There's an Ani DiFranco song that starts out like this:
The sky is grey, the sand is grey, and the ocean is grey...
That's the view from my window. Well, not quite. There's no sand. There's no ocean. But there's endless sky. And it's all grey. There's plenty of water. Grey grey grey. The city's glass skyscrapers reflect all of it. There are splashes of green on the tree-lined streets, and down on the docks there are cargo containers of blue and red. But the overwhelming color here, the overwhelming feeling, is grey. Which isn't even a color, not really. I mean, sure, technically, it's a color. Color is "the quality of an object or substance with respect to light reflected by the object". And there's plenty of light sifting through the cloud cover. Not so much as to require sunglasses, but enough so that my rose-tinted shades take the squint outta my eyes. But the light that's being reflected here, by the buildings and the water and the tar-black roads, is as bland a light as one can imagine. There's no depth to it, no imagination. It's flat. It's sterile. It's dull. And as an object, I am soaking it up. I am reflecting this dullness back to the world. Or that's how it feels anyway. That's how I feel. Grey.
And it's only September. Holy shit. This is gonna be a loooooooooooong winter.
I had dinner with Zoe last night. Zo has survived 12 winters in this town, and she's managing just fine. She's been taking classes at a hot yoga studio (not straight Bikram, for you yoga enthusiasts out there). Hot yoga is pretty much what it sounds like: a yoga class held in a hot room, generally about 100 degrees. I've had a number of friends rave about this type of practice, though I've been too timid to try. I mean, yoga is challenging enough without having sweat pouring into my eyes within the first two minutes. But I'm told it can be uplifting, revitalizing, detoxifying, soothing (afterwards). And, obviously, it gets rid of any chill you might walk into the room with. Which is a constant state of being for me during the Seattle winters. It doesn't often get below freezing here, but the never-ending drizzle, the overwhelming dampness seeps into my bones and hangs there like a wet blanket. So, I'm thinking that maybe I'll tag along with Zoe and get over my timidity of the sweaty downward dog. Because if I can find a way to warm my body, perhaps that warmth will filter into the rest of me. And then I can reflect something other than grey.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Sunday, September 12, 2010
A deeee-luxe apartment in the sky
We're movin' on up, indeed.
First off, in order to appreciate my latest home, it's best to appreciate my home of the past year, lovingly known as Maui East. (Maui East was thus named due to a trip to Maui Maui that I took with my Columbia classmates and Alex shortly before we graduated. The week in Maui, after 3 years of high-intensity work and drama and lack of sleep, was like heaven on earth. Absolute peace. And beauty. And love. In a desire to carry that feeling into our day-to-day east coast lives, our humble Jersey City dwelling was named Maui East.) Maui East consisted of the top three floors of a brownstone in a lovely section of Jersey City. Really, Maui East was made up of the 5 people who resided there, more so than the place itself. The people were a perfect match. Absolute peace. And beauty. And love. It was wonderful to share my morning tea with Huling, with whom I would swap life advice and literature. And how I loved to come home to find Charlotte smoking her Camels on our front stoop. And Liz's morning vocal warmups soothed me into consciousness each day. The 5 of us co-habitated without any drama or ill-feeling or noise complaints. The house was big enough, and our schedules mixed enough, that we could go days without seeing anyone else who lived there, but it was always a happy occasion when our paths crossed. Honestly, it was the perfect living situation for me, after living through the hell of My Year in Las Vegas. I needed people. I needed creative people. I needed intellectual people. I hit the jackpot. The people of Maui East were exactly what I needed.
The place itself, well....
The place itself was a fixer-upper, in every sense of the term. The attic room that Alex & I moved into was known as "The Junk Room" until we took it over. Old graffiti on the walls (from the house's former life as a drug den, operated, we assume, by Pepe, since Pepe's name was prominent on the walls), peeling paint, holes in the plaster, a hardwood floor that splintered if you sneezed on it, a "closet" that had been used as wood storage until we moved all the wood out, windows replaced by cardboard (which were later replaced by old windows which we closed tight with duct tape, magical duct tape), a bathtub which always seemed dirty no matter how hard I scrubbed, bathroom ceiling tiles which threatened to collapse on our heads at any moment (and which did, in fact, collapse on our heads when Alex & I tried to "fix" the ceiling with duct tape, and upon us rained chewed-up ceiling materials and grey-fur nests made by some kind of critters who's poop pellets also rained down on our heads, soooooooo icky nasty disgustingly GROSS)...well, you get the picture. In the winter, we froze. In the summer, we melted. The place we called home during our year in Jersey City was far from what we'd call "deluxe".
And so, you can imagine why, in Alex's 3-day apartment hunt to Seattle in late July, he decided that he wanted to embrace the high life a bit. Seattle's rents have gone up quite a bit since we moved away 7 years ago, but compared to New York, everything is a bargain. We had some rather specific parameters set in our housing search: walk-ability (while it's easy to get around Seattle by car, I much prefer to walk--or bike--everywhere, no matter the time of day or night); an office for Alex (after a year of combined bedroom-office living, there was no debating this); a view (since Alex works from home, and works about 16 hours a day during .football/basketball season, the man deserves at least a glimpse of the world outside). That's it, as far as our demands went. But it was surprisingly difficult to find such a place. However, it was found. And how. It shouldn't be surprising that Alex would walk into the place that we are now calling "home" and decide that it was perfect. Honestly, it looks like a casino suite: floor-to-ceiling windows looking south at the city skyline (we're on the 11th floor, which is the highest floor I've ever lived on); artwork with a theme (in this case, 1929 Golden Sable Champagne ads, featuring a curvaceous woman in a black gown); tiled walk-in shower stalls (no bathtub, tho, which I suppose I can live with); remote-control gas fire. This place is beautiful, no doubt about it. And while I rarely admit to casinos having any kind of class or taste, the suites at casinos are often both classy and tasteful. The only thing that differs dramatically between this place and, say, a suite at The Wynn (other than the full kitchen, that is, which casino suites NEVER have) is the plant life. This place came furnished, and along with the furniture came plants. Which I am expected to keep alive. Yikes. I like plants, really I do, I love having them in my home. I've just never been able to keep a plant alive. We'll see how this goes.
So, here we are in our newest home. We'll be here until after the Superbowl, at least, and then see where we go. Chances are, our next place won't be quite as "suite". But I have a feeling that, after living in luxury for some time, I will be adding things to my list of "apartment must haves". Like a balcony. A building with a gym and a roof deck. Floor-to-ceiling windows. And, oh yes, an apartment in the sky. I never need to go below the 11th floor again. Sweet.
First off, in order to appreciate my latest home, it's best to appreciate my home of the past year, lovingly known as Maui East. (Maui East was thus named due to a trip to Maui Maui that I took with my Columbia classmates and Alex shortly before we graduated. The week in Maui, after 3 years of high-intensity work and drama and lack of sleep, was like heaven on earth. Absolute peace. And beauty. And love. In a desire to carry that feeling into our day-to-day east coast lives, our humble Jersey City dwelling was named Maui East.) Maui East consisted of the top three floors of a brownstone in a lovely section of Jersey City. Really, Maui East was made up of the 5 people who resided there, more so than the place itself. The people were a perfect match. Absolute peace. And beauty. And love. It was wonderful to share my morning tea with Huling, with whom I would swap life advice and literature. And how I loved to come home to find Charlotte smoking her Camels on our front stoop. And Liz's morning vocal warmups soothed me into consciousness each day. The 5 of us co-habitated without any drama or ill-feeling or noise complaints. The house was big enough, and our schedules mixed enough, that we could go days without seeing anyone else who lived there, but it was always a happy occasion when our paths crossed. Honestly, it was the perfect living situation for me, after living through the hell of My Year in Las Vegas. I needed people. I needed creative people. I needed intellectual people. I hit the jackpot. The people of Maui East were exactly what I needed.
