The birds chirped. Leaves pranced merrily along the pavement. Echoing winds accentuated a charming portrait of the town hamlet.
“Wait, town hamlet? This is the East Village. How is it so eerily quiet and peaceful on Tuesday afternoon?” asked I. Strolling up Avenue A, I avoided jamming to music and savored in the lack of background noise.
My inner Walt Whitman, Ezra Pound & James Joyce, longed to write exquisite poetry. Artistically, I pulled out my journal. Taking in a deep breath, I longed to scribble down beautiful words, which described my great time of need.
Instead, a monster jumped out of the bushes and slaughtered my attention span. “Oh shit, I was going to write the next “Leaves of Grass,” but I think I’ll go on Facebook, instead. Everyone on Facebook land is just dying to see (more) marvelous photos of a traditional Northeast fall,” said I.
“I’ll write the next Leaves of Grass right after this next status update,” said I. Instead of amusing the world with witty banter and funky photos, I messaged one of my best friends.
Rather than talking of beautiful scenery, I broke down through Facebook messenger. “I’m still unemployed and can’t find a job,” wrote I, with tears, which mirrored a monsoon season.
“You should go spend December in California. It’s going to be slow here, in regards to finding work,” she wrote back. As I stared across the East River with Queens & Brooklyn glistening in the sun, emotion ran rampant. “I’ll consider it,” I wrote.
Instantly, I daydreamed of taking the dream trip to Portland along with visiting my dad in California. “I could drink organic coffee, grow a beard, jam to my favorite 90’s alternative band, hike in lovely cardigans and it’s only a two hour flight from my hometown,” said I.
As soon as I daydreamed of California and Portland, the city dazzled me again. Pretty window displays, high fashion, and frosty weather enticed the senses. I didn’t want to miss out on the holiday season.
“Fuck it,” said I. That very evening, I booked my ticket to the left coast. I lost the fear of missing out on New York-ness (which I have experienced countless times before) and was headed to old familiar, California and the new flannel, loving frontier, Portland.
My bohemian retreat commenced, a few days later. I stuffed my favorite cardigans, sweaters and pea coats into a carry-on, ready to be paraded around Portland.
Taking another gander at my apartment, I declared, “See you on January 1st, New York. When I comeback, I’ll have a journal filled with new stories,” said I, confidentially. Channeling Ernest Hemingway, I set off for a new literary adventure. Waving good-bye to the Manhattan skyline, I was ready to re-conquer the West Coast.
