A Cold Freezin’ Night –– The Books
The Twist - Frightened Rabbit
Two years and three days ago I moved to NYC––into my then-girlfriend’s relatively large studio apartment in Hell’s Kitchen. That first summer was one of newness and love and a limitless sense of possibility, and I remember it as vividly as if it happened yesterday. Sometimes it feels like it did happen yesterday, until I think about all that happened in-between, and then it feels like a lifetime ago.
The apartment was on West 45th Street between 10th and 11th Avenues, directly across the street from the (recently closed) Shamrock Stables, where horses for the Central Park carriage rides were housed. As a result of our location, the apartment occasionally smelled like a barn, which is an unimportant (yet visceral) detail that I find hard to disassociate from that apartment. I was editing COVERAGE and making friends with Smush––the first cat in my life, who I miss more than I ever thought possible. I hadn’t yet started working overnights at MTV, we hadn’t moved to East Harlem… I was learning to live with a relatively new person in a relatively new place, and it was really pretty great. That was my first New York.
Since then it’s been a mixed bag. Some of the best and worst moments of my adult life have taken place in the past two years, and if I’ve come to any realization about living in NYC it’s that everything is extreme, and everything is a moment away from completely falling apart.
I love and hate it all so fucking much, and this seems about right.
Tonight my new film is premiering at the Tribeca Cinemas, and perspective tells me that this is an achievement to be proud of. And I am proud, certainly, but living here has also set the goal so much higher––being constantly surrounded by aspiring artists is both inspiring and intimidating, and I can only read the Desiderata so many times.
I’ve also been fairly unemployed for the entire year, so there’s that.
Mixed bag, and not full of money. Yet. This third year is off to a good start.
The Skin of My Yellow Country Teeth –– Clap Your Hands Say Yeah
Last night I sat in my bed and listened while a garbage truck took away the nicest birthday present I have ever gotten, but it had to go. It had lied face-down amongst the boxes of books and other too-much stuff since I moved late last year, and for a long while I didn’t even want to look at it, reminding me as it did of a life that I no longer lived with a person I never really knew.
Yesterday afternoon I took the present out back and destroyed it with a large c clamp, and I didn’t feel much of anything.
It’s been almost a year, and the only thing that really lingers is the betrayal, which my naive heart stubbornly refuses to comprehend. Or, perhaps, it’s my egotistical brain which refuses to accept that it could possibly have been so wrong. Either way it’s shit, which is an unfortunate label to have to apply to such an important piece of my life. I suppose unfortunate labels are an inevitable part of life, made tragic when they cover up words like “love” and “trust.”