forecast

It's April 25th and I had to wear my winter coat today. Trudging home from the subway, the wind gusted in from the East River. I hunkered down and grimaced and squinted as my messenger bag was propelled from my side to bounce against the small of my back. There on 31st Avenue, with Manhattan looming high above the river in the distance, I was hunched and tucked into my long black coat against the wind. I thought my earbud headphones would pop from my ear canals and trail behind me like pliant, plastic antennae.

So, again, when does spring arrive? You claim it already has? In March? You don't say. So the few days of truly spring-like weather we've eked out were just an aberration? I hope this current chill is simply an irregular shift in the meteorological pattern. I think some mischievous god of Valhalla is playing a prank on us mortals and has repositioned an isobaric line from Yellowknife in the Northwest Territories to New York City and surrounding areas. And Detroit, Ohio, and even Buffalo have gotten snow. No, that's not entirely unusual for April. It's been known to snow in May, even. But let us enjoy some of the mild, pleasant weather we expect this time of the year before the sultry, wearisome humidity of the New York summer bears down to stifle and suffocate in just two short months.

"It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were chiming thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him." -George Orwell, Nineteen Eighty-Four (1949)

turf

It seems spring has arrived in New York City. There was so much sunlight today that it rattled my night owl sensibilities. Of course, I had to get my shut-in carcass outside and enjoy the weather. I walked, though for me that has different connotations. I walk to the subway, to work, to the store, to the pool hall. That's rudimentary walking. Then there are "Zen walks" - when I gather my thoughts and try to filter through the detritus clogged inside my head. Thoughts can range from the practical, like bills and taxes and work and what to have for dinner to the aesthetic such as ideas for my current writing, the submission of manuscripts, films I've watched, or anything else on the creative side. Songs might flutter through my mind from the sublime to the cheesy.

These walks can also encompass reminiscence as I recall the odd fond (or not-so-fond) memory. Like today, I remembered the outdoor concert at Darien Lake amusement park outside Buffalo on July 25, 1993. I had to laugh to myself as I recalled the "turf wars." No, not a turf war in the West Side Story sense, but literally turf ripped from the amphitheater's ground. Concert-goers dehydrated by the summer sun and inebriated with overpriced beers decided it would be a great idea to rip out chunks of sod and toss them like dirt Frisbees through the air. At one point the twilight sky was blotted out by the ground above us. During this fiasco, many of those with lawn spots charged and trampled the wire fence that separated them from the "privileged" front row seats. Soon, the seats were also tossed about in the air. In a sense, it was anarchy that evening at Darien Lake. Even as Stone Temple Pilot vocalist Scott Weiland tried to halfheartedly allay the rampage from the stage (their Bar-B-Q Mitzvah tour with the Butthole Surfers), the band continued to play. Yeah, it could be described as a "bad scene," but in fact, it was exhilarating. And no, I did not participate in the forcible removal of turf, but I flirted with the idea. I was covered with dirt, but managed to avoid being struck by a turf-chunk.

So that memory returned today as I walked around here in Astoria. Why that particular memory, I could not say. It just comes to me, and how it is triggered I will probably never know. Still, it is better to recall the good times rather than the negative. And that day at Darien Lake was a good time. I just wish I still had my ten dollar bootleg concert t-shirt.

Back home, the new roommate began the process of moving in and suddenly I was no longer alone. Not that I lived here by myself for that long - it was only around nine or ten days. And here it is a balmy spring evening, and for the moment, the spiraling lumps of sod and turf in my mind have settled.

variations

There have been a few eras in my life. Some might term them phases or chapters, but I see life changes as eras. You'd think a writer would prefer to use "chapters," but "eras" strikes a more dramatic connotation.

Perhaps the earliest era of adulthood was leaving the security of home to attend college. After graduation, another began – two years in Buffalo working a McJob and trying to find a grasp on my future. Then came the era of San Francisco, which began with a train trip across the country.