The place itself, well....
The place itself was a fixer-upper, in every sense of the term. The attic room that Alex & I moved into was known as "The Junk Room" until we took it over. Old graffiti on the walls (from the house's former life as a drug den, operated, we assume, by Pepe, since Pepe's name was prominent on the walls), peeling paint, holes in the plaster, a hardwood floor that splintered if you sneezed on it, a "closet" that had been used as wood storage until we moved all the wood out, windows replaced by cardboard (which were later replaced by old windows which we closed tight with duct tape, magical duct tape), a bathtub which always seemed dirty no matter how hard I scrubbed, bathroom ceiling tiles which threatened to collapse on our heads at any moment (and which did, in fact, collapse on our heads when Alex & I tried to "fix" the ceiling with duct tape, and upon us rained chewed-up ceiling materials and grey-fur nests made by some kind of critters who's poop pellets also rained down on our heads, soooooooo icky nasty disgustingly GROSS)...well, you get the picture. In the winter, we froze. In the summer, we melted. The place we called home during our year in Jersey City was far from what we'd call "deluxe".
And so, you can imagine why, in Alex's 3-day apartment hunt to Seattle in late July, he decided that he wanted to embrace the high life a bit. Seattle's rents have gone up quite a bit since we moved away 7 years ago, but compared to New York, everything is a bargain. We had some rather specific parameters set in our housing search: walk-ability (while it's easy to get around Seattle by car, I much prefer to walk--or bike--everywhere, no matter the time of day or night); an office for Alex (after a year of combined bedroom-office living, there was no debating this); a view (since Alex works from home, and works about 16 hours a day during .football/basketball season, the man deserves at least a glimpse of the world outside). That's it, as far as our demands went. But it was surprisingly difficult to find such a place. However, it was found. And how. It shouldn't be surprising that Alex would walk into the place that we are now calling "home" and decide that it was perfect. Honestly, it looks like a casino suite: floor-to-ceiling windows looking south at the city skyline (we're on the 11th floor, which is the highest floor I've ever lived on); artwork with a theme (in this case, 1929 Golden Sable Champagne ads, featuring a curvaceous woman in a black gown); tiled walk-in shower stalls (no bathtub, tho, which I suppose I can live with); remote-control gas fire. This place is beautiful, no doubt about it. And while I rarely admit to casinos having any kind of class or taste, the suites at casinos are often both classy and tasteful. The only thing that differs dramatically between this place and, say, a suite at The Wynn (other than the full kitchen, that is, which casino suites NEVER have) is the plant life. This place came furnished, and along with the furniture came plants. Which I am expected to keep alive. Yikes. I like plants, really I do, I love having them in my home. I've just never been able to keep a plant alive. We'll see how this goes.
So, here we are in our newest home. We'll be here until after the Superbowl, at least, and then see where we go. Chances are, our next place won't be quite as "suite". But I have a feeling that, after living in luxury for some time, I will be adding things to my list of "apartment must haves". Like a balcony. A building with a gym and a roof deck. Floor-to-ceiling windows. And, oh yes, an apartment in the sky. I never need to go below the 11th floor again. Sweet.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
And so, it begins.
The rain, that is. As we wound our way through the Cascade mountains, the sky descended on us and the raindrops fell. By the time we made it to Seattle, we were treated to some sun, but the sky was still collapsing, to the point where there were no mountains to be seen in the distance. That's the hardest part of the Seattle weather for me: the disappearing sky. Sure, I know, there's always sky above me. But the cloud-cover comes to rest so low, it eliminates the whole view. The entire Olympic mountain range, so stunning and RIGHT THERE on a clear day, is hidden behind endless grey, sinking fog. On a clear day, you can see forever (cue Barbra Striesand). Mount Rainier is an overwhelming presence in the southern sky, the snowy Olympics to the west, the Cascades to the east. There is so much depth and texture in the world that I just want to swallow it whole. But when the grey comes, depth disappears. The wide-open sky becomes a low-lying ceiling. The expansive views become monochromatic walls. Even the tops of the buildings are shrouded in grey! There's a claustrophobic feel to this city during the winter months. And I know this. And I am prepared for this.
But it's not supposed to happen NOW!! Labor Day weekend is still summer! But it's been grey drizzle for me. Ugh.
Which is not to say that I'm not happy to be here. On the contrary, I'm giddy! I don't feel like I've actually moved here, that's too much to comprehend. I feel like I'm in a semi-sleep state, just sort of floating along until I fully arrive. In the less-than-2 days that we've been here, I've unpacked a bag or two in our week-long sublet on Capitol Hill. Then Alex and I went to our fabulous soon-to-be-apartment in Belltown (right near the Space Needle, which is Alex's favorite Seattle building, silly man that he is) and met with our new landlords and got the tour of the apartment (nice), the fitness room (perk) and the roof-deck (holy wow, the view). Then back to the Hill, where we were treated to a homemade dinner of Danish Pancake Balls (known in Denmark as "Aebleskiver", which is pronounced without the L or the R sounds) by our temporary downstairs neighbor, Daniel, and his lovely lady, Alison. Yesterday we were served a yummy veggie casserole dinner at the West Seattle home of my BFF Angela and her hubby, David, where they shared some Louis CK with us, and we introduced them to the wonders of Antione Dodson. (YouTube can answer that question for you if you don't know who I'm speaking of). I'll be spending today with my dear friend Caroline, perhaps sitting in the steam room at the day spa, or drinking a hot beverage at one of Seattle's many many many coffee shops. Tonite, maybe some Thai food (it's plentiful in the town), who knows. Like I said, I don't really feel like I'm here. I mean, physically, yeah, I'm here. I can tell by the way my hair looks (whatever moisture lives in the Seattle air, my hair likes it). I can tell by how friendly the cabbie's are. I can tell by all the recycling bins on the streets. Yep, I'm in Seattle alright. But do I actually live here? That I can't say. It's all too new. Sure, I know my way around, I know some good people, I know where to find at least 3 Trader Joe's and 2 Whole Foods and my favorite co-op. I know I don't need to wear makeup or high heels, and I know that sarcasm is entirely misunderstood here, as is verbal directness. I know how to live here; I just don't feel like I do, in fact, live here. Yet. It will help to move into our actual place (Friday!!) and unpack the car (which made the 3000 mile journey with no problem, such a good Buick) and introduce She-ra to her next place of residence (she, too, made it here in excellent condition and seems to be very much at peace with things). But really, it's gonna take some time for this city to feel like The Place Where I Live. It's gonna take some "doing stuff", you know what I mean? Getting some work, getting cast in a show or 4, having places to be and people to see and a schedule, oh how I'm looking forward to having a schedule of sorts. And these things will take time, I know. I feel a little lost, a little out to sea. And that will fade with time, I know. I have to be patient and try to enjoy the journey. Which I have every intention of doing.
I just wish the grey would hold off for awhile. Let me have just a little time before winter sets in, please! SHOW ME THE MOUNTAINS!!
