Remember Me As A Time in The eye of every storm

Cold this morning again. One last glance at the bony fingers of pecan trees draping over the purple sky, the sun merely a thought or hope of a promise the day would bring. One last look at a place I stayed for three months with nothing but the grace of two friends. Breath visible, hands in pockets, and collars turned up. Driving into The City, the buildings still neon-alight, and behind, the truck bed packed with the things that make up a life. Bed frames, drum-sets, guitars and amps. A nightstand. A lamp. Hopes and dreams. Thoughts and prayers.

Most of the furniture being new and delivered, it wasn’t a hassle; rather simple really. It’s just things. It’s just stuff. George Carlin once said we only have houses for the sole purpose of keeping our stuff. I tend to agree. There’s nothing against stuff here, just a recognition of what is truly needed, and the gratitude for the things over the requirements for necessity. The items I’m grateful for are in a nice, neatly stacked pile in the center of the new Loft in the City. It’s on Main Street, USA. Literally, that is the name of the street: Main. If one were to search for The City, the gold star in the center of the metropolis, if expanded all the way to the individual blocks, would be a mere few feet from my new place.

I have always loved living in The City. Surrounded by the large buildings, testaments of grandeur and promise. The train system, close, reasonable and timely. There’s the neighbors, all crammed together in the high-rises, and a certain community, a sense of belonging naturally develops. It’s an us versus the world thing and we can see the outsiders. I used to ascribe to this manner of thinking, but I am not sure I do anymore. We’re all just people, just doing people things, trying to ebb and flow through each others decisions without taking the consequences to personally.

The loft is small, a mere 672 square feet, but its got the spaces for the bed, the living room, the cable vision. After we piled my stuff neatly in the center, I opened the window. The sun lit the urban environment in magnificent hues of stone. Twelve stories below, cars sounded their horns, people scuttled this way and that. There was a hum and it felt alive, and in that moment, I felt reborn. Great trauma’s befell the last four years, and there is a feeling of resolution now, of moving forward, of leaving the past behind, glancing through a twelve stories high window-pane and not just seeing into the future, but seeing myself as a part of the future.

Today they are cleaning it and tossing on a fresh coat of paint, which I’ll probably just repaint in the near future. I’ve always been partial to my own color schemes and faux-finishes. Tonight, I hope for my first night alone in the new loft. i know I may not be able to sleep- acclimating to the new noise of The City, and I’m okay with this. There’s not much in this life, and the new loft is just more stuff. Yet, along with the moments of cold beneath pecan trees, watching breath dissipate into the atmosphere, and standing twelve stories high watching the world come alive, I am grateful for these moments. This stuff is mine.