with real, actual, grown-up person movers
It’s way too early for anything. But apparently not packing. I’m up, it’s actually not that early by morning-lovers’ standards. I’ve been packing for about one stressful week now. Have I mentioned? I’m moving to Brooklyn. Yep. I can’t quite shake the David Sedaris line that goes something like, “everyone moving to a borough outside of Manhattan tried to play up all the extra space they’d have and money they’d save, but they all had about them an air of defeat.”
It’s been 10 years since he wrote that and things have changed. I don’t feel defeated so much as just tired of trying to swim in this insanely expensive borough; in the last few years my building has filled up with investment bankers and the like. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, I just don’t see my people any more. Unless I go to Brooklyn and there they are, looking arty with their hip knitting bags, and stylish glasses and small-label clothing. It’s a relief.
I’m not getting that much more space. It’s a junior one-bedroom—with a “closet wall” instead of a real wall—it doesn’t quite reach the ceiling and has no official door, just a way. But it does mean that I can stay sleeping while T plugs away on the Internets or watches “24” with headphones on my computer (I had to bail out of the show after the mother rape in the first few episodes). It means I can put my little table in my little kitchen and not see my bed when I’m sitting on the couch. It also means I’ll be on a tree-lined street that’s near the train and my friend C is only a few blocks away. Friends of a friend live directly across the street, my Gyrotonic instructor lives nearby; it’s definitely not defeat anymore so much as a proud survival. Like, I can make it in the city without you, Manhattan. In fact I can make it so well I can disdain you without a sour grape present. Almost.
But it’s sad. I’ve been living in my cute box for seven years now. And have been through about 10 mini lifetimes in it: the mid-20s dotcom boom, the bust, 9/11, grad school, working downtown, working at a dream magazine, cancer, chemo, post-cancer, freelancing, and now my current job. And we won’t list the boy eras but let’s just say it went from littered and miserable to one person and better (and all the spikes and troughs that better brings). Parties and one-on-one gabs and all my efforts to make this place feel like home. Which I think I finally did. And now my shoes are in a (giant) box, and I’m surrounded by labels and Sharpies and boxes and garbage bags and am listening to Cat Power and debating the point at which I pack my stereo and TV—I don’t actually move till a week from today.
The only defeats I feel are not really about Manhattan, but about my writing. I’m sad that I wasn’t able to finish my book proposal here, write a book and get all semi-famous at once. I feel like I’ve disappointed myself and a handful of other people. Like I just can’t quite do the dream. For work I’m re-reading The Alchemist. And it’s all about following your “Personal Legend” no matter what. And it dusts it off, awakens the part of me that wants, more than anything, to get it all done. And the part of me that tackles it before it can speak. You know? Though, ok, there have been plenty of successes here and I’m not so good at nursing those as I am the alleged failings.
Anyway, I’m touched that people are still checking in here. And now, I need to wade through the detritus of pre-move and find some clothes and some toothpaste and a way out the door.
