It has been almost two months since I turned my life around again. It seems like my life has a lot of turning around. My house is almost at the point where I have everything I need, and I can start working on making it cozy. It’s not cozy yet. I have packed and moved so many times, I have left everything I like behind so many times, that I didn’t understand why my partner insisted in bringing kick-knacks, artwork, stuff he likes. I just locked everything in a room and off we went. Now I get it. The areas with his stuff are cozy. Mine are empty, new, clean. They have no story. They could be anybody’s.
Several years ago I bough a ukulele in London, in a small street a friend sent me to filled with music stores and magical energy. It’s made of a very nice smelling (and sounding) wood. I didn’t play it much because I had a beautiful guitar that I played pretty badly but loved. (Actually, I bought my first guitar when I left Mexico because I had to leave my drums behind but not the music). I don’t know why I didn’t bring my ukulele. It would have been fitting to have it here, but perhaps I am addicted to starting from scratch.
As a tourist, riding the New York subway was one of my favorite things. Now I take it every day to work and back. Riding the subway is now part of my new routine. Last week we were walking in Central Park and I thought that when I get tired, I can go back home. Home. I live in New York. It hits me in small doses of awe, and then I have to block it. It’s too much to handle.
I was planning on writing how hard it is to be away when my close friends are dealing with something I should be there for. And how hard it is to be away from three girls that taught me what boundless love feels like, how hard it is to not hold their little faces in my hands. I thought maybe writing about it would make it easier but that, as well, is a bit too much to handle.
I’m letting go of my grip, making way for all this new stuff I need to make space for.