The five stages of grief read like the last few months of my life. These stages are: denial, anger, bargaining*, depression, and acceptance. What’s worse is I haven’t quite reached acceptance yet. I’m still wallowing in the depression phase of it all with brief interludes of extreme highs, disguised as denial. In fact, I’ve been in denial so long that I’ve had to skip past anger, done a little bargaining in the form of booking a trip to New York, and now I find myself wallowing in a black hole of depression. I guess the only consolation -the light at the end of the Holland tunnel if you will - is that thing called ‘acceptance,’ not to be mistaken with New Jersey. Being that as it may, due to city wide power outages, (#3rdWorldProblems), the light is currently not working and I find myself stumbling along in the dark, with no direction home.
There being no light I spend most of my days living in some empty nostalgic haze dreaming of what once was. Baz Lurhman said in that ‘Sun Screen’ song that nostalgia is a way of fishing away the past from the disposal, whipping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more then its worth. Or was the advice? Either way, New York and my two-year love affair with her, didn’t really have too many ugly parts. Oh sure, she’s got her problems. Garbage bag aromas on a stinking hot day in August that manages to ruin that perfect Marilyn Monroe moment, as some unsuspecting beauty steps over a subway grid; the fire engine catching you off guard as it blasts its horn into your ear, causing your head and heart to throb like an obese woman caught in a lasso; the jerk who jumps in front of you to steal your cab on a freezing January night; February in general; Wall street preppy’s; the tattooed up hipster in your local coffee shop who insists on playing Regina Spektor all day – I know she’s quirky and so are you. We get it! Now return to your old school game boy strapped around your neck, and throw something on the speakers that doesn’t resemble your non-prescription glasses or ironic moustache. (Oops there’s some of that anger).
But for me our time together was just mostly good. Free comedy shows with Zach Galifianakis; watching The Dude abide on the Brooklyn promenade with a lit up Manhattan skyline in the background; Method Man crowd surfing; Julian Casablancas crowd surfing; The Gorillaz at MSG; The Black Keys at a ‘secret location’; James Blake in Williamsburg; Woody Allen films on opening weekend; The Yankees in the Bronx; supporting Spain in a German beer garden; Halloween; Halloween again; Santacon; Christmas and a desperate, yet ultimately feeble attempt, to find small town girls in fur boots, huddled around a roaring fire, with whiskey filled coco and an inviting smile; joy riding around the city in a coupe; The Frying Pan on a sunny weekend evening; conversations with ‘pizza’ girl; watching an ‘ex-cheer leader’ demonstrate her ‘skills’ in a closed off Thompson’s Square Park; Boom Bar; the girl that got away at Boom Bar; cheering on Luis Goodman as he makes his way down St Marks; Hurricane Clemze; Sasha visits; Emma visits; screening my thesis to a bunch of strangers and some friends; porn star conversations; singing ‘Where The Streets Have No Name’ on an empty Wall Street without even a hint of irony; Summerstage; being ‘caught out’ at the Standard; The Standard Beer Garden; dinner and breakfast with the face of Africa (thanks pops); Ludlow street; rooftop bars; Chelsea market; fake plastic trees on fake plastic beaches; pub crawling with the rugby team; the return of Lauren Hill; Wu Tang, Wu tang, the list goes on and on.
Like any relationship there are far too many memories to recount them all into something manageable. But it’s never the big events that one remembers most. It’s those moments in between. Life is what happens when you’re making plans. Closing a restaurant over shallow or heavy dinner conversations; watching the city being reduced to a small town by massive snow storms and the snowball fights that ensue; walking home on a Friday evening, ipod in hand, a cold beer or whiskey waiting for you when you get back; the first bite into a chipotle burrito, (never did get to the last); sitting in a plunge pool on a mates roof; bike rides up the Hudson; sitting on 2 Gold rooftop talking shit; watching the boats go up and down the Hudson as Lady Liberty gives you a cheeky wink; dolphin taming and dolphin training conversations; mancunian swagger; retelling stories of the previous night with old pals on couches, while you slug back a couple of myprodols and prepare yourself for another adventure filled day; brunch by yourself; brunch with friends; people watching at BUA; people watching in general; meeting some of the craziest, coolest, most full of shit people I’ve ever come across, MOMA days and nights; beer pong; flip cup; flip pong; the Manhattan skyline; having an accent – “Why yes I do have an accent and yes I suppose it is kind of enduring the way I use words like ‘inconvenient’ and ‘howzit’. By Jove look at the time. Best be putting the kettle on the boil. I’m yearning for a fresh cuppa. Freshen your drink guvna? Howzit bru. Your place or mine?”
I encounter these memories on a daily basis all of which seem to come flooding back on some idle week night. I’m tempted to text New York. Send her inappropriate messages that I’ll end up regretting in the morning and sometimes I do. The only consolation is that one day I won’t get horribly drunk, stumble into New York again in some dive bar, and make an ass of myself, saying, “Look at me now New York. Look at what I’ve become. I’ve found a new woman, that’s better then you. She has more fire, more excitement, more charisma then you’ve ever had. Her names Wanda. Rrrrrraaaaa wanda to you!”
But I guess I’m slowly coming to terms with the ultimate burn. New York was never mine to begin with, even though she made me feel that way. The moment I stepped off the tarmac she’d moved on. She’d already made plans for that night and weekend ahead. Cavorting with her many other lovers. Slut! But I guess that’s why I was attracted to her in the first place. I’m always been attracted to ‘free spirited women’ I can’t have…
And while I still refuse to accept that we don’t ultimately belong together I’m not going to revert to anger. There’s nothing to be angry about. New York City and the people in it have given me the best years of my life. How could I be angry with someone like that? She might have moved on a little, her inhabitants changed, her tastes evolved, but her glorious, imperfect, edifices remain and will for some time. Her intoxicating energy will endure through thick and thin, and one day I shall return to continue my love affair with the city that’s given me all of her greatness and then some.
Wait, I think I see a light….
*Bargaining refers to: trying to establish a new relationship. This usually involves trying to be friends with your ex which generally doesn't work out.
