While it's definitely going to snow at least once more before Easter rolls around (see below, ugh) I was walking down the streets of Brooklyn today feeling at least a little lighter because: it's not February any more.
February has nothing to recommend it. It is, in all seriousness, the August of winter.The joys have long faded. The holiday season, with its aromatic bustling streets, and freshly dry-cleaned layers of bundling feeling subtly sensual, have now given way to snow the color of feces of nine types of species, and all those layers of bulky clothes make you feel like a lumbering tauntaun, sure to eat it on the slippery sidewalks while some asshat toddler laughs at you.
And February has Valentine's day, which is genuinely offensive in it's hetero-normativity and blah blah blah.
But today was March 3, and while it's gonna snow again, I have that springish optimism that tells me, "this rain is nourishing, the soil needs snow so that it can replenish the roots, and trees and flowers can bud and eventually blossom!"
If you're wondering, yes, I even bother me when I start thinking like that. Not that that's so difficult to imagine.
...Which is to say, I was walking down my neighborhood streets today because I was making a trek to Bergen Street Comics. If you actually pay attention to my twitter, you'll have noticed that I've recently fallen into the TOTAL AND UTTER BLACK HOLE OF AWESOMENESS (...so many inappropriate jokes spring to mind, but I'm trying to get use to letting those pass by as I get closer and closer to being a published children's author) that is Fables by Bill Willingham.
I'm on the 6th volume of a series of which there are more than 90, so you know... You'll all be (un)lucky if you ever hear from me again. (...I couldn't have found them at the start of winter?)
Anyways, because I like to give my unwisely spent money to independent operations, (click on that! it will tell you you're nearest indie!)) I was thrilled that Carrie Cheek told me of this hot spot.
(Side bar: Carrie Cheek makes movies and films things -- and edits to them too. She is a champ, and if you need something filmed and or edited, you should use her. She did my Super Tuesday videos for Glamour, and I was very glad for it!)
So, I was wandering on a cold spring day, looking forward to spending too much money on not enough comics from my local comic shop. I have one of those. I also have a local hippie food grocery store, and a local pharmacist, and a local electronics store and a local almost everything and over the years I've gotten to know these people, and sometimes it seems like they sorta recognize me as that girl who comes in sometimes, looking like a Star Wars animal.
Anyway, I was walking and then I realized that I was standing outside of some good friends' old apartment.
I think it must be a marker in every New Yorker's city existence when your first friend leaves for another town. I remember crying when they told me. Of course, they're a couple, of course, they moved to Portland, and while I would go on to visit them there, and be envious of their good food, large yard, and fabulous new friends, I was really crushed to know that I would be loosing two touchstones in the Big Bad Big Apple. Crushed, and flabbergasted.
You're leaving? But why? You'll have to get a car! You won't have a deli! (Which, I maintain, is New Yorks' most genius and beloved offering). How will you do things? How will you function?
But it's nearly four (or is it five?) years since then, and much has changed. I'm at not on the bottom-rung of a massive editorial machine that eats its young, I'm not in apartment with two other girls, trying to figure out how people in New York get to the ER when they're bleeding profusely, etc. I don't know the city totally (who does?) but I know it well.
Oy. That sound you might be hearing, or making, is the sound of so many people getting mighty cranky because they've been here longer, they've worked harder, they've seen more they've done more, and they've lost more people -- and not just to charming hippie towns where it rains more. (Or less).
Yeah, well. Fair enough. C'est le guerre.
But I know it well enough to watch a slow and steady stream of people leave it, and standing outside that apartment, where I had dinner parties and dance parties, and good cries and bitter laughs -- and it wasn't even my own goddamn apartment -- I realized that I'll probably be the next to go -- because I'm going, somewhere -- and come next fall someone will move into my apartment, and not know anything about who I am, or what it was like when I lived in New York, or why I left.
Because, well, why should they?
Suddenly, this all made me wish for spring even more. Because if this is going to be my last summer in New York, I want it to be a good one -- an epic one. The sort of summer that I'll remember for the rest of my life.
Which probably means it'll suck, and rain every day of June like it did last summer, but oh well.
It'll still be good.