I’m sitting here in my bed in my grandmother’s empty apartment in Manhattan sending an email to my building management protesting the rent increase in my complex on behalf of myself and more than half the tenants in said complex. Earlier this evening I delivered a paper about the politics of archiving street art for a conference about cities hosted by the comp lit folks at the CUNY Graduate Center. After delivering my paper, I heard a very random, weird talk about Proust and vases by a well known academic whom I admire in the basement of a building across from the Empire State Building. I haven’t really been able to eat much for the last 24 hrs for whatever reason. This is my third visit to New York City in 2014, but at least this visit is funded by my department. My puppy, who is staying with my neighbors this weekend, spent the day at BuzzFeed where my neighbor works, and his wife pointed out to me that that means my dog pooped at BuzzFeed, about which I am strangely jealous. This is a tiny cross section of my life. On my mind are the following things:
How bullshit it will be if my rent gets raised.
How much I miss my puppy even though I am also relieved not to have to take care of a living being except myself for a few days.
How this apartment truly feels like my second [third? fourth?] home and how comforted I feel being in spaces owned by my family members because somehow those spaces, even when empty, make me feel surrounded by people who love me, and that makes me feel safe, and what a privilege it is to have that.
How I’m going to manage to get myself to Jim Thorpe, PA to visit my best girl on her movie set this weekend.
The likelihood of my being awarded a fancy digital humanities fellowship I’m going to be applying for in the coming months.
How impeccable I find Serial the podcast to be, but how troubled I am about loving something so much that seems simultaneously so problematic [But don’t I always?] because it is not just a story, it is the recounting of the real murder of a real girl whose real family lost her in a horrifying, tragic way.
How I hope my tiny brother can make it down from upstate to see me sometime before I go back to WarmLandParadise, CA.
The kinda shocking out of nowhere phone call from my X that I received at the beginning of the week and how to contend with such a mess, especially when I’ve finally gotten used to my life being fairly mess free [unless you count animal poop that I am now always cleaning up].
I’m only telling you all these things because I’m in what A tonight called the 5th dimension, when you’re tired but can’t sleep, hungry but not hungry, restless, indecisive, needing to move or do something but also not wanting to and not being capable of doing so anyway. I should have taken him up on his offer to bring me donuts and Cuban food. I figured I’d be asleep by now, but obviously I am not. It’s so dry in this apartment. I am six cities. I am no city because there is nothing in my belly. Well, trail mix and apple sauce. And there are three small red onions and a gallon of water in the fridge. No one really lives here. Not usually.
I am right here. But I am not for you.