But it's not supposed to happen NOW!! Labor Day weekend is still summer! But it's been grey drizzle for me. Ugh.
Which is not to say that I'm not happy to be here. On the contrary, I'm giddy! I don't feel like I've actually moved here, that's too much to comprehend. I feel like I'm in a semi-sleep state, just sort of floating along until I fully arrive. In the less-than-2 days that we've been here, I've unpacked a bag or two in our week-long sublet on Capitol Hill. Then Alex and I went to our fabulous soon-to-be-apartment in Belltown (right near the Space Needle, which is Alex's favorite Seattle building, silly man that he is) and met with our new landlords and got the tour of the apartment (nice), the fitness room (perk) and the roof-deck (holy wow, the view). Then back to the Hill, where we were treated to a homemade dinner of Danish Pancake Balls (known in Denmark as "Aebleskiver", which is pronounced without the L or the R sounds) by our temporary downstairs neighbor, Daniel, and his lovely lady, Alison. Yesterday we were served a yummy veggie casserole dinner at the West Seattle home of my BFF Angela and her hubby, David, where they shared some Louis CK with us, and we introduced them to the wonders of Antione Dodson. (YouTube can answer that question for you if you don't know who I'm speaking of). I'll be spending today with my dear friend Caroline, perhaps sitting in the steam room at the day spa, or drinking a hot beverage at one of Seattle's many many many coffee shops. Tonite, maybe some Thai food (it's plentiful in the town), who knows. Like I said, I don't really feel like I'm here. I mean, physically, yeah, I'm here. I can tell by the way my hair looks (whatever moisture lives in the Seattle air, my hair likes it). I can tell by how friendly the cabbie's are. I can tell by all the recycling bins on the streets. Yep, I'm in Seattle alright. But do I actually live here? That I can't say. It's all too new. Sure, I know my way around, I know some good people, I know where to find at least 3 Trader Joe's and 2 Whole Foods and my favorite co-op. I know I don't need to wear makeup or high heels, and I know that sarcasm is entirely misunderstood here, as is verbal directness. I know how to live here; I just don't feel like I do, in fact, live here. Yet. It will help to move into our actual place (Friday!!) and unpack the car (which made the 3000 mile journey with no problem, such a good Buick) and introduce She-ra to her next place of residence (she, too, made it here in excellent condition and seems to be very much at peace with things). But really, it's gonna take some time for this city to feel like The Place Where I Live. It's gonna take some "doing stuff", you know what I mean? Getting some work, getting cast in a show or 4, having places to be and people to see and a schedule, oh how I'm looking forward to having a schedule of sorts. And these things will take time, I know. I feel a little lost, a little out to sea. And that will fade with time, I know. I have to be patient and try to enjoy the journey. Which I have every intention of doing.
I just wish the grey would hold off for awhile. Let me have just a little time before winter sets in, please! SHOW ME THE MOUNTAINS!!
Saturday, September 4, 2010
On my way....
...back to where I used to be.
Seattle. A city I haven't called home in more than 7 years. And yet, it's never stopped feeling like home. Hell, I never got rid of my Seattle cell number! And of course, New York is HOME home, it's where my family is, it's where I grew up (well, I grew up in Jersey, but New York was where I starting to figure out who I was), it's a city whose rhythms make perfect sense to me. But New York is not where my heart is these days. In truth, I've been pining for Seattle for some time. When I knew it was time to leave Vegas and the question was, "Where to?", it was always a question of "New York or Seattle?" And the answer was New York, for some very clear reasons, which mostly boiled down to my need to be quite certain that New York was or was not where I am meant to be at this stage of my life. Because I had no doubt that Seattle was calling me, I had no doubt that Seattle felt like the easier choice. But easy has always frightened me. I am afraid of the what-ifs. What if I went to Seattle and wondered if I had given up on New York? What if I went to Seattle and felt that I had settled? What if I went to Seattle out of fear rather than self-knowledge? And so, the answer was New York. And this past year in New York has been full of wonderful, full of stunning, full of awe-inspiring. I love my New York people, I love my New York theatre, I love my New York energy. I saw a dozen operas at the Met, lots of Broadway and off-Broadway theatre, made some fun little films, performed in some challenging & rewarding roles, reconnected with friends old and new, had dinners with my parents, seltzers with my brothers & sister-in-law, card games with my aunt, bike rides with my cousins, ice cream with my housemates. And oh, the place I called home for a year, wondrous Maui East, living with Alex and 3 friends who were exactly the people I needed to be surrounded by after my year of relative isolation in the desert...My year back in New York has been wonderful in so many ways. And yet, it highlighted the many things I want in my life that I wasn't finding. And while it's been heartbreaking to consider putting 3000 miles between me and the city of my youth, it's been a relief to decide to return to the city of my adulthood.
And so, I return. Me and Alex and She-ra have been journeying across the country for the past 5 days, and we'll arrive in Seattle tomorrow. And I'm excited. And I'm scared. But mostly, I'm excited. I have a better sense of what I'm getting into in Seattle than I did with Vegas, but it's still an adventure. I have great hopes for this next chapter in my life, and I know that there will be many struggles in the months ahead, as I try to re-establish myself in a city and a theatrical community that I said goodbye to long ago. But I welcome the struggle. Like I said, I've always been afraid of easy.
Here we go!!
Seattle. A city I haven't called home in more than 7 years. And yet, it's never stopped feeling like home. Hell, I never got rid of my Seattle cell number! And of course, New York is HOME home, it's where my family is, it's where I grew up (well, I grew up in Jersey, but New York was where I starting to figure out who I was), it's a city whose rhythms make perfect sense to me. But New York is not where my heart is these days. In truth, I've been pining for Seattle for some time. When I knew it was time to leave Vegas and the question was, "Where to?", it was always a question of "New York or Seattle?" And the answer was New York, for some very clear reasons, which mostly boiled down to my need to be quite certain that New York was or was not where I am meant to be at this stage of my life. Because I had no doubt that Seattle was calling me, I had no doubt that Seattle felt like the easier choice. But easy has always frightened me. I am afraid of the what-ifs. What if I went to Seattle and wondered if I had given up on New York? What if I went to Seattle and felt that I had settled? What if I went to Seattle out of fear rather than self-knowledge? And so, the answer was New York. And this past year in New York has been full of wonderful, full of stunning, full of awe-inspiring. I love my New York people, I love my New York theatre, I love my New York energy. I saw a dozen operas at the Met, lots of Broadway and off-Broadway theatre, made some fun little films, performed in some challenging & rewarding roles, reconnected with friends old and new, had dinners with my parents, seltzers with my brothers & sister-in-law, card games with my aunt, bike rides with my cousins, ice cream with my housemates. And oh, the place I called home for a year, wondrous Maui East, living with Alex and 3 friends who were exactly the people I needed to be surrounded by after my year of relative isolation in the desert...My year back in New York has been wonderful in so many ways. And yet, it highlighted the many things I want in my life that I wasn't finding. And while it's been heartbreaking to consider putting 3000 miles between me and the city of my youth, it's been a relief to decide to return to the city of my adulthood.
And so, I return. Me and Alex and She-ra have been journeying across the country for the past 5 days, and we'll arrive in Seattle tomorrow. And I'm excited. And I'm scared. But mostly, I'm excited. I have a better sense of what I'm getting into in Seattle than I did with Vegas, but it's still an adventure. I have great hopes for this next chapter in my life, and I know that there will be many struggles in the months ahead, as I try to re-establish myself in a city and a theatrical community that I said goodbye to long ago. But I welcome the struggle. Like I said, I've always been afraid of easy.
