Devil Monkey Boy

In August of last year, I decided to move to New York City. I can safely say it was the toughest decision I've ever made. Tough because I love my friends. Tough because I love Minneapolis. Tough because I fear change. So I wrote this post to my LiveJournal, both for myself and for my friends. Tomorrow will be the one year anniversary of my arrival in New York, so it seems like a good time to revisit what I said then. As it turns out, it is just as true now.

--------------

When I was growing up, we had a maple tree in our front yard. This tree was a thing of beauty. It was the tree that taught me what trees are, or at least what they should be. It had a thick trunk that rose about six feet or so before the branches exploded outward in every direction, supporting a perfectly coiffed arboreal Afro. It was the kind of tree that made perfect strangers return with their camera. This happened mostly in the Fall, but occasionally in the Spring, Summer, and even once in the Winter during a magical frost-covered day.

I was a climber from a very young age. On family vacations, my mom would feel a cold rush of panic as I scampered up, down, and across rocks... to the edge of cliffs... over safety railings... and so on. At home I had to content myself with trees and scaling along the edge of my neighbors' split-level. Confined to my own yard, I had two options: the apple tree in the back, or the maple in the front. Actually, that's not true. When you're three feet tall, you only had one option: the apple. It was a good enough tree, and resulted in a yearly bounty of apple sauces, pies, and ammunition for neighborhood wars. Its welcoming branches offered many steps and handles, so that even the most novice climber could join in the fun. And fun it certainly was, but not very challenging.

I don't think I spent much time agonizing over the fact that I couldn't climb the maple. I was a kid. When you're a kid, there are lots of things you can't do, so you keep busy with what you can do. But that near-mythic tree loomed large in my mental landscape, next to a crudely painted sign that read simply, "Someday."

It was summer, and we had family over. It was probably my birthday, given those particulars. But that's not what I remember. I remember standing in front of the tree. I reached up, and the tips of my fingers brushed the lowest branch. "Yes," I thought. "Finally. I can make it. If I jump, I can make it." I didn't make it on my first attempt, but I got close enough to know with certainty that it could be done. Finally I found myself with my arms around the thick bough, hanging there. I hadn't really thought past that point, but it seemed like the thing to do would be to pull myself up. Tough to do when you've got pipe-cleaner arms, though not quite as bad when you've got a pipe-cleaner body to match. A battle of wills ensued between me and that harsh mistress, Gravity. We've fought many times over the years, and I've rarely come out the better for it. But this time, I was the victor. I found myself sitting on the branch, legs dangling on either side.

What was it about that day? If I had tried the day before, I probably would have succeeded. But I didn't try then. I just wasn't ready to try. I climbed the maple when I was ready to climb the maple.


--------------


At the end of October of 1996, I went to New York City for the first time. The city didn't scare me, not initially in any case. I'd been to London, Paris, Rome... big fuck-off modern metropoli, and foreign to boot. I was ready for New York. Ready enough for a tourist, in any case. Plus I had two excellent guides in the forms of Cordelia and Christopher.

The seed was planted on that very first visit. "What if...?" the question began. It usually ended there, too. It was an idea too overwhelming to even give inner voice to, let alone speak aloud. Over the course of the following years, I visited D and Chris many times. Their friends became my friends, and their city my city. The seed slowly grew. "What if I moved...?" I was finally able to venture. But the very idea scared the hell out of me. I could visit, sure, but to live there? Still, there was something that kept me coming back to this idea. The city sells itself. Each visit added more entries to the Pro column, plus one or two on the Con side of things. The city sells itself, yeah, but it's also its own worst critic.

Eight years later, I'm standing here looking at what that seed became. Maybe I could have climbed it last year. Maybe I could have, but I wasn't ready. Am I ready now? Hell, I don't know. I might not be ready enough to succeed, but I'm ready enough to try. I could slip and fall. I could skin my knee. I could break my arm. It might be a mistake, but it's a mistake I'm willing to make.

Nearly eight years to the day from when I first visited, I will be moving to New York City. I can't say how long I'll be there. Months, years, longer? Your guess is as good as mine.

I love Minnesota, and I adore Minneapolis. It's fun. It's comfortable. It's home. I have many good friends here. I'm going to miss them terribly. That will be the hardest part of leaving here, the hardest part of living there.

But I need to go. I need to try. I need to answer that question, "What if I moved to New York?" If I don't answer it now, I don't think I ever will. Life gets you where you need to be when you need to be there. So here I go.

Once again I'm eying that branch. If you look at the whole tree, it's always seems too big to climb. But if you look at the branch, that first and lowest branch, that's when you realize it can be done. "Yes, finally," I'm telling myself once again. "I can make it. If I jump, I can make it." Wish me luck, friends.


It's not goodbye. I'm just taking the long way around.