Post number fifty-two, Move It or Lose It?

I love New York City. I have loved it for many years, in an almost unattainable, idealistic way. I’ve visited many times over the years. I’ve never tired of it, and still get the same electric kick being there, like a thousand first kisses.

For a long time, I played the idealistic tourist. But the more I’ve visited, the more familiar I've become with the city's realities, more comfortable, more sure that I could actually survive in the city as a resident.

The big question before me now is, could I really move there? Opportunity knocks. Suddenly the vague fantasy has become an actual possibility. I realize that a few years ago, I would have not even had to think about it---I would have jumped on the next flight. Now I don’t know.

I’ve lived in Los Angeles for fifteen years. I have a great job working with great people doing interesting work. More importantly, I have made a family here---various groups of close friends knitted together into a security blanket that I don’t know if I can leave. As I rode in a cab home from LAX last night, I looked out the window at the passing urban sprawl and felt like I was home.

I surprise myself sometimes.

On the other hand, if I don’t ever move to New York City, I’m fairly sure I’ll regret it in my old age. My window to be young living in New York City is rapidly closing, and the situation feels suspiciously like now or never.

I’ve made big decisions before with less strum and drang. Last night, my oldest and best friend reminded me that when I moved to Los Angeles, I’d never been here before. I came to USC sight unseen.

I had a gut feeling it would work out, and I made sure it did.

I have the same feeling about NYC now. But I’m fifteen years older, and don’t listen to impulsive instincts quite as closely as I used to.

The first seventeen years of my life were ruled by my gut. No fear, no doubt, just action. A still small artistic voice rang in my ears and guided my every action.

The fifteen years that followed have been all about the systematic repression of that voice. Make a life. Make friends. Make money. Distract yourself. Be cautious. Don’t leap. Always look.

Maybe instinct (for lack of a better word ) is just like any other sense, deteriorating over time with age.

Maybe my instinctive voice is as acute as ever, just more difficult to hear through the din of influences and experiences that pile up in a person over the years.

Maybe I’ve just been ignoring it.

Maybe this is what makes me so listless.

So, should I move to New York City?

Post number fifty-one, Reset Button.

Back in Los Angeles, I need to reboot. Reset. Refresh. Resomething. I need to take a step back, to take a deep breath.

Put aside insecurities. Stop sweating it. Just be.

From Common’s song “It’s Your World”:

Be here.
Be there.
Be that.
Be this.
Be grateful for life.
Be grateful to life.
Be gleeful everyday, for bein’ the best swimmer among 500,000.
Be high when you low.
Be on time but know when to go.
Be....eternal.

Whatever happens or doesn’t happen with L-Train---and I am hopeful things will work out---I’m good. No more second guessing did I come on too strong. No more worrying that I was some sort of contest prize. Just me. Same as always. A work in progress. Looking in the mirror, trying to figure out who it is I see.

After New York, I was in Toronto for a few days. Cool city, I’d like to spend more time there some day. This is their futuristic city hall. Neat, huh?





















On the airplane back, I read a great book, THE HISTORY OF LOVE. I'm a sucker for an intelligent romance---even if such a thing can only exist in fiction, away from the untidiness of reality. Anyway, if you’re looking for a summer beach book, it’s a good one.

Post number fifty, Game Over, Man?

In NYC. It is 75 degrees and has been drizzling on and off since I’ve been here.

The smells of rain, piss and sweat make an acrid mix and make me wonder why I haven’t moved here yet.

The hole in my chest where my heart used to be makes me long for the sunshine and friendship of life in LA.

This might be my last stop on the L-Train.

3000 miles and 7 years apart, we face relationship challenges that are likely impossible to overcome. But stony limits cannot hold love out, and what love can do that dares love attempt. Ever the optimist, I remember my Shakespeare.

I’m “too nice,” and “not edgy” enough.

I’m emotionally available, which is only one step above leprosy.

I was the shiny prize, always slightly out of reach, undesirable once attained. Yearn. Touch. Discard. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

I remember 25 like it was yesterday.

There are missing pieces in this cross-country love affair. I wonder if they can be found. I wonder why I am willing to try to find them with him. I wonder if he’ll be willing to try, too.

I’m tired of not trying, tired of discarding people, tired of getting hurt, tired of sounding like a whiny lovesick teenage girl.

I liked this journal better when I was writing about getting hit on at car washes or the hairy eyeball from Gore Vidal, and I bet you did, too.

One last thing before I go. Saintly, if you’re out there, I’m really sorry to have been such a complete asshole. I hope you can forget, if not forgive.