Here we go!!
Saturday, July 11, 2009
I Leave-a Las Vegas!!
And here it is. My last day in Vegas. The day that seemed lifetimes away only a few weeks ago. The day that I've been longing for since...well, since about the time I showed up last September. No, no, that's not true. When I first arrived, I was full of hope and ambition and determination to figure out where I might fit in this City o' Sin. And the first two people I met here, Jess the Chanteuse and Vina the Mail-Keeper, are two of the finest people I have had the chance to know in my life. The first band I saw here, Santa Fe & The Fat City Horns, put on one of the best live shows I've ever seen. My first dance partner at said show, Lloyd, showed me that music can keep a person young well beyond his or her years (Lloyd must be around 75 or 80, and during a 90 minute show, he is on his feet dancing for at least 60 of them minutes). My first audition was one of the nicest audition experiences I've had in the last decade or so. All in all, my first month in Vegas was pretty damn cool.
And then October rolled around.
Vegas has a way of offering the best while handing over the worst. It has a way of turning some shiny gem into some tarnished junk. Vegas offers glamour and glitz while doling out longing and loss. It shows you beauty all along the Boulevard while hiding the ugliness of the off-ramps. It promises Fun & Fantasy but leaves you with Regret and Reality, a vicious and blinding Reality, one that swallows entire homeward-bound planeloads of people who understand that What Happens in Vegas Doesn't Always Stay In Vegas. No, that debt goes home with them, along with the headaches, hangovers, and hard-to-remember bits. Not to say that there aren't oodles of humans having fun in this town. Hell, this is Fun City!! Except...it's also Foreclosure City and High School Dropout City and Casino-run Justice City.
But it is no longer My City. Not that it ever was. I never found my place here. In 10+ months, I haven't dropped a single dollar on a blackjack table nor stuffed a buck in a g-string nor tasted a drop of alcohol. And this city revolves around such activities. Really, the only thing here that made sense to me was the music scene. The music I experienced here was amazing, and I once again felt in-the-right in calling myself a Singer, a word I haven't used to describe myself in far too many years. The phrases "I sing" and "I am a Singer" are worlds apart, and I thank Vegas for helping my find my way from one to the other. I thank Jess for that, as she helped me rediscover my voice and my most basic need to use it. She introduced me to musicians who taught me about the business (which is not a great business to be in these days, not in this town) and let me get onstage with them to sing. And then I met this piano player who wanted to put together a duo with a girl singer, and it looked like maybe my lounge-singer dreams might take flight. Diva Las Vegas!!
But in true Vegas fashion, after months of rehearsal and hours of prep-work on my part, I got dumped by my piano player. Last week. Via email.
Yes, Vegas holds out the shiny goods then snatches 'em away once you've decided to GO FOR IT, once you've rearranged your life in order to accommodate it's needs. Alex worked round-the-clock, 7 days a week in this town, then had to spend 7 months and thousands of dollars defending himself against false arrest and trumped-up charges brought against him in a successful attempt at intimidation. We were set to move to Seattle on March 1 until I met this piano player 5 days before Moving Day, and months later (plus this 6-week, return-trip to Vegas for the sole purpose of finishing what we couldn't finish because the piano man had a last-minute, 2-month gig that he took in April), I get the blow-off because he doesn't like rehearsing and is really better off as a solo. That's Vegas: Land of the Duped, Home of the Dumped.
And so, we're outta here. But we go not with a whimper, oh no! Over the years, this town has provided much in the way of free food, free rooms, free everything. Once upon a time, Alex had big pull in Vegas. He could make a phone call to any number of casinos and get comped. And we took advantage of it in a big way. Then that arrest happened, and his juice pretty much dried up. No more rooms, few free meals. But being who he is, he's still got connections. So last night, as we wondered what to do with our last night in Vegas (we're leaving at the crack of dawn tomorrow, so tonite doesn't count), Alex made a call and got us box seats at the Pearl (inside the Palms) to see (ohmygod it's sooooo good I can hardly believe it) DURAN DURAN!! And they were AWESOME!!! 4 of the original 5 band members were onstage (with a new guitarist, a sax player, and a super-hot lady backup singer), and they put on a helluva show. John Taylor, DD's bassist, was my second childhood crush (after Rick Springfield), and that crush lasted for years. Last night, as they were playing "Planet Earth" and John was smiling into the crowd, I realized that my schoolgirl crush lives on. Alex and I were singing along to almost all of the songs (some were new to us both), and our seats were right near the stage, allowing us to see every performance detail. The songs seamlessly flowed from one to the next, Simon Le Bon's voice was pitch-perfect and clear, Roger Taylor's drumming was pounding in my chest, and Nick Rhodes (looking just as sad and sweet as ever) produced entire orchestral movements on his keyboards. The crowd was older, certainly older than the last show we saw at the Pearl (Fall Out Boy, my brother's boy band, whose crowd was 90% teenage girls), but they were rockin' out, especially during the encore, which was a medley of some of their classic hits. It was a beautiful reminder that Life Goes On, and you never know where it might take you. I mean, these guys are what, 50 years old? And they've lived some crazy lives, I'm sure. But here they were, in 2009, playing music together and clearly thrilled to be doing so. And me and my man, we were rockin' along with them, loving every second of our last night in Vegas.
And so we leave Las Vegas, not whimpering, not a la Nic Cage, but rockin' out, looking forward to the adventures ahead. This water-baby is saying goodbye to the desert and returning to the Atlantic coast. I truly have no idea what the future may hold, but I'm excited to find out. And now that this time in Vegas is at it's end, I am thankful for it. It has taught me a lot about myself and the world I live in. It brought my long-term partnership with Alex to new levels of commitment and reward. It reminded me that I cannot live without art, without being the artist I am meant to be. It brought unimagined challenges that forced me to get tough and stay empathetic (I think empathy is a good thing, no matter what those Congressmen say). Plus, I got to be here as a red state turned blue, SWEET! I wouldn't want to repeat this year, not for a million bucks. But, I have not a single regret. So I come out a winner. Now I just have to figure out how to turn it all into a one-woman show.
It's time to finish packing and load the car and GET THE HELL OUT OF THIS GODFORSAKEN DESERT!! We're on the road at sun-up, should be reaching the east coast by Thursday. First, we've got to get through Arizona and New Mexico and Texas and Oklahoma and...
And if you're still reading this, thank you. I can't tell you how much it means to me to be able to share this with you. The writing shall continue, tho I suppose the name of the blog should change. A water-baby in Jersey City? I'll work on it.
And then October rolled around.
Vegas has a way of offering the best while handing over the worst. It has a way of turning some shiny gem into some tarnished junk. Vegas offers glamour and glitz while doling out longing and loss. It shows you beauty all along the Boulevard while hiding the ugliness of the off-ramps. It promises Fun & Fantasy but leaves you with Regret and Reality, a vicious and blinding Reality, one that swallows entire homeward-bound planeloads of people who understand that What Happens in Vegas Doesn't Always Stay In Vegas. No, that debt goes home with them, along with the headaches, hangovers, and hard-to-remember bits. Not to say that there aren't oodles of humans having fun in this town. Hell, this is Fun City!! Except...it's also Foreclosure City and High School Dropout City and Casino-run Justice City.
