This isn't how Sundays are supposed to feel

When I first returned to New York after a long absence, I was visiting NYU for the first time. I had moved to Ohio about five years earlier and had not ventured east since that time. Driving through to Manhattan we also drove through Connecticut. Due to the long car trip—why is sitting in a car so tiring?—I saw much of my home from ages 5 - 11 through half-closed eyes. Our old house, my old elementary school, various personal landmarks. We also drove through Floral Park, my home from ages 0 - 5, and my state was about the same.

We arrived in New York. Actually, we drove through the city the night before we had planned to arrive because we couldn’t wait to see it. It set us back a few hours but it was a lot of fun. I had imagined what it would look like for a long time but really had no idea what to expect. We hardly left Times Square and never left the car, and I was still so tired. It was absolutely surreal; my memories from that night were of places that I don’t think I could ever see again in quite the same way.

Trying to sleep after that, my head was screaming at me. It happens sometimes when I get anxious: I can’t think at a normal “volume.” It’s not quite a headache; my thoughts just get loud and I hear lots of noise. I cued up some Sigur Rós on my iPod, went to sleep, and was perfectly fine the next morning, ready to start again.

I hope that today has been the low point of this return after a long absence. That is, I hope that things don’t get worse than they did today. I try—very hard—not to complain about anything, because all told I am very satisfied with my life, in general and almost always specifically as well. But a personal blog is the epitome of vanity so if you’re reading this then you’re probably willing to indulge me anyway.

I woke up extremely early, feeling rather uneasy about my situation. I felt a lot of tension around me and I believe it was only partly my imagination. I tried to leave quietly and enjoy a peaceful day to myself in the city. My plan was fouled immediately, as the exterior door to the apartment building only locks from the inside without a key. I wasn’t going to take someone’s keys, so someone had to be woken up. It was quick and harmless but my plans were, as far as I was concerned, already ruined. I had disturbed someone. Two people, in fact.

Also, it was cold. I grabbed just enough clothing the night before to bring to Brooklyn as I would need the following morning. It was strangely warm yesterday so I didn’t bring a coat. I also didn’t bring my computer. I wouldn’t need these things and I could just get them later anyway. I bought breakfast, went to church, caught up on the internet (see last post). And then five hours passed while I watched my phone die slowly and then became confined to the computer in the office. Without Google Voice I would have been all but hosed.

I thought my day was turning around when I finally shuffled, shivering, to Pizza Mercato (it was COLD and I haven’t felt cold since last year). As I was handed my two slices, One More Time came on the radio. When was the last time you heard Daft Punk on the radio (not accompanying Kanye West)? This was surely a sign.

But the track was a bad edit and the pizza wasn’t as good as I remembered it and I felt sick. I knew the sickness was anxiety and frustration but I couldn’t shake it. About an hour later I got my things. They’re now here, at Tisch, where I can have constant access to them.

I haven’t named names not to protect anyone’s identity—it’s painfully obvious who I am talking about—but because none of this was the fault of anyone I’m talking about. Or if it was, the causes were so disconnected from the effects that it rounds down to being a series of unfortunate coincidences and innocent misunderstandings. While I’m complaining, I’m certainly not placing blame. I just need to let this out.

After I got my things and plugged in my phone I walked to SoHo to look at some clothes. I thought this might cheer me up. I found some nice shoes at Topman and an interesting coat at UNIQLO but nothing was fitting right and I still felt miserable. I tried to cheer myself up, to let it go, but I couldn’t. Still can’t, really. I walked back here, to the office, where I am now.

What would make me feel better is a bed of my own, a perfectly unused bathroom. Trivial comfort items. Is it homesickness? Not really, because I’m not pining for any real location. Just the idea of having a home. Maybe that still counts.

I’m also fully aware that these things are currently unobtainable. I keep saying that it feels like I never left, except for the fact that I don’t have keys. Hint: the keys are a symbol. It’s okay, it took me a while to figure that out too. But I do not have the money right now to even entertain a lease. I’ll look at apartments, sure—I’m warming up to Nolita, which is rather charming and seems generally cheaper than Union Square—but it will be exactly one week before I have a proper bed to myself again, and that will be because I’ll have just returned to California.

This isn’t how Sundays are supposed to feel. I’m going to bed—awake strangely early, asleep strangely early—and hopefully some rest (and probably some more Sigur Rós) will lift my spirits.

If nothing else I’ve learned that comfort really is a priority over location. And that’s a damn important thing to have learned.