Locations.

Location, Location, Location.

I know there are people who can come and go from places with ease, who have moved about so often that specific walls don’t take up space in their hearts.

I am not one of those people. I carry the places I have been with me everyday.  

The safety of my childhood home was so reassuring that I tattooed the front door key so I can carry that feeling with me - forever.

That structure is the only place I have ever truly considered home. I would grow up and then crumble down those walls so many times that when I replanted myself at eighteen years old, my soil had been turned over, nurtured enough to thrive in a new climate.

The walls of my Nannie & Pop Pop’s beach house were such a solace, I tattooed a sketch of it on me so I can persevere - forever. 

That family house was a place filled with warmth and togetherness. It was relaxing and refreshing. I have countless memories that are fantastic, hilarious, heartbreaking, ridiculous and everything in between. For 25 summers I would be kicked out of my bed, fed and then sent up the path to the beach by 11am. 

The beach rule was:  No returning before 4pm.

(When we were young, we’d sneak back to the house so we could watch TV in the basement.)

(As we got older,  we’d sneak back for “refills” and smoke below the deck, crouching in the backyard shower.)

It’s not only spaces with walls that are protected by keys.

I have a deep appreciation for open space, land, nature, and the freedom of it all. 

The air across Wyoming encouraged growth during my toughest bouts of standing still. I carry a charm of the area code around my neck to remind me that life is a series of seasons.

I must also cycle through changes -To die, decay, and resurrect- forever.

With age I’ve covered a lot of ground. Some were temporary stays or sublets but each set of walls held an era that I seem to consider them by. 

There was home, there were stays at families houses on and off over the years but as far as independent spaces go, I have had many eras. 

I had Hudson St, where we painted all the walls.

An era of training, of plotting, of partying. 

I made my way across the river, past the island and onto Yellowstone Blvd. 

An era of pain, of misunderstanding, of realization. 

I desperately needed a new space, and was offered Van Nostrand. 

An era of desperation - one we will revisit. 

I found myself frantically making my way to Fort Place, to live alone.

An era of self reliance, struggle, loneliness. 

I found that was only temporary and panicked once again. 

Once again, the doors to Van Nostrand were opened wide. 

It’s a blue house with a red door and holding the smallest room I’ve ever lived in.  It wasn’t a planned move, it wasn’t a spacious room and it wasn’t totally my choice. I stayed on and off for almost 5 years.

I haven’t lived there since the end of 2019 but I when I moved the last of my stuff out - oh the treasures I found.

I found items from each era stored away. I found hidden gems from college, notes from long lost loves and friends, my Beatles lunch box and my grandfather's copy of The Iliad.  

 I sobbed as I held these gems and notes. 

I sobbed when I spotted the photos I had left behind on the wall by my bed.

 I sobbed sitting on the stoop while I smoked a cigarette. 

I sobbed, for the millionth time, in the comfort of this space I never intended to call home. 

I drove away, leaving it in the distance to never cross paths again, leaving the structure behind but taking the lessons learned with me - forever. 

I’ve had temporary homes across 3 states since I moved out of Van Nostrand. I’ve had time to grow in each environment but I will always make my way to the city. I’ve had to replant myself many times and will again, I’m sure. 

I hope I can be nurtured once again. Have a space to call home and mean it. 

I hope I can thrive despite the dry feeling of the soil.