But it is no longer My City. Not that it ever was. I never found my place here. In 10+ months, I haven't dropped a single dollar on a blackjack table nor stuffed a buck in a g-string nor tasted a drop of alcohol. And this city revolves around such activities. Really, the only thing here that made sense to me was the music scene. The music I experienced here was amazing, and I once again felt in-the-right in calling myself a Singer, a word I haven't used to describe myself in far too many years. The phrases "I sing" and "I am a Singer" are worlds apart, and I thank Vegas for helping my find my way from one to the other. I thank Jess for that, as she helped me rediscover my voice and my most basic need to use it. She introduced me to musicians who taught me about the business (which is not a great business to be in these days, not in this town) and let me get onstage with them to sing. And then I met this piano player who wanted to put together a duo with a girl singer, and it looked like maybe my lounge-singer dreams might take flight. Diva Las Vegas!!
But in true Vegas fashion, after months of rehearsal and hours of prep-work on my part, I got dumped by my piano player. Last week. Via email.
Yes, Vegas holds out the shiny goods then snatches 'em away once you've decided to GO FOR IT, once you've rearranged your life in order to accommodate it's needs. Alex worked round-the-clock, 7 days a week in this town, then had to spend 7 months and thousands of dollars defending himself against false arrest and trumped-up charges brought against him in a successful attempt at intimidation. We were set to move to Seattle on March 1 until I met this piano player 5 days before Moving Day, and months later (plus this 6-week, return-trip to Vegas for the sole purpose of finishing what we couldn't finish because the piano man had a last-minute, 2-month gig that he took in April), I get the blow-off because he doesn't like rehearsing and is really better off as a solo. That's Vegas: Land of the Duped, Home of the Dumped.
And so, we're outta here. But we go not with a whimper, oh no! Over the years, this town has provided much in the way of free food, free rooms, free everything. Once upon a time, Alex had big pull in Vegas. He could make a phone call to any number of casinos and get comped. And we took advantage of it in a big way. Then that arrest happened, and his juice pretty much dried up. No more rooms, few free meals. But being who he is, he's still got connections. So last night, as we wondered what to do with our last night in Vegas (we're leaving at the crack of dawn tomorrow, so tonite doesn't count), Alex made a call and got us box seats at the Pearl (inside the Palms) to see (ohmygod it's sooooo good I can hardly believe it) DURAN DURAN!! And they were AWESOME!!! 4 of the original 5 band members were onstage (with a new guitarist, a sax player, and a super-hot lady backup singer), and they put on a helluva show. John Taylor, DD's bassist, was my second childhood crush (after Rick Springfield), and that crush lasted for years. Last night, as they were playing "Planet Earth" and John was smiling into the crowd, I realized that my schoolgirl crush lives on. Alex and I were singing along to almost all of the songs (some were new to us both), and our seats were right near the stage, allowing us to see every performance detail. The songs seamlessly flowed from one to the next, Simon Le Bon's voice was pitch-perfect and clear, Roger Taylor's drumming was pounding in my chest, and Nick Rhodes (looking just as sad and sweet as ever) produced entire orchestral movements on his keyboards. The crowd was older, certainly older than the last show we saw at the Pearl (Fall Out Boy, my brother's boy band, whose crowd was 90% teenage girls), but they were rockin' out, especially during the encore, which was a medley of some of their classic hits. It was a beautiful reminder that Life Goes On, and you never know where it might take you. I mean, these guys are what, 50 years old? And they've lived some crazy lives, I'm sure. But here they were, in 2009, playing music together and clearly thrilled to be doing so. And me and my man, we were rockin' along with them, loving every second of our last night in Vegas.
And so we leave Las Vegas, not whimpering, not a la Nic Cage, but rockin' out, looking forward to the adventures ahead. This water-baby is saying goodbye to the desert and returning to the Atlantic coast. I truly have no idea what the future may hold, but I'm excited to find out. And now that this time in Vegas is at it's end, I am thankful for it. It has taught me a lot about myself and the world I live in. It brought my long-term partnership with Alex to new levels of commitment and reward. It reminded me that I cannot live without art, without being the artist I am meant to be. It brought unimagined challenges that forced me to get tough and stay empathetic (I think empathy is a good thing, no matter what those Congressmen say). Plus, I got to be here as a red state turned blue, SWEET! I wouldn't want to repeat this year, not for a million bucks. But, I have not a single regret. So I come out a winner. Now I just have to figure out how to turn it all into a one-woman show.
It's time to finish packing and load the car and GET THE HELL OUT OF THIS GODFORSAKEN DESERT!! We're on the road at sun-up, should be reaching the east coast by Thursday. First, we've got to get through Arizona and New Mexico and Texas and Oklahoma and...
And if you're still reading this, thank you. I can't tell you how much it means to me to be able to share this with you. The writing shall continue, tho I suppose the name of the blog should change. A water-baby in Jersey City? I'll work on it.
Monday, July 6, 2009
What is a marriage?
So, it's official: Alex is my husband. And I am his wife. It's official, according to no official capacity, other than the power vested in the 2 of us. Allow me to explain...
On July 5, 1996, Alex got down on one knee in front of the reflecting pool at Boston's Christian Science Center, and he asked me to marry him. And I said yes. Now, we were kids at the time, fully aware that a wedding was a big deal, certainly too big a deal for us back then. But we were also fully aware that we wanted to spend our lives together. So we agreed to be engaged indefinitely, until we could handle/afford a wedding, allowing our engagement to show the world how committed we were to this relationship.
Fast-forward through the years, through shifting cities and careers, through unstable personal economies (and eventually, unstable global economies to match), through ups and downs and twists and turns and highs and lows galore...and we're still here, unmarried, but even more committed to this relationship. (Perhaps we two should be committed?) We've had the marriage-talk numerous times over the years, and it went from never seeming like the right time or the right conditions, to wondering, why bother? What does a marriage offer that we don't already have?
A marriage offers one thing that we don't have: an opportunity to celebrate this relationship with the many people who have been a part of our lives since before we knew each other and in the years since. A wedding! Now, Alex and I have never agreed on the wedding aspect of our marriage. Me, I want a big party! I want to be wrapped in love and good wishes from our family and friends. I want a day that brings together the various elements of our lives for the sole purpose of celebrating what we've accomplished together over the years, along with celebrating all that lies before us. Alex just wants to get married by Elvis, not tell anyone until a few days before, figuring that hardly a sole would show up. Two entirely differing desires on the wedding-front. The one thing we both agree on: we don't feel any need to sign legal documents making our union "official". After all, what could be more official than the past 13 years of struggle and sacrifice being borne out, with no legal obligations between the two of us to make things work? Truthfully, I am afraid of the legal aspects of a marriage. I don't know why, it's simply the truth. I am afraid of messing with a good thing. And I am afraid that once we are legally bound to one another, it will diminish somehow all the struggles that we will surely survive and overcome, making me wonder if we would have stayed together if we weren't somehow contractually obligated to do so? Whatever, my fears are what they are, perhaps they are in no way reasonable, but they exist. What also exists, thanks to this lovely year in Lost Wages, is a firm distrust of our legal system. The last thing I want entering into this relationship is some notion of "law".
But I hate calling Alex my BOYFRIEND!! A boyfriend is transitory. A boyfriend is of-the-moment. A boyfriend is NOT a guy who stays true for 13 years and makes huge sacrifices and loves your family and always considers you to be his top priority. Alex is not my boyfriend. He is my partner-in-crime, he is my other (somewhat better) half. He is the first one I turn to, the first one I run to, the first one I think of...always. He is no boyfriend. But what's the right word for him? "Partner" doesn't feel right, "fiance" implies an impending nuptial date. I call him "my old man", which is perfect for Meg the Blues Singer, but not appropriate most days of the week. Really, the only word I know that correlates with our level of commitment is "husband". I want to call Alex my husband! But I don't want to get married! What's to be done?
