Welcome Back

If you leave New York, you ain't goin' nowhere.

I stole that quote; from whom I have no idea. Nevertheless, I find it presently poignant now that I am back in the city that I prematurely left almost exactly a year ago. To say I didn't go anywhere would likely be hyperbolic. Professionally, sure, I was a waste in Denver. Emotionally and mentally, though, Denver was a wake up call, so it was good for me in that way. But, considering the momentum I had built in New York--graduating with high honors from NYU, interning at SNL, solidifying a group of amazing friends--when I left I left a lot behind.

Though, as city life would have it, coming back to New York proved to be just as--maybe even more so--fervent and opportunistic as it was when I left. Within two weeks of leaving Denver I was already back in the city interviewing for a job I subsequently got, expediting me into the northeast before I even had time to reflect. I had contented myself with being home for a while, enjoying the friends, family and freedom of Arkansas. But, as opportunity comes at you with a battering ram sometimes, I had no choice but to leap the chance to reclaim a life I was afraid I was losing.

Interestingly enough, being back isn't quite what I expected. When I left I was a student, a youngster, a 22 year old kid who thought that everything would just fall into place. I spent my last months of college writing papers at the last minute and drinking more alcohol in a week than I had in previous months. It was uncharacteristic but fun, and I don't want to give the impression I regret it. But, a year later, a year older, a year more mature or maybe just more aware, New York isn't NYU. We all have jobs that require 7 a.m. wake up calls. 9-5 is a schedule that doesn't exist here. Some of us are lucky to leave work by 7 p.m. Yes, kids, this is the real world. Of course we still go out and no doubt we are still young (the operative word here) adults. But when I found out I was coming back so soon I had to ready myself for a New York that wasn't familiar. I didn't come back to a dorm; I didn't come back to a class schedule and I certainly didn't come back with a healthy checking account balance. I was entering into a city where it was time for me to finally fend for myself, for better or worse. Whereas I used to return to New York apprehensive because I had just spent a winter or summer break at home having fun with friends only to be thrown back into school work, now I was distressed precisely because I no longer could identify with that life anymore. This was, is, new and unexplored territory.

Forgive me if I sound whiny. That is hardly my intention. I simply have to verbalize the whirlwindeness of this experience. Like anything and everything, it has sent me into a recess of reflection, so, alas, this blog. I am, most definitely, glad to be back here. Different is good; and I know I have so many amazing things in store for me being back here. Not only with my job, but with relationships and personal development. Like anything good for you, it takes a degree of adjustment, and that's exactly what I'm doing. Even though I wasn't keen on the idea of adjusting to a place I thought I was already mine, I am, without a doubt, adjusting.


Seth

To Denver...

It is the eve of my departure from the Mile High City and, being the contemplative writer I am, I feel it needs some commentary. As most of you know, it hasn't been the easiest 7 months of my life, but it also hasn't been the worst. I'm trying out this whole positive thinking thing, so what follows is my oratorio to my time out West.

To the skiing. To the mountains. To the powder. To the out of bounds. To the Rumsey's cabin in Breckenridge. To their double headed steam bath shower. To their remarkably soft sheests. To Breck Brewery. To Joey, to Meg, to Sarah, to Steve, to Sean, to Elise: the weekend crew.

To Kona Grill. To reverse happy hour. To sake bombs. To barbecue pizza. To meeting new friends and finally knowing old ones.

To The Stadium. To dive bars. To Rumseys. To never having to pay for a drink. To drunken debates. To Journey. To the DU kids, who showed me a college life I never knew.

To LoDo. To Uptown Tavern. To Downtown Tavern. To Vesta. To Everclear margaritas at Rios. To The 16th Street Mall. To Mad Greens. To Starbucks with Meg and Sarah. To The Celtic. To Delaneys. To mini bowling.

To a town that surprisd me. To people that I will forever call my friends, even if I expected not to. To coming to know, to understand, to accept myself and to those who love me for it. To the one who showed me the way; who told me it was OK. To the one I'll never be able to thank enough, but will try anyway. To learning from mistakes and laughing at them later. To realizing that life is about exploration; about trying, and sometimes failing. To falling and getting back up stronger than before, ready to continue. To never regretting anything, ever. To anticipation. To dissapointment. To reconciliation. To happiness. To everything and everyone. To Denver.

