somehow, from the topic of questionable food we went on to discuss art, writing, Salinger, Woolf, Miranda July, and social discrimination. All over white wine and cigarettes.

She introduced herself as LeAnn and upon learning of my move she seemed to glitter more brightly than ever.
“I love New York!” Her exclamation was doubtlessly genuine and full of anticipation.
“You’re going to have such an incredible time in that wonderful city!” she finished.

We continued to talk for another half hour during which Mick returned telling us that his flight had been delayed. At the mention of approaching departure times I checked my watch and realized that I only had approximately 45 minutes until my own flight. Saying a grateful good bye I exchanged blog addresses with LeAnn and we both promised to keep in touch via our online writing.

I paid and left (incidentally $16.99 for a beer and a morbidly repulsive sandwich felt fundamentally immoral) and then went to wait at my gate for my 9:30 leg to JFK. And I waited. And waited.

Around 9:05 I began to grow a little uneasy. The gate was basically deserted and the LED screen showed no signs of my flight number of departure time. Quickly checking online I was astonished to find that the gate had been re-decided and I was several seating areas away from where I was supposed to be checking in.

Stashing my book and phone I snatched up my bags and hurriedly wheeled them down the lengthy walkway past the food courts and toward my proper gate.

When I arrived at gate A13 I was tremendously relieved to see that the LED over the check in desk displayed all of the proper information for my subsequent flight. However it was by that point 9:11 and there was no Delta representative behind the desk itself left alone any queue forming to board. Apparently it was running a bit behind schedule. Additionally relieving. I collected myself just in time to see a woman in an airline uniform step up to the manifest computer and I promptly approached hoping my luck in spacious seating would carry over from my previous trip. She informed me that there were plenty of open seats including some in the exit rows and I was privileged enough to nab one myself.
The flight began boarding around 9:20 and it was pretty clear we wouldn’t be getting off of the ground by our scheduled time. Although I did end up having more leg room than the last seat and I also had an empty seat neighboring my own allowing for a luxurious amount of space in the event that I felt like napping.
The flight attendant came by checking to see that everyone’s seat belts were properly fastened and paused a moment to let me know she liked my hair (albeit she had the decorum not to thrust her hands into it and yank at the follicles to see if it was real...the plane was clearly not a Sage Restaurant).

As we taxied toward the runway I retrieved my copy of Ayn Rand’s novel, Anthem from my Samsonite (I’d patiently waited to read it since having had it gifted to me by my friend, Tarah Whitaker back in December). Just as I was opening to the first page of the author’s forward the pilot came on the PA informing the passengers that due to weather we would be waiting in line for take off and it might be a little longer than expected.
A little longer turned into an hour. We hadn’t even left the ground and already I was feeling my butt cheeks screaming in protest.

Finally taking off we flew for 1 hour and 41 minutes during which I finished the novel, ate some ginger cookies, drank some more bad coffee, and saw the Empire State Building in person for the first time.

Sure, it may have felt trite to be excited over something so bromidic but I was not to be put down. One of the icons of my future loomed like a glowing buoy out the window and I’ll admit my eyes remained fixed on its light-tipped spire all of the way until the plane touched down.

I was in New York.

Getting off of the plane took nearly as long as getting on due to what the captain described as flawed ground crew operations regarding accurately extending the breezeway. It took four tries before they were able to properly align the accordion walkway with the door.

Eager to make my way onto the terra firma of my new home town I quickly descended to the baggage claim carousel where surprisingly both of my over-sized check bags came out within 5 minutes of the conveyor starting up. I then stacked them on one of those rentable bag buggies and wheeled the two suitcases, one green army duffel, blue typewriter case, and pinstripe umbrella that composed my whole life into the waiting line for a taxi into the city.

By the time I’d managed to get all of my bulky effects into the yellow sedan and the driver pulled onto the Manhattan Expressway I had truly begun to feel like this was the beginning, as opposed to preparation.

I felt like a complete tourist and I’m not ashamed to admit it. I stared at every track home, toll booth and tunnel entrance like they were the sets for a new movie starring myself. I blatantly refused to even think about the Annie soundtrack let alone let it run through my head.

I whipped out my phone and my fingers were a blur as I let everyone back in Portland know that I had made it safely to my destination. And then I saw the Manhattan skyline rolling up over the top of the hill and my fingers quit their racing.

This was no longer that place that I’d read about, talked about, dreamt about.
This was my city. Mine. It belonged to me and I to it.

The cab driver got into downtown and turned onto Fifth Avenue where I realized I would be able to see the spine of the towering metropolis from an inimitably intimate perspective.

Traversing Greenwich Village after exiting the forest of skyscrapers I was immediately aware of just how accurately the area had been described to me: every square foot of available space was being utilized as anything from a dry-cleaners to a dim sum window.

Stopping finally on Bleecker Street in front of the green door with the numbers 247 nailed above, a fresh thrill tingled through my whole form as I saw where I would be spending my first night. A quaint four-storey brick segment in a solid block of buildings, the house on Bleecker was composed of the top three floors. After having obtained my luggage and paid my cab fare I hauled my pounds and pounds of clothing and toiletries up the stairs to the lovely living area of Drew Stafford Harper’s home which would be my temporary residence until I took up the sublet in February.

It was just as I’d imagined: everything was a bit narrower than I was used to and all of the wood floors creaked cacophonously. And I loved it.

I struggled my way to the second floor of the house (the third floor of the building) with my bags and stopped for a moment to let it fully sink in.

I was in Manhattan. I was going to stay here. To live here. To become a part of its beautiful, terrible, unstoppable dynamic.

Nothing in the whole world could have made me happier.

And I think I’ll ride that wave for as long as I can.