the art/ of leaving...home;
things you want don't always feel like they "should."
I’m in NYC y’all!
Not forever…thank the fucking lord, but still. It’s nice here. Right now it’s a lot. But I remember, many moons ago, that when asked “what do you want to do with your life?”
I was, maybe, 14? I replied, to my grandparents:
“Idk, I can’t decide. I want to do a whole bunch of things.”
I began listing random things, fashion writing/interning, dancing, painting, be a vet…or a biologist or something. And while I can’t remember exactly what I said, I remember the worry on my grandmother’s face.
I can’t exactly pinpoint what her perspective was, I can only guess at it. But I would expect it felt a little like this:
“The hell is the kid talking about?”
I’ve always wanted to be a big shot. I wanted to travel, talk about the travel, and feel that dopamine rush from a job well done and the validation from those around me. I wanted, and still do, want to be “impressive.”
How silly of me to think that I would not be one day humbled by that want.
But. The truth of it is this:
I’m in NYC, on a paying gig, dancing/choreographing an experimental show from the ground up. We start in a South Brooklyn apartment and end…who knows? It’s pure art shit. The best of the best team with old faces and welcomed new ones.
Currently, I’m staying in Astoria, Queens with an old dance friend whom I haven’t seen in…8 years? Met her roommate, another fantastic dancer. We all get along, they have two lovely kitties and their place is fucking fantastic.
And then, the waves hit.
I’m crying my first night there. The next day, we have the best Greek food of my life and I’m nearly in tears laughing.
Saturday night we have the best time sharing choreography and old dance videos, comparing and contrasting all the nuances of our learn-ed movement lives over a glass of wine. Laughing about how “stiff” we all look, even though it’s nonsense.
I feel validated. I feel like I belong.
Bed time comes, and the ache returns. Not quite a wave, but a small crest of emotion that is settled as soon as I pick up the phone. I hear my husband’s voice and the cat screaming for food. We settle into our usual conversations.
Sunday morning feels like I’m missing a limb.
I’m jealous after a bomb-ass poppy seed bagel. Overwhelmed after just a 10 minute walk around Astoria, remembering how sore and tired I was after my first trek from one borough to the other. I wonder if I can do this for 3 weeks.
I’m not jealous of their lives. I’m jealous of them being at home, on a Sunday, in their comfort. A place I would very much love to be: at home.
So, I cry again and text my husband. Wondering why I did this. Why did I want this? Did I want this kind of life?
Was that the worry my grandparents had?
Wait.
Is this how everyone feels?
Maybe not. But like a wave, it crashes and washes away.
And I, little ghosts, have work to do.
The homesickness is real. But I’m beginning to see how feeling this shit through, not shoving it down, allows me to open up to homes elsewhere. Finding tiny moments of reprieve and an enormous amount of respect to those who make it here, in these cities.
Because, bless, this place is wonderful and also a fucking mess.
Just like me. But, a little bluegrass in my ears made it all the better. Reminding myself that I know exactly where I come from. And that’s pretty cool.
And, they’re just waves.
Sidenote: you can literally order anything for delivery here. Holy shit.
NYC bingo card:
2 rats the size of my cat, seen.
2 smelly train cars: one of fresh urine; the other of stale urine…and black pepper?
1 moment between a stranger where we realized we fucked up once we got in the first smelly car, that we promptly corrected together.
3 train fuck ups, sparks flying and traffic stopping.
2 objects thrown at me inexplicably.
2 friends made over discussions of northern/southern politics.
1 mention of my accent,
and about 408 stares whenever I start talking.
1 sassy Greek man correcting my English as I try and order food from his stand after getting off the subway. Because, apparently, he’s more tired than I and I needed the lecture. I’m annoyed that the food was still good.
lastly:
AND TMOBILE ABSOLUTELY SHITTING ITS NETWORK BY JUST…NOT WORKING IN SOUTH BROOKLYN.
All of the above was a singular day. Much respect to those of you that live here, did live here, and the like. Because, honestly? Ain’t for me. But the food almost makes it worth it, almost. My muscles are aching from the jostling of my body, whether my feet on concrete, or ricocheting from one train to the other. Hoping for a spot to sit, rather than holding myself up.
That’s all for now, make sure to check out the Crowdfundr page on here under “postcards i never sent.” And tune back in Tuesday for an update on how the first in-person rehearsals went, in my own words.
buh-bye, for now, little ghosts.
