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.

I didn't know how free I wasn't

It's like that hill on a giant roller coaster: even strapped in and definitely along for the ride you still want to scream for someone to halt the throttling jolt of those last few feet and whisk you out of your seat.

But it's too late.

You're in and you're going to dive.

And dive and dive.

Mere hours from the first minute after take off I sit in what was my little slice of solitude and look around at the parts of the walls where my paintbrush went awry. It's so special and yet so foreign. And it's no longer mine.

And I'm still not quite sure if I really want to loosen my grip.

What if my parachute refuses to open?
What if my peanuts don't satisfy and I starve to death at 30,000 feet?

I don't care.
I'm going to jump into the fiery sunset and swim through the golden clouds of potential.

I am the only albatross in an abandoned chevron.
And I am painted with the starlight and hopes of too many years of restraint.

And me?
I thank me...



...for finally letting me go.

My last night of work in Portland

Whenever I start a job I make a point of ignoring the fact that one day I'll quit the place.
I feel it allows me to invest completely in becoming an integral part of whatever endeavor the position plays into while simultaneously giving me the opportunity to see it as the best thing that ever happened to me.

Of course, with time any job sours and fades and becomes just another menial method for making ends meet. Even so, tonight after finishing my final shift as lead server at Departure I was on multiple occasions brought to the point of brimming tears.

There was Sheila telling me she would miss me, there was the kitchen staff unanimously proclaiming me a pleasure and honor to work with, and finally standing at the edge of my manager Ron's desk I simply said, "well, this is it."

This really is it.

I'm one day out from flying into the morning sky with nothing to guide me but a generous helping of common sense seasoned with an indomitable spirit and the hope of a new beginning.

Still I wonder: who will I become? how will I evolve? when will love happen again?

Such beauty all around

Following last night's festivities I must say that I have never felt more loved.
The mere mass of the crowd cramming themselves inside the walls of the Aalto Lounge might only be rivaled by the mass of clothing and books I spent half the day cramming into my suitcase.

This whole process of preparation is something I've always hated.
I just don't like feeling like I'm working at something that will take numerous different installations of time and energy to finish. That's most likely a large reason why I sometimes find my writing discipline to be so piecemeal. I just want to sit down and pump out a whole novel instead of letting myself get distracted and lose my train of thought.

Even so, the fast approaching departure date no such luxury.
I will not be dissuaded from my fastidious devotion to being absolutely and one-hundred percent ready.

The moments where I take the time away from folding, stacking, and zipping to do something other than obsess over which shoes I ought to take and which ought to go into some haphazard free box are growing less and less undefined. I have so many people to see one last time, so many restaurants to visit for that final bite of Portland gustation, so many sites to touch in memory of past experiences.

This evening I enjoyed the tremendous privilege of dining with my favorite professor of my entire college career: Jil Marie Freeman.
This woman holds the single most influential position in my academic life next to my mother...and I was homeschooled.
We enjoyed a lavish meal at Beaker & Flask (incidentally my new favorite Portland Restaurant) along with numerous stories, laughs, excellent points of discussion, and let's not forget the cocktails and wine.
It was a regular barn burner to be sure.

During one of our multiple smoke breaks (no, she didn't start my smoking habit, that was all me) I took a moment to soak up the glory of the moment. The chill of the wind, the pleasantness of the evening, the quality of the company, and the joy of being in the midst of all three simultaneously.
It was nearly impossible to fathom the perfection of all of them in combination.

Jil provided me with the affirmation and encouragement that only a person of profound intellect and genuine influence could. Her willingness to listen to my anecdotes, her clearly thoughtful response, her generosity (she insisted on picking up the tab), and her fantastic enthusiasm for the food and drinks: all were integral parts in what comprised the ideal evening of attentive and intentional blessing on my coming days and feats.

Such beauty all around.

Released to my miseries

This evening I had my first official cry.

I was driving through downtown en route home from selling my books at Powell's and eating a solo dinner at Clyde Common when I came face-to-face with the fact that quite soon those streets would no longer be mine.

It didn't help that Broken Social Scene was playing and all I could think about were the words, "now you're long gone, got your make up on and you're not coming back, don't you come back."

Saccharine as it may sound I feel like I'm losing a part of myself in abandoning this concrete village. I spent so many childhood nights desperately wishing to be a part of whatever was happening a midnight in a place where buildings had more than four floors.
Having lived here now for the last three and a half years I couldn't say when it was that I finally realized I belonged here, I was a member. Even so, it happened and it mattered and now I'm intentionally walking away from that.

