From Manhattan to a Mobile Home
Several months ago, I was living in a 19th-century townhome in Manhattan. Located in the Upper East Side—the 'Silk Stocking District,' no less—on 66th and 5th, it stood in one of the most prestigious zip codes in the country: 10065, steps from Central Park.
The windows let in huge swaths of sunlight—so bright I had to wear a mask when I took afternoon naps beneath them.
Allow me to address my naps. No doubt someone is reading this and thinking, "Afternoon naps?!" First off, I admit it's a decadent indulgence. But when your entire world is on an island—where you can get from Point A to Point B with relative ease, where you don't have a car, and where, if timed right, you can pop into your apartment for a fifteen-minute snooze because you're not trying to shave three minutes off your ETA—trust me, you take advantage of it, and unapologetically so.
My church was two blocks away on Park Avenue. It took three minutes to walk there, through a charming corridor of trees and timeless architecture. I passed Andy Warhol's townhome on 66th, just 160 paces away from mine. FDR's Neo-Georgian mansion was on 65th, only 200 paces away. I often imagined what had taken place inside those homes.
Warhol: 57 E. 66th St. Roosevelt: 47 & 49 E. 65th St.
I was steps from French cafés that served sugary macarons and delicious coffee. My favorite was on the corner of 65th and Madison because it didn't allow laptops.
I was a few minutes’ walk from the venerable Explorers Club, where I spent Friday afternoons with an anarchist poet.
My grocer was a few blocks away, as was a century-old pharmacy where I got medicine when I needed it. The guy who owned it wore massive purple frames, gaudy rings on every finger, and a beat-up, fringed leather vest. I was straight as an arrow, and he was gayer than a three-dollar bill—but we got along famously. I miss our conversations about literature.
When friends came over for a cigar, we'd sit on my unusually large patio, enjoying views of The Pierre. We went to Italian restaurants for supper and took miles-long walks through Central Park.
Juilliard, where I saw free concerts, was a fifteen-minute walk away on the other side of the park—which meant I got to walk through Central Park. If I needed a change of scenery, I'd walk down Fifth Avenue, take a right on Central Park South, and another right on Central Park West, admiring skyscrapers and ancient elms alike.
And now, writing this from a rented bedroom in a mobile home in Austin, I’m acutely aware of how different these experiences are.
In my poet’s mind, this is a lesson in "Be careful what you wish for." I had long wanted a “New York experience,” and I got it. It was glamorous without being gaudy. It was exciting without being overwhelming. In a word, it was perfect.
But I also read a lot of Beat literature, and there's something seductive about their meager lives—whether in a dingy hotel in Paris or on the Bowery in Manhattan. There’s something about grittiness that has my number.
So, as I look around and see a desk with a tube of toothpaste, a can of shaving cream, and stacks of books on it; a closet with no hangers, where a wooden dowel holds a drying towel and a three-dollar thrift-store tie; a nightstand where The Complete Poems of Robert Frost sits atop several Hemingway Reviews; and where the sun breaks through plastic window blinds—I see the manifestation of a curious dream.
A dream that empathizes with everyone who struggles.
A dream of a man running out of prayers.
A dream of a man who intentionally sets the odds against himself.
A dream of a man who wants to see if he’s tough enough—resourceful enough—even though he's already known suffering.
I can’t bear the thought of losing my edge. For every experience in Manhattan, I need a place like this in Texas. It wasn’t by accident that I ended up here. Was it God or my subconscious? My money’s on both.
As much as I loved my place in New York, I love this empty room in Austin.
*Composed, Edited, and Published in Austin, TX