Today then tomorrow

I'm perfect.

My hair, a muted sepia with natural highlights of chestnut and lowlights of chocolate, swoops and spikes in just the right places. My eyes shine with the same rich color, only strengthened by the long feminine eyelashes that frame the dark globes inside white void. My nose is thin on the bridge and appropriately flared at the tip and nostrils; it flows easily into my dark pink lips which pout just enough to make everyone that sees them want to kiss them. With the crack of a smile a row of perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth appear punctuated by a set of canines that are at once unsettling, yet also intriguing. My chin rests comfortably at the conjuncture of a mildly sloping square cut jaw line. My skin, rosey in the cheeks and a peachy porcelain throughout, contours to my face in all the right places: taught, smooth and clean. This head sits comfortably on broad, strong shoulders that are ready to take the world from Atlas, and what holds it all up is a body that is healthy, proportioned and impeccably dressed.

I'm perfect.


I'm perfect.


Im perfect.


Imperfect.


imperfect


my hair is dull, thick and coarse--only manageable when manipulated with gobs of product. my sunken eyes are wrapped in swollen eyelids, barely able to reveal the forgettable brown irises that envy the blues and greens of the world. the bump in my nose ruins my profile. my lips are dry and cracked, constantly arid from years of over-balming. when feigning a smile, bleached teeth, recessed gums and a jagged tooth reveal the mouth's insecurity. a pudgy, pointed and often blemished chin dangles from a slacked jaw. the skin that shrouds this face is pale, bumpy and all-too-often flushed and sweaty with fear and self-consciousness. my misshapen head, which is plagued with anxiety, restlessness and pessimism, barely balances on shoulders that take on too many responsibilities, too many problems, too many "yes'" and not enough "no's," too many emotions and too many whip lashes. below is a weakened, soft body that holds a scarred heart, a compulsive stomach, and a deep-seeded anger that threatens to ruin my world; and nothing that covers it can fix it.


I'm perfect.

Sticky

I took this picture at my older brother's wedding reception party. On the left is Ross, my twin, and at the right is his girlfriend. I was browsing photos and it inspired the [completely fictional] story that follows.

Her glossly legs stick to one another, pasted by a cohesion of mid-May heat and humidity. Her feet, swollen and slightly blistered, bob to the music, which keeps the straggeling guests, who are all too drunk and happy, languidly moving on the patio. The grass is beginning to cool; she inches her toes over the edge of her flip flops, bends back the flexible sole and runs her feet over the blades. Having had just the right amount of champagne and wine, the texture of the grass--which would normally tantalize her sensitive skin--feels good. Now comforted by the aesthtic confection that surrounds her, she leans into him, her moist body heavy on his. Her wine glass feels heavier, awkwardly aqueous as the ebb and flow of the thick liquid heaves with her wavering hand. She rests the foot of the glass on his knee, knowing his steady disposition will keep it, and her, at ease. He smells good--musk, cologne, sweat, hair product. She leans in deeper, her chest at his back, and she exhales across his neck.

He braces himself on the corner of the lounge chair, prepared to absorb the full weight of her body. He feels her breasts pressing against his shoulder, conforming to the creases of his back. Her breath is thick with the smeall of fermented grapes. Her chin plunges into his left deltoid, the pointed bone sending a ticklish jolt up his spine. He has loosened his tie and rolled his sleeves knowing that tonight he will become the fulcrum to her wilting frame. The black loafers he bought for this night are speckled with wine and whiskey, dulled in the moonlight, dirty and proud as they brace his tired legs. He grasps his beer with tightly folded fingers; his right thumb gingerly abrades the neck of the bottle. A freshly cut fingernail methodically peels the edge of the label while his inside fingers slip on summer condensation. He smells the grass and smells her. He is at once annoyed but also at ease knowing that she needs him. Drunk--or even not--her body, her head, her shoulders, her thin arms and cinched waste would be disoriented without him. He knows he loves her, and he is certain she loves him. Actively touching her or even acknowledging her intoxicated advances would ruin this moment, maybe even ruin them. As she fades further into a wasted drowsiness he knows what he must do. Planting his feet, squaring his shoulders, he takes a sip of his beer and takes a deep breath. He turns his head and exhales on her, knowing that the next intake will be breath of alcohol, of grass, of her.