Yes, this journey is necessary, these changes rich and beautiful.
But I will still hearken back to this berth whenever my mind takes me to that dark place that says I am no one.

Now with fewer pages to carry and fewer days to wait I am preparing myself for the inimitable jolt that will be the first firing of that passenger jet engine. And for all of the new tears.

Nearing the sweetest cliff

It took me until today to completely realize just how relieved I am to be fast approaching my last days at Departure (and hopefully in food service altogether).

The unpredictable hours (not to mention wages), the asinine clientele, the maudlin remarks made by pathetically vapid nouveau riche: it all sickens me and consumes me at the same time. I feel as if the energy I have to contribute to the world is being wasted on a daily basis.

If I were to be allowed even the briefest vacation from my "real life job" I would see myself blossom in ways I couldn't even begin to fathom. I just know it.

And right now I sit on a bare mattress in a dirty t-shirt dead sober and entirely too wound up to sleep.
All because of my damn job.

I pray to whatever forces are at work in this muddy orbiter that I'll be afforded the opportunity to step out of the service industry entirely.

And meanwhile salvage what's left of my soul.
And hope.

It's happening, it's really, really happening.

This is the first time my worries have burrowed so deeply into the pit of my stomach that I feel like I swallowed a giant rock.

Having spent a really lovely morning with Lucie Berjoan et al., a splendid afternoon with Ben Bruce, and a nostalgic evening with Ryan and Sharrie (and Nehemiah, the crawlmaster 3000), I am finally back in my apartment and feeling more than a little spastic.
My core is all wound up and my limbs feel like itchy Jell-O. I can't seem to achieve any sort of relaxation much less focus.
I want to start sorting through my books.
I want to practice packing and make sure I have enough room for the necessities.
I want to go to Soul Night and enjoy an evening with my friends.

But I feel like a bird who just sipped too much champagne: it's only a matter of time before my innards inflate and explode leaving fizzy stains all over the walls and floor.

I keep trying to calm myself, to reassure myself that everything is working out incredibly well, to soothe the tension out of my bones.
Maybe I just need to stop.
To be silent.

I don't even want a cigarette even though that's supposed to be the immediate go-to of a stressed habitual smoker.

Deep breaths.
I need a lot of deep breaths.

The Night of the Towel

How grateful I am for lovely times with lovely friends.

I am at present house sitting for Marc and Floyd and as such have been gifted with the perfectly timed retreat: a respite granting me the wonderful ability to escape the spin and clash of Portland life with a provincial calm.

Last evening I was accompanied by Taylor who always seems to be a quietly strong leaning post, a listening ear, and a fellow thinker.
We sat in the hot tub until the wee hours discussing how our minds work in both similar and contrasting ways. I love him quite sincerely and have no end of gratitude for his presence in my life.
May it be one of lasting and ever-growing inclusion.

Tonight the scene was a bit more cooperative. Kat, Eva, and Carrie all spent the evening with me, a vegetarian pizza, several garlic bread sticks, and a bottle of pinot noir (it tasted of wild, grassy, late Summer sunsets and thoughtful rainshowers on hot bales of freshly harvested hay).
No sooner had the four of us arrived we all clamored to get into bathing attire.
Imagine the excitement when we all realized we had coincidentally chosen black swimsuits.
Imagine the face of the pizza man when he was greeted at the door by eager smiles, bare skin, and svelte abdomens.
He had trouble keeping his thoughts entirely holy I'm sure.

We made two rounds of soaking and countless topics of conversation the ingredients for a perfectly delicious night and by the time it was all said and done we were cuddled affectionately together on Marc and Floyds enormous king sized bed watching I Love Lucy.

Throughout the night I kept considering just how ineffably lucky I was to be surrounded by such beautiful, bright, bombastic women. It was as if I couldn't help but constantly notice what it was about each of them that made them so special to me.
Kat with her impish smile and little artist's hands.
Eva's juggernaut humor, perfect limbs, and contagious alacrity.
Carrie's big brown eyes, beautiful spirit, and ready laugh.

It was all so incredibly perfect.

We spoke of birds exploding from the ingestion of champagne, whether or not "butthole" was one word or two, and the contemporary phenomenon of the Towel.
You've never heard of it? That's alright, it's really no big deal, just vintage and esoteric. Hipster really.
I miss the Towel.
I don't know if you're aware of this (it really doesn't matter) but I was actually the one who first discovered the Towel.

