I remember sitting in my 4 bedroom apartment on the top floor of an old Victorian on the Berkeley/Oakland border, surrounded by the smell of lingering weed smoke, hot sauce, and 19 year old male. I had been living with three boys for the better part of the year, and was sick of watching Braveheart and the Food Network, although part of me longs for those days now. Whenever I'm asked why I moved back to New York from the mellow sunshine of Northern California, this memory comes to mind.
Curled up with my pseudo brothers on our oversized futon couch, watching Eternal Sunshine, bursting into tears over the flimsy fence on the dunes of a snowy Long Island beach. This was the one thing I missed most about home-- the confusing texture of your foot searching for stable ground below snow, only to find more moveable particles.
I haven't watched the film since, and it played in McCarren Park tonight. I am stuck in bed paying for my weekend, where I spent most of my day talking to one of those boys. Tomorrow I have doctors appointments all morning, and that brings me back to that Victorian house-- with the graffiti "Get Well" USPS sticker and paint marker drawn rose on my bedroom door.
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