Seeing how unconventional our relationship has already been, Alex and I decided to continue with the lack of convention and get married in a way that made sense to us. See, we had been planning on doing the whole Elvis thing, for real. We decided sometime in February, as our lives were imploding around us, that we wanted to celebrate the fact that we were not only staying together, but the hard times were actually bringing us closer. And, since we were in Vegas, we decided to go ahead and get married by Elvis. For real. We were going to do it on April 7, the original date of Alex's preliminary hearing, the date which our lawyer assured us would bring the end of our legal woes. What better way to celebrate the end of this horrid chapter and the beginning of the rest of our lives than at the Viva Las Vegas Wedding Chapel? Which seemed like a good idea at the time. We even bought some mail-order wedding bands, which we figured we'd someday upgrade, but for the moment, who cares? And then, the DA asked for a two-week continuance. We certainly didn't want to get married BEFORE the end of this hell battle! 2 weeks later, another continuance. How to plan a wedding based on a justice system that expects us all to live our lives on hold until Justice is good and ready to get to work? By this time, we had already decided that we were heading to Seattle on April 28th, no matter what the judge had to say. So, the wedding got postponed. And then we went to Seattle, where the two of us were in the wedding party of our dear old pal, Zoe. And being a part of that wedding made me want it for me & Alex. Standing on the alter watching our friends exchange their vows, we had our eyes locked on each other, knowing that we were saying those vows to each other. I didn't want to get married by Elvis in Vegas, with no friends and no family to celebrate us! And when it came down to it, Alex didn't really want it either. And so, when we drove back to Vegas a month ago, we talked about what we wanted, and what it comes down to is this:
We want to call each other by the only proper terms we know: husband and wife.
We want the past 13 years to stand as proof of our love and commitment to one another.
We DON'T want to legally tie the knot to satisfy the US government in any way.
We DON'T want our marriage to be for anyone but the two of us.
So this is what we decided:
13 years after Alex asked me to marry him, 13 years to the day of my saying yes to his proposal, Alex and I exchanged rings in a private ceremony with no witnesses but the two of us, with no higher authority than our own. We both vowed to love each other NOT out of obedience or obligation but out of our inability to do otherwise. Alex read some excerpts from notes he'd saved over the years, glimpses of our past which only made more impressive the place we currently find ourselves. I said a few words and made a few promises. And then, by the power vested in us, we pronounced ourselves "Husband" and "Wife". And, since we are in Vegas, our first dance was themed accordingly: Barry Manilow's "I Can't Smile Without You" (chosen by Alex, and surprising both of us with it's length). And our second dance was a little song I had put together backing tracks for (think: karaoke) so that I could sing to him:
Time after time, I tell myself that I'm so lucky to be loving you
So lucky to be the one you run to see in the evening, when the day is through...
I only know what I know, the passing years will show
You've kept my love so young and so new
And time after time, you'll hear me say that I'm so lucky to be loving you.
And so, I have a husband. And I am a wife.
You can call us what you'd like. After all, no authority other than our own has blessed this union, nor even recognized it. And this is not to say that we will never go ahead with an actual marriage. Or at least a big party. But in the meantime, recognize that this union is far more grounded than many marriages, and that with nothing other than our love for each other and our commitment to each other, we have lived in un-wedded bliss for 13+ years. And we're looking forward to the next 13. And the 13 after that. Until we're finally old enough and done enough to live out our retirement dreams of a houseboat in Amsterdam....
When we spoke of marriage, and all the married (and divorced) couples we know, we recognized that one of the best and healthiest marriages we know of is that between our good friends, Mark & Steven. Mark & Steven began dating about the same time as Alex & myself, but they went ahead and got married in a big ceremony in upstate New York, way back in 2001. New York State did not then, and does not now, recognize gay marriage. But few relationships I know of are healthier or more committed than this one. I hope my husband and I can be as much of an inspiration to other non-legally marrieds as Mark & Steven have been to us.
Now, this Wifey needs to get some boxes packed, because one week from today, WE'RE OUTTA HERE! One week from today, the car will be packed and our asses will be getting out of Vegas and heading back to the east coast! Can't wait, can't wait, can't wait...
On July 5, 1996, Alex got down on one knee in front of the reflecting pool at Boston's Christian Science Center, and he asked me to marry him. And I said yes. Now, we were kids at the time, fully aware that a wedding was a big deal, certainly too big a deal for us back then. But we were also fully aware that we wanted to spend our lives together. So we agreed to be engaged indefinitely, until we could handle/afford a wedding, allowing our engagement to show the world how committed we were to this relationship.
Fast-forward through the years, through shifting cities and careers, through unstable personal economies (and eventually, unstable global economies to match), through ups and downs and twists and turns and highs and lows galore...and we're still here, unmarried, but even more committed to this relationship. (Perhaps we two should be committed?) We've had the marriage-talk numerous times over the years, and it went from never seeming like the right time or the right conditions, to wondering, why bother? What does a marriage offer that we don't already have?
A marriage offers one thing that we don't have: an opportunity to celebrate this relationship with the many people who have been a part of our lives since before we knew each other and in the years since. A wedding! Now, Alex and I have never agreed on the wedding aspect of our marriage. Me, I want a big party! I want to be wrapped in love and good wishes from our family and friends. I want a day that brings together the various elements of our lives for the sole purpose of celebrating what we've accomplished together over the years, along with celebrating all that lies before us. Alex just wants to get married by Elvis, not tell anyone until a few days before, figuring that hardly a sole would show up. Two entirely differing desires on the wedding-front. The one thing we both agree on: we don't feel any need to sign legal documents making our union "official". After all, what could be more official than the past 13 years of struggle and sacrifice being borne out, with no legal obligations between the two of us to make things work? Truthfully, I am afraid of the legal aspects of a marriage. I don't know why, it's simply the truth. I am afraid of messing with a good thing. And I am afraid that once we are legally bound to one another, it will diminish somehow all the struggles that we will surely survive and overcome, making me wonder if we would have stayed together if we weren't somehow contractually obligated to do so? Whatever, my fears are what they are, perhaps they are in no way reasonable, but they exist. What also exists, thanks to this lovely year in Lost Wages, is a firm distrust of our legal system. The last thing I want entering into this relationship is some notion of "law".
But I hate calling Alex my BOYFRIEND!! A boyfriend is transitory. A boyfriend is of-the-moment. A boyfriend is NOT a guy who stays true for 13 years and makes huge sacrifices and loves your family and always considers you to be his top priority. Alex is not my boyfriend. He is my partner-in-crime, he is my other (somewhat better) half. He is the first one I turn to, the first one I run to, the first one I think of...always. He is no boyfriend. But what's the right word for him? "Partner" doesn't feel right, "fiance" implies an impending nuptial date. I call him "my old man", which is perfect for Meg the Blues Singer, but not appropriate most days of the week. Really, the only word I know that correlates with our level of commitment is "husband". I want to call Alex my husband! But I don't want to get married! What's to be done?
