California All the Way

I just got back from New York. I was there for six days. Already I miss it. I want to move there at some point, a point I used to think dangled vaguely in the future, like a misty carrot (god, that's a terrible analogy). Anyhow, the carrot is now very close and tanglible and clear. I think about moving all of the time--to different places, but mostly to New York. I lived there once, kinda (communted from Long Island to the city) and I hated it. HATED it. One of the worst phases of my life. So why do I want to go back there now? Eventually I developed this fantasy image of New York as a grizzled Emerald City of style and creativity, a crowded playground for writers and musicians and artists. Like if I go there I'll effortlessly become enveloped in their ranks. My life here in California is already like that, in its way. I am close with a whole bunch of creative people who encourage me and inspire me. I respect and value them all, but it's like in my head there's this imaginary group of more popular creative people that I am willing to dump my creative friends here for. California is a great place. New York you have love/hate relationships with--it's all part of the allure. California I have a love/perplexment relationship with. I think this is the right place for me to be now. Someday I will look back on the years that are happening as I write this. I'll smile and peer at them through this lens of perfected memory, and always think of this time as those golden years. I get upset withy myslef for not being able to enjoy them as they happen, in the moment. Joe missed me while I was away. He bought a foil tray of six junk food cinnamon rolls, like Enteman's-type. They are a fake cream color, doughy and cottony with this plastic-y blanket of white icing. I ate one just now and regret it. That's the kind of thing you do when someone you love goes away: buy gross food that you like but really don't like. I do that with Spagetti-Os.