Apr 012015
 

Before you get too excited to read the first international post from a South American climate (“you guys, it’s here! It’s out! And it smells like The Andes and superior athleticism!”), let me deflate any (or maybe all) of that energy; I’m writing this from Brooklyn. I didn’t have to take two buses and a train to get to an internet cafe where I have 30 minutes to write in order to not miss any of that transit back. No. I’m instead at one of my former haunts in the Clinton Hill neighborhood of Brooklyn. The wireless signal is strong, people know me by name, and it took me 2 1/2 minutes to get here by foot. Have you stopped reading? Are your arms crossed across your chest? I get it. But just give me a second.

I leave for Argentina in two days. Everything from my Oregon home is now boxed and stored, thrown away or pawned off on my niece (“You’ll use this half piece of old wrapping paper, right?”). New York is a stopover for me. It made sense to leave from a place that was once a non-questionable, long-standing home. Six years of character making, built together with a lot of failed attempts, light pollution and all the right people to whom I constantly want to send sequined valentines is my New York. My twenties. My outlined foundation. Or maybe I just prefer to fly from JFK.

So I’m here and it doesn’t feel like vacation, but it doesn’t feel hard. It also doesn’t feel like home. I’ve not really got a place that allows for the title right now. And there’s no need for all the strings in the orchestra to crescendo together at this sentiment; I’ve been packing up and jumping around this country at any sign of dissatisfaction since I was 19. It’s what I’ve done and what I do. I’ve got some baby blue Le Creuset cookware in Crown Heights, two bags of clothes in Williamsburg, 6 boxes of art supplies and books in Corvallis, and, I think, a gold braided belt in Kenosha. The States are speckled with the runoff of my revisions. There’s an addiction there, a craving for the starting stage, the challenge of setting up. I suppose there’s some running, too. But more for a fix than for fear. Adaptation, though something all humans are naturally inclined to be good at, is a skill I have honed. I have all the tools in my kit. I pack up. Head out. Start again. Tourniquet tied, vein coaxed forward, needle slid in.

This upcoming change in timezones is one for which I’ve been preparing over the past 3 months. That said, though I’ll be 4 hours into my flight only 2 days from now, it’s still not yet hit me. I spent this evening in a bookstore in a way I used to on my days off; browsing every single section (do I want to read about what F. Scott Fitzgerald had to say on drinking? Would learning how to make meringue be a good skill to have, even though I haven’t eaten it in over 3 years?), and doing so in a killing time manner. Ultimately, that’s what I’m busy with this week. I’m leisurely slaughtering time in the quietest of ways.

I would have never been afforded such opportunities (both my lackadaisical sauntering around the boroughs as well the very direct and planned episode (or more of a mini-series?) taking place in Cordoba) had it not been for the overwhelming support of all my connections and extensions. It’s hit me where it counts, in one of those uppercut kind of maneuvers. Between fundraising donations, coworkers giving up shifts, friends paying me to play with their dogs, the entirety of Brooklyn swelling up to make sure I’m taken care of this week, many, many encouraging words from my shared blood and my practically shared blood, consider me hit very hard with everything you have. I am truly grateful. And feel very, very cared for. Thank you. To say you’ve been integral wouldn’t be doing due justice.

It’s all lining up with very real start marks. Coaxing the vein.

(Don’t worry. My next post will be lighter. ‘Snacks or Small Meals?’)

   

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