Seeing how unconventional our relationship has already been, Alex and I decided to continue with the lack of convention and get married in a way that made sense to us. See, we had been planning on doing the whole Elvis thing, for real. We decided sometime in February, as our lives were imploding around us, that we wanted to celebrate the fact that we were not only staying together, but the hard times were actually bringing us closer. And, since we were in Vegas, we decided to go ahead and get married by Elvis. For real. We were going to do it on April 7, the original date of Alex's preliminary hearing, the date which our lawyer assured us would bring the end of our legal woes. What better way to celebrate the end of this horrid chapter and the beginning of the rest of our lives than at the Viva Las Vegas Wedding Chapel? Which seemed like a good idea at the time. We even bought some mail-order wedding bands, which we figured we'd someday upgrade, but for the moment, who cares? And then, the DA asked for a two-week continuance. We certainly didn't want to get married BEFORE the end of this hell battle! 2 weeks later, another continuance. How to plan a wedding based on a justice system that expects us all to live our lives on hold until Justice is good and ready to get to work? By this time, we had already decided that we were heading to Seattle on April 28th, no matter what the judge had to say. So, the wedding got postponed. And then we went to Seattle, where the two of us were in the wedding party of our dear old pal, Zoe. And being a part of that wedding made me want it for me & Alex. Standing on the alter watching our friends exchange their vows, we had our eyes locked on each other, knowing that we were saying those vows to each other. I didn't want to get married by Elvis in Vegas, with no friends and no family to celebrate us! And when it came down to it, Alex didn't really want it either. And so, when we drove back to Vegas a month ago, we talked about what we wanted, and what it comes down to is this:
We want to call each other by the only proper terms we know: husband and wife.
We want the past 13 years to stand as proof of our love and commitment to one another.
We DON'T want to legally tie the knot to satisfy the US government in any way.
We DON'T want our marriage to be for anyone but the two of us.
So this is what we decided:
13 years after Alex asked me to marry him, 13 years to the day of my saying yes to his proposal, Alex and I exchanged rings in a private ceremony with no witnesses but the two of us, with no higher authority than our own. We both vowed to love each other NOT out of obedience or obligation but out of our inability to do otherwise. Alex read some excerpts from notes he'd saved over the years, glimpses of our past which only made more impressive the place we currently find ourselves. I said a few words and made a few promises. And then, by the power vested in us, we pronounced ourselves "Husband" and "Wife". And, since we are in Vegas, our first dance was themed accordingly: Barry Manilow's "I Can't Smile Without You" (chosen by Alex, and surprising both of us with it's length). And our second dance was a little song I had put together backing tracks for (think: karaoke) so that I could sing to him:
Time after time, I tell myself that I'm so lucky to be loving you
So lucky to be the one you run to see in the evening, when the day is through...
I only know what I know, the passing years will show
You've kept my love so young and so new
And time after time, you'll hear me say that I'm so lucky to be loving you.
And so, I have a husband. And I am a wife.
You can call us what you'd like. After all, no authority other than our own has blessed this union, nor even recognized it. And this is not to say that we will never go ahead with an actual marriage. Or at least a big party. But in the meantime, recognize that this union is far more grounded than many marriages, and that with nothing other than our love for each other and our commitment to each other, we have lived in un-wedded bliss for 13+ years. And we're looking forward to the next 13. And the 13 after that. Until we're finally old enough and done enough to live out our retirement dreams of a houseboat in Amsterdam....
When we spoke of marriage, and all the married (and divorced) couples we know, we recognized that one of the best and healthiest marriages we know of is that between our good friends, Mark & Steven. Mark & Steven began dating about the same time as Alex & myself, but they went ahead and got married in a big ceremony in upstate New York, way back in 2001. New York State did not then, and does not now, recognize gay marriage. But few relationships I know of are healthier or more committed than this one. I hope my husband and I can be as much of an inspiration to other non-legally marrieds as Mark & Steven have been to us.
Now, this Wifey needs to get some boxes packed, because one week from today, WE'RE OUTTA HERE! One week from today, the car will be packed and our asses will be getting out of Vegas and heading back to the east coast! Can't wait, can't wait, can't wait...
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Sayonara, Seattle
I am writing this on my last day in Seattle. Maybe not, most likely not, my last day in Seattle EVER. But tomorrow, the Buick will be packed up with whatever stuff it brought here a month ago, and Alex and She-ra and I shall begin the long drive south to the hot hot desert. Hot, indeed: It was 122 degrees in Vegas last week. 122 moisture-free degrees. Oh man, oh man, oh man…
I don’t want to leave Seattle. Not even a little bit. This place is magical when the sun is out, and wow, is the sun out! The sun has been for most of this month, and I have taken full advantage of it. I have taken full advantage of being in a place where I can walk and bike and hike and do it all with friends! Take last week, for example: On Saturday, I shared fantastic tapas with my boys while my lady mixed mojitos behind the bar, with Judd Hirsch munching away at a table behind us. Sunday brought me and a college buddy to a dirty-crunchy-hippie music festival, where we listened to bagpipes and rockabilly and stoners singing for their supper. Monday took me and my crew across Puget Sound to a friend’s organic farm, where we barbecued and walked in the forest and sat on the porch watching the world go by. Tuesday I spent walking through Seattle to a waterfront sculpture park, where a girlfriend and I sat at the intersection of Love & Loss, talking about the journeys that brought us there. That night, it was karaoke with more college buddies, where I brought the house down singing “The Man That Got Away” in my best drunk Judy (Garland, that is). Wednesday, I hiked a favorite trail with my best friend and tossed bits of bagels to the birds at the summit. On Thursday, I was back across the water to build chicken coops on yet another organic farm, this one complete with 29 chickens, 12 baby turkeys and a very pregnant she-goat and her very bully Billy, then it was back to Seattle to celebrate my girl’s 24th (again) birthday. And yesterday, me and my lady had a picnic on a West Seattle beach, looking out at the still-snowy Olympic mountains while turning lobster-red in the mid-day sun, wondering what life would be like if this was the place where our families lived, if this was the place we’d always called Home. That was how I spent this last week in Seattle. Doesn’t it sound magical? Doesn’t it make you wonder why the hell I’m leaving this place? It certainly makes me pause and consider the what-ifs. What if I stayed…?
But I won’t stay. Because I’m not ready yet. For a long time, Seattle has been the place that I want to return to after I’m done doing all the things I want to do before I settle down. And I’m not there yet. I’m not done with New York. I’m not done with my Big City Dreams. I don’t really know what I’m looking for out there, but I know I haven’t found it, and I know that I will regret it if I stop looking. I have lived this long with no regrets, and I refuse to take the easy road now, now when I am on the verge of something, something big and beautiful, I don’t know what that something is, but I know that it’s out there, somewhere, and I know that I need to struggle in order to find it, I know that I need to throw myself in to hardship before I can have a little easy, and Seattle is easy, Seattle is peaceful, Seattle is a place for me to catch my breath and enjoy the good life. I’ve been gone for 6 years, and this place still loves me. And when I’m ready for it, it will welcome me back gladly. It will throw its arms open and embrace me and all that I am and all that I am not. But I’m not ready for it. I need to go back to New York, a city that doesn’t have a clue who I am, even though I lived there for 5 years. I need to go back to that New York energy, that New York pace, that New York ambition, I need to get my ass kicked some more and see if I can start kicking ass back, I need to be a Nobody and do my best to become a Somebody. And if it doesn’t happen, I need to know that I tried, I need to know that I gave it everything I’ve got so that if I come back to Seattle, it will not be with my tail between my legs but with battle wounds that I am proud to call my own, scars that will heal but will always remind me that I am a warrior and that I can survive anything. I need to leave Seattle because I need to finish New York. But first, oh man oh man oh man, first I need to go back to Vegas. ARGH!!
