twenty-something

It's not often than someone writes such an articulate, thoughtful, and touching (not to mention long) comment on this blog. But the other day, I got a meaty surprise in the dusty comment desert.

So in case you missed it, here's some sage wisdom from the handsome and multi-talented (why did I rank "handsome" before "multi-talented"?) Mark from Absolut Barillius, commenting on this post:

It's like every gay boy dreams to move away from home and make it in the Big City. No, scratch that. It's not just gay boys -- it spans all people, I think, to some extent. But sometimes it just doesn't end up fitting, for whatever reason.

I know you don't need or want advice, I am the same in that respect; it just ends up making you feel a bit queasy (if it's the opposite of what your gut tells you) or a bit skeptical (if it's the same). But for what it's worth, I will give my two cents.

I think you're right about New York. I too feel it's a temporary destination. An absolutely fantastic temporary destination, but temporary nonetheless. Ultimately I see you someplace different -- there are so many other cities that aren't as overwhelmingly dense and fabled as New York.

I feel that New York is a place so many people have lived and called their own. It's almost as if, over the years, they've sucked the life out of it -- when I'm there I don't feel myself. Rather, I feel as if I'm trying to live up to someone else's song lyrics or prose or poetry or photographs. You can't even walk down the street without thinking about that. It's a great feeling, for a while, but ultimately you're left with this feeling of defeat. It's just so daunting to tackle the place -- not because of its physical size, but because of the collective power of the stuff that exists about it.

So I say go find another city that's a little less popular. Someplace with some more trees or a mountain or two close by. Maybe the west coast, maybe the south. But ultimately, one you are eventually able to call your very own, rather than having to live in the shadows of millions of others' definitions.

(And way to upstage me on my own damn blog. I keed, I keed.)

If you're like me, you have a list of songs that you'd just have sing if you had any talent. A list, perhaps, of tunes you'd whip out at a karaoke bar (if you wouldn't embarrass yourself). Or, as I like to imagine, a collection of covers that you'd impress audiences with if you were an acclaimed singer-songwriter.

I may possess no music talent (save for the uncanny ability to create amazing mix CDs from my sizable iTunes Library), but I do have unrealistic dreams -- and a list.

On top of said list is my favorite "folk" song of all time, a tune called "Once I Was" by Tim Buckley (Jeff's father). I would simply have to cover this song, and I would totally do it, and Mr. Buckley, justice. It's somewhat heartbreaking, but it's lyrics and music are quite beautiful... Give it a listen.

Full lyrics after the break.

But despite all these things, yes, yes, I have a maple leaf tattooed on my right leg.

Though I never blogged about the experience, I got this tattoo -- my first and, thus far, only one -- back in March, right after I quit my job. The maple leaf, to me, is a symbol of Vermont and my heritage, and the long-time joke that pure VT maple syrup runs through my veins. (I'm sweet, yo.)

I planned to get the tattoo back in '03 after graduating from the University of Vermont and planning to leave the state. Due to lack of funds, I didn't get the ink done and I'd regretted it ever since. When I ended up back in Burlington, I vowed I'd scar myself forever whenever I decided to leave again.

Now, wherever I go, I can look down at my leg and think of my home. Dorky as that may sound, it does bring me some comfort.

So there you have it -- the coming out party for my little ol' maple leaf tattoo.

No, not the W Hotel in Union Square -- but here in Manhattan. Do I want to live here past the summer?

That's the question that's been hovering. I've been living here, here in New York City, for 46 days now. The summer is, essentially, past it's half-way mark and I am here on a trial basis, afterall. Soon, very soon, a decision will have to be made about the future.

I've done a lot of living here in 46 days. I've kept busy, perhaps a bit too busy, and had some good times. I've eaten well. Drank my share. I've watched a Red Sox game in a gay sports bar. I've been out a bunch. Been out for my birthday. Been on some dates. Walked many miles, met many new people. Seen some good theater, lots of random celebrities. Seen Superman in IMAX. Twice.

There's a lot to love here. But there's also a lot to hate.

I will say this -- the honeymoon is over. New York is kicking my ass. The concrete and flesh have gotten to me. To me, it's not the size of New York that's daunting, it's what's crammed into the space. And the people here -- not just the quantity, but the quality... I've met some very nice people here, but I've also encountered many, many not-so-nice people. Seen them do some not-so-nice things. Been the brunt of some of that, too. And I, of course, take it all to heart.

Just this morning my nose was assaulted by human urine, donuts, ammonia, and teriyaki sauce -- all while sitting in tiny Madison Square Park for about ten minutes before work.

I miss the smell of fresh-cut grass and cow shit. I'm so completely homesick it's beyond that, it's moved to heartbreak. I'm mourning the loss of so much, my old life, my old home, my old love...

But I am happy I am here. For now. I have absolutely no regrets. This is the experience I wanted, that I needed, and I've learned so much already. It's the start of a journey -- whether that's one here in New York, or in Boston, or elsewhere -- a journey that is not taking me back to Vermont, at least not yet. But the next step is my call and I'm not having fun making it.

Break out The Clash, baby. "Should I stay or should I go?"