Sunday, February 9, 2014

Between the Bars: 223 13th Street #17, Brooklyn

It was almost 227, which made us all laugh. 4th floor walkup with a long hallway from our front door past the bathroom into the living space, a galley kitchen with a small space for an Ikea folding tabletop—the kitchen led to the smallest “bedroom”, a tiny closet-less room with a huge window that overlooked the courtyard--mostly full of garbage, weird smells and sounds. There were 3 bedrooms. My bedroom was off of the living room. It was very un-private, but the largest of the 3 bedrooms, with two large windows overlooking 13th Street. My first roommates were Derek, who was my friend’s little brother, and his buddy from college, Matt, a.k.a., the Broken Tool. Later Ashlee and Kendra moved in—a much better roommate situation although they brought a bit more drama and more responsibility. There were hosts of guests from Ohio, guests from dance camp, and Derek's friends from college. After Ash and Kendra moved out, toward the end of my time at 223, Matt moved in and a subletter named something like “Diego.” Matt dabbled in drugs and the nighttime obsessions, that New York is so full of. We danced and drank and partied ourselves stupid. 


After reading Auster’s book Winter Journal, I want to write my own story of the body and buildings of my lives. I'm not a copycat, but that's where this is coming from. I have had so many places that I lived, so many lovers, scars, defeats, and migrations. I wonder how many can openers Paul bought. Does he remember his first can opener? (He hasn't mentioned so far in the book.)  I am in need of a new one at present and can’t think about going to a store to buy one. I think every time I move I need to buy a new can opener. I remember the Broken Tool brought one with him into 223 but took it when he left, along with other things like the stereo, our one "good" knife,  and the Nintendo. I managed to be slightly pissed that he took the can opener. It was his, after all, but buying a new can opener was just another sign of how my life was then—transition after transition, lover after lover, day after day, bourbon after bourbon. Nothing was permanent. Not even things like can openers that you expect to stick around--even those things had a way of walking off.