I am dreading the return trip for many obvious reasons, but there are some bright and shiny joys waiting in the desert for me. Namely, there are Jess and Vina, my voice teacher and my mailman, both of whom I am lucky to call my friends. And of course, there’s the whole purpose of my return, the whole point of leaving Seattle NOW instead of 2 months from now when I’ve got a place to live back east: There’s the piano man with whom I’m gonna rehearse and hopefully book some jobs, some non-Vegas jobs, some I-get-to-be-a-lounge-singer-and-live-out-some-of-my-dreams type o’ jobs. I have to remind myself that this return to the desert is entirely MY doing. Alex has no purpose in being there, other than being with me. He would be glad to never set foot in that town again, with its crooked cops and its more crooked casinos. Alex is going to Vegas for me. Isn’t it ironic? And our return will be brief, a month and a half of hiding from the sun and drinking water by the gallon. After a month and a half, the Buick will get packed up once again, and almost a year after saying goodbye, we will make that cross-country return to New York City and all the family and friends who are waiting for us. And from there, who knows? I can’t even begin to imagine. All I know is that tomorrow, it’s Sayonara Seattle. And my heart is breaking. And I wish I could just squeeze this country together until its two oceans almost meet, so that my two hometowns could be side-by-side. Or, I wish I could just be satisfied with what I’ve got right here where I am.
There’s an Ani DiFranco song that sums up Seattle for me. It’s appropriately entitled “Grey”, appropriate because this place is nothing but grey for 8 months a year (I must remind myself). The chorus goes like this:
What kind of paradise am I looking for?
I’ve got everything I want, but still I want more.
Maybe some tiny, shiny key will wash up on the shore…
I’m not ready to say goodbye, but I’m not ready to stay. So, I will make the choice to remain unsettled. I will make the choice to go seeking out satisfaction in hard-to-satisfy places. I will make the choice to take the hard road and see where it goes. And someday, maybe it will bring me back here. Someday, when I’ll be ready.
I don’t want to leave Seattle. Not even a little bit. This place is magical when the sun is out, and wow, is the sun out! The sun has been for most of this month, and I have taken full advantage of it. I have taken full advantage of being in a place where I can walk and bike and hike and do it all with friends! Take last week, for example: On Saturday, I shared fantastic tapas with my boys while my lady mixed mojitos behind the bar, with Judd Hirsch munching away at a table behind us. Sunday brought me and a college buddy to a dirty-crunchy-hippie music festival, where we listened to bagpipes and rockabilly and stoners singing for their supper. Monday took me and my crew across Puget Sound to a friend’s organic farm, where we barbecued and walked in the forest and sat on the porch watching the world go by. Tuesday I spent walking through Seattle to a waterfront sculpture park, where a girlfriend and I sat at the intersection of Love & Loss, talking about the journeys that brought us there. That night, it was karaoke with more college buddies, where I brought the house down singing “The Man That Got Away” in my best drunk Judy (Garland, that is). Wednesday, I hiked a favorite trail with my best friend and tossed bits of bagels to the birds at the summit. On Thursday, I was back across the water to build chicken coops on yet another organic farm, this one complete with 29 chickens, 12 baby turkeys and a very pregnant she-goat and her very bully Billy, then it was back to Seattle to celebrate my girl’s 24th (again) birthday. And yesterday, me and my lady had a picnic on a West Seattle beach, looking out at the still-snowy Olympic mountains while turning lobster-red in the mid-day sun, wondering what life would be like if this was the place where our families lived, if this was the place we’d always called Home. That was how I spent this last week in Seattle. Doesn’t it sound magical? Doesn’t it make you wonder why the hell I’m leaving this place? It certainly makes me pause and consider the what-ifs. What if I stayed…?
But I won’t stay. Because I’m not ready yet. For a long time, Seattle has been the place that I want to return to after I’m done doing all the things I want to do before I settle down. And I’m not there yet. I’m not done with New York. I’m not done with my Big City Dreams. I don’t really know what I’m looking for out there, but I know I haven’t found it, and I know that I will regret it if I stop looking. I have lived this long with no regrets, and I refuse to take the easy road now, now when I am on the verge of something, something big and beautiful, I don’t know what that something is, but I know that it’s out there, somewhere, and I know that I need to struggle in order to find it, I know that I need to throw myself in to hardship before I can have a little easy, and Seattle is easy, Seattle is peaceful, Seattle is a place for me to catch my breath and enjoy the good life. I’ve been gone for 6 years, and this place still loves me. And when I’m ready for it, it will welcome me back gladly. It will throw its arms open and embrace me and all that I am and all that I am not. But I’m not ready for it. I need to go back to New York, a city that doesn’t have a clue who I am, even though I lived there for 5 years. I need to go back to that New York energy, that New York pace, that New York ambition, I need to get my ass kicked some more and see if I can start kicking ass back, I need to be a Nobody and do my best to become a Somebody. And if it doesn’t happen, I need to know that I tried, I need to know that I gave it everything I’ve got so that if I come back to Seattle, it will not be with my tail between my legs but with battle wounds that I am proud to call my own, scars that will heal but will always remind me that I am a warrior and that I can survive anything. I need to leave Seattle because I need to finish New York. But first, oh man oh man oh man, first I need to go back to Vegas. ARGH!!
I am dreading the return trip for many obvious reasons, but there are some bright and shiny joys waiting in the desert for me. Namely, there are Jess and Vina, my voice teacher and my mailman, both of whom I am lucky to call my friends. And of course, there’s the whole purpose of my return, the whole point of leaving Seattle NOW instead of 2 months from now when I’ve got a place to live back east: There’s the piano man with whom I’m gonna rehearse and hopefully book some jobs, some non-Vegas jobs, some I-get-to-be-a-lounge-singer-and-live-out-some-of-my-dreams type o’ jobs. I have to remind myself that this return to the desert is entirely MY doing. Alex has no purpose in being there, other than being with me. He would be glad to never set foot in that town again, with its crooked cops and its more crooked casinos. Alex is going to Vegas for me. Isn’t it ironic? And our return will be brief, a month and a half of hiding from the sun and drinking water by the gallon. After a month and a half, the Buick will get packed up once again, and almost a year after saying goodbye, we will make that cross-country return to New York City and all the family and friends who are waiting for us. And from there, who knows? I can’t even begin to imagine. All I know is that tomorrow, it’s Sayonara Seattle. And my heart is breaking. And I wish I could just squeeze this country together until its two oceans almost meet, so that my two hometowns could be side-by-side. Or, I wish I could just be satisfied with what I’ve got right here where I am.
There’s an Ani DiFranco song that sums up Seattle for me. It’s appropriately entitled “Grey”, appropriate because this place is nothing but grey for 8 months a year (I must remind myself). The chorus goes like this:
What kind of paradise am I looking for?
I’ve got everything I want, but still I want more.
Maybe some tiny, shiny key will wash up on the shore…
I’m not ready to say goodbye, but I’m not ready to stay. So, I will make the choice to remain unsettled. I will make the choice to go seeking out satisfaction in hard-to-satisfy places. I will make the choice to take the hard road and see where it goes. And someday, maybe it will bring me back here. Someday, when I’ll be ready.
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