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.
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.
posted by Walls Falling at 10:41 PM
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