Two Posts

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Thats all I could muster in the past year. I am not as upset as I used to be about these sorts of things. But I keep wondering to myself what I really want. Worried that if I inspect that feeling too much, I’ll notice, as Paulo Coelho says in The Alchemist that, I find the voice inside me gets quieter and quieter the less I listen to it. But it’s not as bleak as all that. I don’t think, at least. I have done some writing. I wrote about 20,000 words worth of mythology and setting for NaNoWriMo last November, and on a whim I wrote a short story for Fernanda and her sister, based on a character we had come up with together. And besides the writing, this was not just a year wherein I wanted to change, but feel more fully myself. And I think I am accomplishing that.

All of 2020, and the first half of 2021 were spent in silent reflection for me. Though I suppose it was as much true solitude as what Thoreau experienced at his cabin simplify, simplify, simplify. I of course had friends who would visit, went on dates—evenly spaced between friend visits and COVID tests, to ensure no contamination between guests—and had discord to connect myself. Still, I found myself alone, and really thriving in that. I built habits as best I could, kept up with hobbies, and thought all along that I was doing the best I could. In darker moments I didn’t believe it, but I could have done much worse, that is for sure. Looking back on how my mental state was during my first two years in New York, it is a miracle I survived at all.

But my fortress of inner peace had to come to a close, too. As spring turned to summer, I had more permanent guests. Ethan came to live with me for his summer break—which I did my best to avoid, but was of course happy to have him there—and Matt N came again to the city, this time for good. The summer was a flurry of drinking, cavorting, and loving fiercely. I gained weight, stopped working out, and stopped writing my cherished letters for far off friends. Maybe worst of all, my intention of taking my good habits, and imparting them on Matt and Ethan failed, and my hopes that we would enter back into some sort of working dynamic, on some project together, was completely shattered. Rationally, I can understand that Ethan was looking just for relaxation and rest, and that Matt had become too neurotic from his time at home and being unemployed to leave his fight or flight mode of existing yet. Still, I was deeply disappointed all the same. I struggle to understand what my role is meant to be for my friends now. I loathe the thought of being a tyrant, dealing out routines on those that don’t want them. But what if they do want them? Am I then denying them the growth they want through me? Consciously or unconsciously? Maybe too much pressure to put on myself, but I wonder. . .

I also have to admit, I met the love of my life this summer. I didn’t know it at first, but once I did, it was clear as could be. I met someone who cares to understand me, in ways I see myself yearning for in my earlier journaling, both here and offline. She is good to me and I have little to say if anything at all against the power of the relationship. So much so that I can’t help but feel like every relationship I’ve been in since maybe my first girlfriend in high school has been nothing but blithely accepting the love of those who offer it to me, and whom I don’t find overly offensive to be around. This is so different, and meaningful to me I can’t begin to explain how it makes me feel.

Matt and I moved into a new apartment this past month, in the heart of Bed-Stuy, and this too is a welcome change—though not welcome enough, I think. Being surrounded by beautiful brownstone townhouses, I envy what I do not have, what I wish I could. I feel rootless, untethered, and simultaneously I want so badly to have a place that I really love that I can call my own. I was out on the stoop, wondering if I’ve ever had a place I really loved and would call home, when I felt the wind burn my face, and remembered. Hello old friend.

Autumn again

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And so here I am. I arrived in New York in January 2018, and almost 4 years later, I am experiencing my fourth fall, and reflecting on where I have been, and where I am going. Last year, around this time, I told an artist who I commissioned for some concept art for SOS that I wanted to work on a project with him. He was open to the idea, excited even. And I never responded with any further information. Thinking about it makes me angry with myself, but I don’t know… What would I even have done? Wasted his time, I fear. No one would blame me if I never wrote anything decent in my whole life. Most of the people in my life don’t even realize how important it is to me to do so. How I feel a weight on my shoulders at all times, “when will I start?” And I still wait for the answer.

I’ve not been up to nothing, though. As I already said, the summer was spend in a whirlwind of meeting friends and reconnecting. I have also managed to consume more than in any year I can remember. I am on track to read 52 books this year, one for each week, and I have already accomplished that feat for movies. I think there was a chapter in Nobody wants to read your sh*t where he mentions a period in his life that was like this. I was never as well read as I wanted to be. But I find that reading is not always easy, and something that come to me quite easily was the idea that it should be. Because of course it should be. I want to have the experience of having read books on buddhism and theology, and all sorts of classics, but I don’t pick up those books as easily as I do the stories of Arthur C. Clarke, or P.K.D. and I don’t think it is a mistake to do so. I am reengaging myself with reading my making sure it is pleasurable first and foremost. I’m sure the rest will come with time