I don't want to do this any more. Any of it.
I want to meet a guy who works on a farm. No, owns a farm. Owns a farm, but looks like he lives in Brooklyn. Plaid shirt, sensible jeans. Maybe a beard, but a well-manicured one. He has a dog, and it's a mutt, with a human name and a white patch on its chest, and it does something cliche-amazing like bring you the paper or your slippers.
I'm exhausted.
I want to live in a little city - a cool one, one populated by post-hispsters, where concert venues host shows that begin at reasonable hours and play at reasonable decibels. Never on Tuesdays. It's a little city, so you have to leave your house to meet people. It isn't overwhelming out there, yet there's plenty to do. There are little dive bars and little coffee shops, and woods nearby, and it's way less twee and annoying than that all sounds.
I'm hollow.
I don't want to help rich people anymore. At least not like this. I don't want to soothe them, coddle them, sweet talk them out of making stupid, tasteless decisions with their stupid, tasteless money; console them for making poor decisions in the pursuit of getting richer.
I'm stuck.
I don't want to do this anymore. At least not like this. In Cobble Hill the other day, I saw the back of a brownstone next to the one I was photographing - 'protecting' - and this neighbor building had its back blown out, created this glassed-in Zen garden situation, and it was fantastic design, modern rear juxtaposed with historic street facade and it was lovely and amazing and inspiring and nothing I could ever allow based on guidelines I'm required to enforce. And just like that, my internal compass went Bermuda Triangle.
I know better.
I suppose it's okay, because I know what I'm supposed to be doing, and it's not this, anyway. This is a way to pay the bills, which became a way to stall, to keep an arms length from the things I most want, and am most frightened by. This is a necessary evil simply because I've made it necessary. I've been doing that my whole life.
So now what?
The guy on the farm (dude, I don't know) the little city, the early shows, getting paid for something that doesn't suddenly make my skin crawl - it's not like there's a door somewhere, I find the right key, and on the otherside: everything. Right? Or is there? It's not like I want to pretend the last four years never happened, but lately everything's become so heavy. Like it needs to be shed.
My move.