Now, in this New York City era, my roommate and friend is moving out and forward with his life. Even as he prepares for the move, I still understand the transition will be difficult (for me, at least). I imagine that he will soon be nestled in his new studio and I will be here, alone. Nostalgia creeps forth and I still remember moving in to this place – renting the van and bringing all of our stuff here from Manhattan Mini-storage on a September evening. That same evening we bought our current television over on Steinway and set it up on top of its box. I slept in a couple of his blankets on the floor in my room. In time, the place came together and became home. There’s memories here, like there have been anyplace I have lived - except I will still be here. In Buffalo, the night I left the place on Grant and Forest, I took a final look around my bedroom, the kitchen, the living room, and I closed and locked the front door for the last time. When new ownership forced Dave, Mal and me out of the Pacific Bay Inn, it was a relatively simple job of packing – the memory was the burden. We’d had many fine times in that residential hotel. It was my own place, even if it was “only a hotel room.” It was work and home. It was where I established myself in San Francisco. It was while I lived at the PBI that I attended film school. It was where I became lifelong friends with Mal and Dave. It was where I was educated on poverty – not my own but the impoverishment of the inner city. It was where I truly learned the ropes of the streets, the angles and the characters and the corruption and the bizarre camaraderie of the underside of life. I simultaneously felt aloof to survive but compassionate to remain who I am .

After the hotel came the amazing flat out at Post & Lyon. It was a step upward without a doubt. I no longer had my own place but I had reliable friends as flat mates, much space, some fancy woodwork, a working fireplace, a washer and dryer, a weed-strewn backyard, a passable neighborhood, and excellent eateries and bars nearby. I made a living with a job at the Wharf I did not particularly like, but the enjoyment and diversion I had in my personal life made up for it. Plus, the money was pretty good, so that helped, too. Even if I lost my way on occasion, I always navigated back onto my path. Soon I’d typed a screenplay, bought a laptop and printer, got producers and money, utilized my film school pals, and made a short film. In between events, Dave left. And then Pat was gone in April of 1997. Mal had befriended people to whom I could not relate. And it began to feel as if San Francisco was over for me.

I remember the lengthy packing process out there - so much accumulation for three years. I had to sell my bed. I had to sell Pat’s bed. I gave away my desk and those sturdy shelves I had bought for ten bucks at a thrift store my first summer in San Francisco. Those shelves had been with me the whole time, like my (now long-lost) Dalí print. Isn’t it strange how we become attached to material items? Maybe that's because they're an element of stability during times of change.

Plane tickets were bought and boxes were mailed and goodbyes made, and I was gone to New York. Okay, to New Jersey first for a few sweltering summer of ’97 weeks. Then one week at the Murray Hill Inn. It was during our time at the Inn that Pat and I found this place in Astoria. Looking back, it does not seem like it should have been so simple. But it was, and here we were, new kids in town on the edge of Queens and the East River, close enough to Manhattan but without the exorbitant rents. Those first few nights I felt a twinge of disappointment because I had wanted Manhattan all along. I thought, I lived in the city of Buffalo, and the city of San Francisco, and though I may now be in New York City, this is not Manhattan. This feeling ebbed and soon I felt at home here. Astoria began to feel like an escape from the madness and noise and bustle. And I enjoyed being here.

And for years now it has been Pat and me - friends and longtime roommates. Now it ends. The friendship? No, of course not - don’t be asinine. You cannot live with someone, and be friends with that person, for such a long time without establishing a deep-rooted connection. The mutual understanding, the mordant reciprocal humor, and the seasoned but often unexpressed brotherhood remains.

Yeah, I’ll miss him, like I have missed other people in my life. I still miss my old pals in Buffalo and San Francisco. But life tugs me forward, and I choose my own path rather than be led. This is just another shift of footing, a change in the scenery.

And here I am now. Life continues despite its changes, as if I really need to point that out. It’s been a steady run of stability for quite a while. There have been no drastic upheavals. As always, I will persevere and find my direction toward the light that beckons at the surface. Someday I will leave this apartment, but the memories will stay. No matter where I go, I will never forget.