Some places are close enough to walk. Others are a bus ride. Others are by car, and still others are only really feasible by plane or boat.
A year ago, I’d never been to Tost. Now I’ve lost track. I’ve been there with friends I had yet to really know, balancing cupcakes and decked in sequins. I’ve been there to celebrate a new home with a friend who has since moved out of the neighborhood. I’ve been there to dance and to drink and to listen to music. I can’t say it’s always been amazing, but it’s always been its own sort of fun. This is a place I can walk.
I’ve been thinking about proximity a lot, and today forced the concept of closeness into sharper focus. Phone calls and vague information about family, and I’m not sure if I’m supposed to be worried or if I’m supposed to be moving about the day to day as if nothing is happening (because, well, maybe nothing is.)
It is easy for me to pay attention to those around me. I pay too much attention to those around me, and the friends and family who are a more than a bus ride away drift into the periphery.
I love this city. I love the way downtown looks in the mornings- fogged over or glinting or jagged and outlined by mountains. I have met amazing people and made good friends. But sometimes I want to go home, by which I mean, crawl into a space I know will not shift. I no longer think this place exists. I have too many histories, too many versions of myself to combine to one perfect image, easily held.