When I compare moving to a death of sorts, way too many people are offended. I refuse to become defensive because unless one has spent his/her formative years in a constant state of upheaval, the concept of personifying a location will seem bonkers. In this respect–I’m bat sh*t crazy.
This is an indisputable and eternal fact: New York is the love of my life…so boys, get in line. I rented a storage locker the other day to fill with my packed belongings and I am semi-terrified I will lock myself inside on moving day and cross my fingers no one checks it out for awhile.
I want to roll around on the uptown “6” platform in Union Square and climb atop the boulders in Central Park where my Multicultural Literature professor recited Reinaldo Arenas so beautifully, tourists would pause to listen. I want to create performance art at midnight in Madison Square Park and run through Bryant Park on my birthday. I want a security guard at the Met to yell at me for not having a metal clip with “M” attached to my sweater. I want to share a cab with a stranger and for him to pull over to get my number before he drives off. I want to bring my dog into every store I frequent.
I’m not very good with making and keeping friends…the ones I am able to grab ahold of for awhile are treasures. Because of this, my city has become part of my identity. I hope to be back in a year…there is no certainty, however–I expect only the unexpected. But I can dream.