Anyway it's over now.

I've driven Kat and Eva to their respective homes and returned to my quiet borrowed nest.
I procured Carrie from the living room couch where she'd fallen asleep prior to my leaving and tucked her in for the night while I stayed up just a few moments longer to record these thoughts.

Reflecting on the whole evening I would have to say that this was one for the mental scrapbook.
I'll doubtlessly think back on this night for many years to come.
The Night of the Towel.

Free Market System

In the process of preparing to leave I have embarked upon a mission to sell myself into simplicity.
I spent the better part of two nights ago photographing just about everything worth a dime in my apartment and the subsequent day posted all of said items on the local chapter of Craigslist in hopes of not only ridding myself of clutter but also procuring a little cash to assist in making my move something not resulting in total impecuniosity.

With the evacuation of each item of my once carefully constructed and composed living space I am allowed all that much more of a feeling of healthy disconnection.
The empty space where my Empire Red Kitchenaid Mixer once stood reminds me of the days I used to make scones by the dozens for Coffee Cottage in high school.
The now blank shelf in the coat closet once used as a berth for my sewing machine sets my mind adrift amidst the numerous projects and tailored shirts once cluttering my dorm room in Canada.
And the promissory purchase of my electric blue Peugeot sends me reeling back to that first Summer when riding a bike all over this city made me feel like I truly belonged here.

I never would have thought that selling my junk could be so nostalgic.

Well I've already missed one

I am not sure just how I feel about not having posted yesterday.

Actually I take that back.
I feel fine about it.
Mostly because I ended up leading quite a productive day yesterday.

I finished my latest resume draft (which I'll note was quite impressive-looking) and I also photographed all of the major belongings I'm planning on selling on Craigslist.
Meanwhile I spent meaningful time with Lucie and even had time for a lovely dinner with Michelle (complete with a bottle of Oregon pinot and mucho truffles).

I finished off the night with a couple of beers across the street in the lovely company of Taylor, Kat, and Tony.

All in all I feel that I accomplished quite a lot and thus deserved a day's break from this update.

As for today, I went out to Marc and Floyd's for breakfast where I picked up Marc's Infinity in order that I have transportation over the weekend seeing as how I'm keeping house for them while they're out of town.
I'll be looking after Sherman while the two of them go jetting off to New York in order to confirm purchase of their Murray Hill apartment (trusting that they impress the HOA interviewers).

I cannot believe I'm exactly two weeks out from my own flight East.
It seems more and more surreal what with the date in question drawing irreversibly nearer.
And yet there is a gravity to everything like I've never felt before.
I'd bet it's because this is the heaviest thing I've ever knowingly put myself through.

And I expect the conditioning to be quite readying for a life of high activity.
At least that is what I would hope.

Midday Optimism

When I lay too long in bed after waking each morning inevitably I begin to worry.
I worry about money.
I worry about opportunity.
About ill-preparedness and lacking proficiency.

Getting up and going about my day provides just as inevitable a relief and sense of capability.
This cycle is something I've grown quite aware of in the past couple of years and the comical part of the whole ordeal is that inversely correlative to my level of morning worry is the amount of midday optimism.

I struggle to breathe under the weight of my fears only to realize that I have too many covers and pillows piled over my chest.

Today I spent a good portion of the afternoon crafting the beginnings of the resume I intend on submitting to Heide Lange of Sanford J. Greenburger Associates, Inc. with the intention of gaining employment as her personal assistant.

As one of the longest standing and most highly celebrated members of the agency's publishing representatives I see working with her as an incredible opportunity to gain insights into an industry for which I possess nothing short of the keenest fervor.
Upon researching the woman I was pleased to find that she takes a particular interest in both artistic endeavors as well as the examination of women's authority in the workplace.

I feel that I have a fighting chance at impressing her in many regards.

Now to ensure my success I must finish reading the oeuvre of Dan Brown.
It shouldn't take too long.
And I really have been needing a thriller break from the otherwise dark literature I have lately been submerged in (its loveliness is present but its weight only piles onto my granite bedspread during the worrisome morning hours).

Somewhat unproductive

I know I shouldn't hold myself to some sort of Superman bar of expectation when it comes to accomplishing parts of my aforementioned list.

