Summer 2022 blog
By early May, I’d had enough of the dreary skies and the biting winds. Even though a warm day was then coming about weekly, a reminder of what was around the corner, summer couldn’t come soon enough. I left for California right as the last spring days pummeled the fragile Connecticut ground with their aggressive precipitation and temperament. I flew across the country and landed in a different season—a world a few months ahead of mine. Disquieting walks through the rain meant to be meditative became spontaneous sessions of body-surfing. The hills we call mountains became veritable canyons, valleys sinking thousands of meters into the planet we inhabit. Los Angeles was an unexpected temptation and an unforgettable tease. I went back east with a newfound Brother and a visceral yearn to return.
Once home, I only had two more weeks in Connecticut before I moved into Manhattan. And then I was there. The city startled me with its zones of hot garbage, impervious to any human attempt of cleansing the smell away. It’s a stratigraphy that’s too far gone—from New Amsterdam to New York, generations of waste piled so high, so sturdy, it’s become irreversible. Whatever this island once was, irretrievable.
Like many before me, I found haven in the park. Despite popular belief, there are parts of the city where you can escape the taxi cabs honking their horns, the processions of commuters and tourists, the chopping drone of helicopter propellers. These spots of solace move on a daily basis, and it takes a maniacal determination to find peace just to keep up. But once found, it makes up for your troubles. I’ve found it in the Ramble at times and the turtle ponds at times, in the Jackie O. reservoir. I’ve taken my shoes off and walked the lawns, unbroken by the looks of disbelief shot at me by passersby. Even in the concrete jungle, I’ve found a place where I can feel at home with nature. I consider it my savior.
My roommate and I waited over a month to install window unit air conditioners. For me, it was pride. I believed we could survive the deadly heat, and be all the stronger for it. For my roommate, it was the fact that I kept telling him I had little AC units on the way. That was true, but when they arrived, they did next to nothing. I had predicted this all along. Stick your face directly in its path, and you might be rewarded twenty minutes of relief, before it runs out of battery. I got used to sleeping in a sauna, for the most part. There were miserable nights, hot sweat sticking to every inch of your body. I wondered why I was doing this to myself. A bad night with my girlfriend, who was passionately at odds with my plan, inspired a change of heart.
Ever since the men came in and installed my window unit, I’ve needed sweatshirts to endure the cold. A friend of mine from Texas once told me that to survive their summers, you’d have to bundle up because the AC was so dramatic. I had no intention of moving to Texas, but I do prefer the cold.
I’ve gone to too many Yankees games, with friends and family, and I watched my team get off to a historic start. My father’s superstition reaches comical levels, and some of that appears to have rubbed off on me—I started to think my living in New York was providing the Yankees with the incentive they needed to win a world series. It turned out I was wrong. I’ve also gone to a few Mets games. In my last endeavor to Queens, I remarked to my friend that we were in foul ball territory. He agreed. The first batter of the game lined a ball straight up into the overhang above our heads. It ricocheted off the beam, and wound up in my friend's lap. I was happy for him.
I’ve had friends visit. Our couch has become a guest room, which is something I’ve always wanted. Everyone who stops by tells me I need to hang up artwork in the living room. I tell them I will, silently disagreeing in my head.
I take walks around the upper east side, and recognize buildings and parks from my childhood. I have run into people from high school, college. I try to go on runs through the park through scorching heat and hot-breath humidity. I usually succeed.
Every year, the early months drag along the seafloor like an anchor. Then the summer speeds it up—maybe the chain becomes undone. Who am I to remark on nautical machinery? This summer has felt like a really long weekend. I’ve done a lot, but the needle has barely moved. My internship has come and gone. I’ve built a map in my head and gotten a feel for my surroundings. I’ve written songs and even liked a few of them. I wrote a pilot, and a spec script for How I Met Your Father. Now I’m in South Carolina, right next to the beach, on vacation with my family. I’m hoping to fly back into a colder New York. I’m hoping I got to skip the last week of summer, because I’m done sweating every time I’m five minutes out the door. Give me Christmas lights and dying leaves and snow. Cheers to summer 2022.
