December 8th, 2007


new york is the new new york

I am now 70% moved in. One load left to ferry: toothbrush, fluffy blanket, pillow. And then the movers come on Sunday and drive my boxes across Manhattan, and I am officially a Brooklynite. Yay!

The stress of working all day and moving all night has produced some bizarre yet realistic memory-salad dreams this week. Among them:

  • Riding through Edison to James Madison Elementary School on a tiny experimental motorbike--the kind where you pedal most of the time and stomp on the gas only when you need a boost. It is completely overcast today, so the sky is an empty gray slate. I do not know how to ride a motorbike, so I keep accelerating too fast and bumping into things, but otherwise it's great--I soon get the hang of coasting both up and down hills, and the rows of maples and parked SUVs seem to float right by. Sam Krulewitch is riding ahead of me on his bicycle, and whenever I crash into the curb after crossing an intersection he looks back, grinning stupidly, and asks if I am okay. Anna's "Little Icarus" is playing in the background, and the road feels so light and smooth it's like I'm not pedaling at all.

  • I have a second dad. No, I don't have gay parents in this dream, and my parents are still my parents. But somehow it is revealed that I have another dad who somehow contributed one third of my genes. He is a crass but erudite Irish alcoholic with huge hairy arms who is very bitter and very self-important, and he is where I get the writing from. He takes me to Menlo Park Mall for some father-son time, and it doesn't go very well. He tries so hard to be witty to random ladies that he comes off as being very rude, and he hits on the sixteen-year-old Pretzel Time girl, and when we come out of the Cineplex Odeon he won't stop bitching to me about the movie. He's got a biting wit, but he always uses it at the worst possible times, and this makes him come off as a class-A douchebag. He makes me miss my actual dad. And yet I tolerate him, because there's this unmistakable feeling that he's part of me.

    Why do I keep dreaming about New Jersey? It's so weird that now that I physically live in the city where a lot of my dreams take place (Hsinchu-Cleveland is New York! It all makes sense now!), my dreams keep going to other places instead.

    Tonight on the West 4th Street stop on the A line I saw a really talented drummer slamming out a complex uptempo beat on a pair of plastic paint buckets, and every couple minutes a group of NYU students coming down the stairs would stop in front of him to dance. I don't mean just nodding their heads and tapping their feet, either--they were skanking, moshing, flailing, screaming, spinning, hopping around in giddy delirium. I love this city so damn much.
    • Current Music
      Anna Leuchtenberger - Little Icarus (2007 version)
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