But I'm beginning to unravel a little bit here and there.
I feel like my edges are fraying and I hate to be in a state anywhere shy of perfectly put together.

Carrie had to talk me down from a frantic ledge earlier in the evening as I professed my mounting concerns.

"It's going to be fine," she said without a hint a patronizing. "You just need to breathe. Breathe and think about how much less expectation there will be for you when you're finally in a city that is new to you in every way."

She's so damn brilliant.

Moratorium

Moratorium: a temporary prohibition of an activity; the psycho-social reassessment of one's position and belonging to that which makes one individual.


We have all seen enough of the world as it pertains to us to know that we are alive, we are members.
And yet in light of all of that experience there still remains the question:

Why do we belong?

Whenever I find myself in contemplation of this question I must admit I usually try to think of something, anything else.
Not because I am afraid of the answer.
Rather because I am aware of the great responsibility I will take on in a time when I feel so wary of the notion of having to be or know and accept that which makes me just as human as anyone with whom I may come into contact.

I feel in a way that my unique specialty, my sui generis is a beautiful burden.
And unlike the time-tried concept of The Pilgrim's Progress it is by no means a burden I wish to lay at the foot of a cross.
I wish to carry it, to build it, to inflate it.

And with the increasing weight of my carried person I will feel pressed into the Earth to which I feel such an ultimate sense of family.
It is indeed the dust from which I birth.
And the dust to which I shall return.
Or at least my body.

This year has offered me the wonderful opportunity to see just what this weight will mean to me when I am without the moors I have until this point depended upon as a means of holding to the safety of the familiar.
And with this offer I accept a certain amount of increased opportunity, increased weight.

What makes this year in particular so special?
What makes this concept of my burden so renewed in its glory?

The answer has yet to fully unfold itself and yet in its mystery I see the blurred outlines of something so much longer lasting than large tips and comfortable apartments.

Whenever I look up at Orion and smile to myself at his protection I see myself in the twinkling of his belt, the sharp edge of his sword, the majesty of his regal form.
And it is now that I see more than ever that I have the potential to be Orion.

I will be a fierce and determined guidon to myself and to those who look to me as anything more than an entertainment.

The to-do list

As one might imagine a coast-to-coast relocation requires a significant amount of preparation.
The number of pre-lift off imperative accomplishments seems a bit large at the moment but as my Motivational Psychology professor Lorilee Symes once told me,

"Making a list out of whatever seems too big to handle is like tracing one's journey on a map. The ability to cross item after item off is an encouraging and reassuring way of letting oneself know you'll eventually get to your destination even if it takes some time."

So here's the first part of my list:

1. Sort Clothing (Sell/Toss/Keep)

2. Take sorted clothing to Buffalo Exchange and Crossroads

3. Post bikes on Craigslist

4. Update resume for Personal Assistant Position

5. Submit portfolio photography for final edits

6. Plan going away party.


I am fully aware that there is quite a lot more to do than just these items listed above. However I think I'm going to take everything in stride at the moment so as not to let myself become overwhelmed.
Prioritizing is a talent I feel I need to condition anyway.

Mum and Dad's Christmas Card

"Noah,

We love you more than words can say, and we pray you find genuine joy and exciting new growth as you pursue the next adventure in your life. We always want the best for you and look forward to what's to come.

Love always,
Christmas blessings,

Mum + Dad"

Me and De Daumier-Smith

It seems customary to pop open the champagne or at least break a bottle or something when beginning the maiden voyage of a vessel saturated with anticipation.
However seeing as how this is the first of the year I feel that bubbly would seem more than usual passé.
Thus I shall allow Coca-cola to suffice.

It's three weeks to the day until I depart Portland.
This city has meant such a great deal to me over the last several years.
It has been my escape, my home, my solace.
And now it will become something so much more definite, lasting:
My Foundation.

Walking the rainy sidewalks I feel a grand membership and familiarity.
I belong here. And I always will.
A piece of my heart, my soul even, shall forever be buried deep beneath the pavement and river clay of this quiet city.
But now it's time to uproot and find new fertile ground on which to alight and flourish.

I have never truly attempted this kind of adventure; this stringent return to my essential parts.
It's not to say that I haven't contemplated and fantasized so much as having never actually put the sole of my foot to the warmth of the ground and set out with no map to guide me.

It's thrilling. Elating. Terrifying.

And I am ready, perched to fly, to soar.

Let you never do with your right what you may with your left.