Friday, April 09, 2010


So here's the thing: sometimes I think how could I possibly live here, without the typical markers to make me feel comfort: a public transportation system that works, public sex spaces or cruising, the density of an urban core, people out late at night. But then I think: maybe that's why I should live here.

I'm walking around with Wheels, trying to find the intersection that would work for me -- probably this one neighborhood that's almost downtown, with a little bit of nightlife and health food stores nearby, the only bus that runs more than every half hour -- I guess it would be this neighborhood. I look for buildings where I could have a view -- most one-bedrooms here are little cottages in the back, most buildings are one-story -- I want to see the mountains, but then I'd probably need to move further from the center, and I think I would have to live as close to the center as possible in order to feel something like comfort, see people on the street, walk around late at night and hear at least a few voices.

Every day I think yes, of course I should do it, and then I think no, I'll feel impossibly lonely, and then I think yes, of course I should do it, and then I really don't have a clue at all. When I step outside at the beginning of the day, I can't believe all this air, but later my seasonal allergies kick in -- sore throat and jaw -- and then there's the altitude, which makes my energy leap and then crash, like when I get all upset that I missed two voicemail messages from my hopeful craigslist hookup -- he's an artist, how could I have missed those messages?

Later, but the night before, there’s a walk that ends up with me out of breath but somehow so sensual, like the feeling of taking my socks on and off is so fucking hot -- out of breath from the altitude, into breath, into breath, into.

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