GARFIELD ARTWORKS

Nondescript and two doors down from Kraynicks on Penn Avenue, Garfield Artworks is yet another reminder why I moved here, small independent venues whose cheap ($7) all-ages shows guarantee a reasonable bed time. Initial impressions however were something of a lopsided amusement, and proper fluid intake was a essential. Opener act Salieri’s long, droney riffs could have found no shame in misplacing their vocals and moving on as an all-instrumental outfit, but it was the spectacle of Autumn Leaves which made for some satisfying schadenfreude in an otherwise unbearable unventilated environment. Mercifully their first and last show, the entire fucking universe seemingly working against them, it was probably no fault of Manny The Soundman who by all appearances was doing the best he could with the raw, steaming materials heaped on the stage. It was one of those tragic things where by listening to the impromptu jams between songs it became obvious the players should have performed in a different genre altogether rather than forcing shit through a straw.

Parachutes, the headliner from Iceland, had mistakenly been billed on fliers with Jonsi the lead singer from Sigar Rós as a member. While Iceland’s like any other country in the quantity of shitty music it can produce, there is that one small faction of Múm’s and Sigur Rós’s and SeaBear’s (who I wanted to profile years ago for that redundant little magazine Resonance, always excessively absorbed in some unethical idea of Seattle fashion) that with the right signifiers guarantee some kind of satisfying experience even in a small, dehydrating space. So even with the scary recap of the previous debacle, once it all gelled the next hour or so was a kind of torpid, otherworldly experience with a lovely ensemble and bass player I had a hard time taking my eyes off of.

NIGHT GALLERY

Scenes from around the house in the wee hours of the night. Heths Way in back is particularly creepy in a comforting kind of way.

HIGHLAND PARK POOL

Just a short bike ride from the Garfield neighborhood we’re staying in, it didn’t take long to become a regular. Some bird took a shit in it during open swim the other day and the lifeguard calmly explained to one rather irate individual who wanted the pool closed and cleaned “If it isn’t human fecal matter there’s nothing we can do about it.” I swam once swam in the sea near Puerto Rico after a sewer main had busted and green foam was washing up on shore. I just swam through it to the clear areas and did just fine, even had a nice breakfast afterwards.

TEMPEST

Every other day or so some stormy thing hits in the afternoon.

MIGRATION

About a week ago we left New York City and moved to Pittsburgh. It’s safe to say the process has been going on for about a year with various exploratory trips to cities on the East Coast: Providence, Savannah, Athens, Chapel Hill, Asheville, with nothing really hitting us the way we hoped. We even thought Berlin, Germany might be an option, and our recent trip—in spite of my horrible sojourn into Pneumonia—seemed a long shot with no knowledge of Deutsch and a ridiculously week dollar that would have rendered any work from the States absurd. Tremendous city though.

It was a trip about two months ago to Pittsburgh, a long drive on a short weekend that had us sold pretty much the moment we arrived. The combination of quiet, shady streets filled with affordable, spacious housing, manageable size, a nationally-rated level of liveability and a remarkable warmth and friendliness of its people that called to us in the weeks after we had left.

The clincher in all this was we lost the New York studio and had only weeks to vacate. Neither of us wanted to go through the ridiculous hassle of looking for housing in a place we would never make enough money to really afford to live comfortably. I’d had absolutely zero luck in landing a full-time job in any book publishing situation whatsoever, and having been freelancing for the better part of two years I had gone what my illustrator-friend Leela Corman termed “Feral.” There was little hope in me really ever feeling comfortable in an office, the corporate culture had little appeal to me and my brief forays working production for the New York Time’s Sunday and T Magazines were the closest I’d ever felt happy being in a large building where the windows didn’t open, not to mention they had a great cafeteria and café.

We lamented the fact that New York had so much to offer but the energy required to continue living there seemed to take more than it gave. It was surprisingly hard to make friends in a city with so many people, but the fact was this wasn’t the New York we had hoped it would be. Rising costs and the superficial nature of life there made me feel alien to myself. As much as I loved it in my own way, it was a relationship that was not meant to be, at least at this time.

So we moved forward with our departure, said goodbye to those we knew, which was wrenching considering how long it took to establish those relationships. Once we got to packing there was no going back, and within a week boxed up, renting a truck, and with the help of my dear friend, the gifted actor Patrick Husted, we loaded up the Penske and got out of town.

Preparations were made in advance to stay in a sublet for three weeks until the beginning of September, and so here I sit outside tonight on the gigantic porch of a lavishly spacious though somewhat funky brick home in the Garfield neighborhood. Insect sounds fill the night, a whirring, clicking, buzzing, chirping chorus I hadn’t heard in ages. In many ways it’s much like coming back to the Chico, the town I went to college for, somewhat rural, filled with neighborhoods of various distinguishing characteristics, and though far from perfect I feel as if my body and spirit are starting to feel right sized again. For the past two years I had been confined to a standard of personal freedom New York imposed on me without my consent, though I eventually capitulated to. I’m filling up space once more, and space is filling up me.

The days have been idyllic: coffee and vegetarian food at The Quiet Storm Café; frequent trips to Kraynicks, a local bike shop that offers free use of its facilities and tools where I’ve been repairing two vintage three-speed bikes bought before leaving and long; long daily swims in a lovely 50m outdoor pool a ten-minute ride away in Highland Park. Work is already steady, and the evenings, lulling in their nocturnal activity, have re-energized my creative mind. I’m worrying less and feel anxiety slipping away. Since the house is temporary we’ve been looking for more permanent housing, having found something today that’s huge and unique in the Regent Square neighborhood for a mere $700 a month. No brokers or finders fees either. I’m also getting used to riding a bike again, something I’ve oddly been estranged from for some time. My ass is sore from it and it feels like something well earned, riding all over this place I’ve seen such a small fragment of so far.