“If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, Infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things through narrow chinks of his cavern.” — William Blake
Note: please do not try this at home.
My first apartment in New York was a Craigslist sublet on St. Mark’s Place. You walked straight into the purple kitchenette with yellow polkadots on the south facing wall. The trippy kitchenette made up 70% of the apartment. To get to the bathroom you had to walk through the narrow master bedroom, inhabited by my roommate. And then there was my room, which was the size of a closet. For a tiny room that would only fit single mattresses it had a lot of windows. Two, to be precise. I’d made friends with a newly-in-love couple from Denmark. Being their third wheel felt a lot like being their child. They helped me paint the room in exchange of a six pack. They went with me to IKEA so transport the single mattress, no bed frame, from Red Hook to East Village. The rest of the apartment was already furnished. I bought a rack for clothes in a dollar store and hung up an Andy Warhol poster I’d brought with me from my teenage room in Denmark. At night I dreamed of silver screen quotation.
I didn’t know the fascinating history of St. Marks Pl, nor did I know that The Rolling Stones recorded a music video outside my building. I didn’t really know the neighbourhoods of the city, nor did I really know how to pay a ConEd bill. I didn’t even know my roommate, besides one scandalous night that involved a bipolar frenchman who tried pursuing us into a threesome in his apartment in the projects. We ran out screaming. Maybe that’s where we bonded? Nothing ties you together than a-thrill-of-the-moment situation. 2 weeks later the frenchman tried strangling me at a Halloween party. I didn’t really know anything when I moved to New York. I barely knew I was moving to New York. I just did whatever an (in)sane teenager would do; follow along.
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