There are those times when music seems to perfectly narrate my life at that moment. Listening to the Smashing Pumpkins’ “Landslide” as I ran five miles before school..or the Fugees’ “No Woman No Cry” as my friends and I swung off the cliffs into the lake…or Rob Zombies’ “More Human than Human” as I raced through Atlanta in my Civic.

This evening I pulled on my rollerblades and slipped in the Pete Yorn CD. Over the next hour, the music perfectly fit the emotions flickering inside of me. His music is so…so smooth, slightly melancholy, insightful, and cuddly. I road from 151st Street down to 110th, then through Central Park. I carved my way on the paths under the trees, around the lake, past the green fields mottled with people hiding from the skyscrapers. I was in my own little world, my music and my speed was my mask that let me stay away from those around me.

Central Park is such a remedy for New York. When the wailing sirens, honking taxis, and banging subways become too much, you run into the woods, hands clasped over your ears like a child. I’ve never seen anything like it. It is almost a sacred place. People live and die by this park.

My feet were hot and blistered, so I pulled off my skates at the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Wow! This place is so huge that you almost need a three-day pass to absorb it all. The Egyptian collection alone is a museum within itself. I felt like Indiana Jones, passing from one section to the next, my own little adventure through ancient worlds. The atrium (I guess you would call it) is so expansive and expensive feeling. The musicians upstairs pulled their bows across their strings, saturating the air with timeless music. This place is cool.

(You know, I wasn’t sure if I liked walking around the museum alone or not. I enjoyed going at my own pace, but I wonder if I would enjoy it more with some one else. )

Pat, Tory, and I threw a party tonight at our apartment. Tory is moving back to Seattle, Pat is having a birthday and is going to Africa for a little bit, and I am moving to Phoenix. Our pad looked so clean and pimped out, begging for people to celebrate. The place quickly filled up with friends from around the city. The diversity of people there boggled my mind. It was like our own little Real World house brimming with eccentric personalities from unique backgrounds–New York is just like that. The life of the party was Master (Masta), the patriarch of the block. He is a Harlem native beyond belief!

I remember my first night in Harlem. I was tired, scared, and thinking, “What the hell am I doing here?” There we were, the three roomies: Tory, Pat, and me. Three white boys in Harlem. lol!

:::

(ah…she is so…so–I love her so much. It hurts that we can’t be together, that we weren’t meant to be together, that these emotions and feelings can’t be solidified with wedding vows. Am I young and confused? What aren’t we, why are we?)

Going away.