| 4th and F Street |
[Aug. 25th, 2010|06:05 pm]
6 5 2
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Stupid pots. They don't hold together, and they are making it very difficult to hold anything else as I make a few final trips to my car. Pressing the down button for the elevator, two lids make a leap for the mauve carpet and land with a clang. I clumsily crouch down to pick them up as the elevator arrives with a bing.
I'm standing at the window, looking down at my beloved city. Cars are passing by, the familiar tops of buildings stand proud in the blazing afternoon heat. I sigh. I've never been so sad to leave a place before. The charming studio looked impersonal and cold with all of my stuff gone. It almost seemed like it had turned its back on me; it's too good for me now, and someone with the fire and excitement to live downtown will inhabit it tomorrow. Good riddance to the girl that's returning to the suburbs.
For a moment my heart sinks. Hadn't I loved this life? Hadn't I meticulously chosen this beautiful spot, grateful that I had the money, had the resolve, and had the exciting saga that seemed perfect for this adventure?
Dammit, there's still food in this refrigerator. Why can't I be strategic and thorough?
It always feels strange toting random belongings away when you leave an old residence for the last time. I leave things that are important for last; a couple guitars, my computer, a box of fragile statuettes and a dried rose that Beuchert gave me the night my dad died. I left Bill Murray for last too, the faux gecko that I tack to random walls to remind me of life in Costa Rica. It's the things that confound me.
I found myself in tears recently, burying my face in the chest of a man I no longer loved, drawn only to his embrace by familiarity. He was moving out of the condo we rented together, and our things, his things, were scattered haphazardly around the living room, the room we toiled over for several summer nights, painting and bickering. Those things, that painting, that couch, that entertainment center, they were just so familiar. And seeing them in disarray, when I'd already started moving on with my life, crippled me with hysterical tears. He didn't know what to do but hold me, like he always did. It seemed to disrespectful to the memory of our life, to see it in such a mess.
But love always ends in a heap, doesn't it?
The city below me, as I looked out the windows of my downtown apartment this afternoon, seemed to charm me and beckon me, to the thrill of my single life, before him. Two blocks away, a community of habitual alcoholics await, regardless of the day, always in that corner of Gaslamp Tavern. I couldn't find that devotion to spirits, but to the community, I pledged my support. I know they are there still, even as I've left, shooting shots, sipping ales, and waiting for... well, for God knows what.
I'll miss it. I'll daydream wistfully now and again about that time I was living the single life, in the middle of everything, learning that I don't need anyone.
But as the lyrics of Jewel found me in my car in my last time pulling out of the parking garage, I realized that this downtown bliss was, indeed, me standing still. I need to move now, for progress, for love, or perhaps only for the sake of momentum.
Crap, I left the shower curtain... |
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