"This will be easy," I thought, "I love moving!"
There was a time in my life when I adored the process of packing away all of my things in boxes and bags. I'd enlist the aid of friends and together, in a community reinforcing experience, we would transport my life to a new home where I'd take everything out piece by piece. I like to imagine that I experienced the same kind of joy as detailed by Jean-Pierre Jeunet in his film Amélie when Madame Poulain emptied out and reorganized her purse.
Then I gradually grew older, realized that no one liked helping anyone move - ever - and eventually moved three thousand miles away from home where I had to move three more times over the course of two and a half months. Eventually, though, I found a room in an adorable apartment nestled in between Hollywood and West Hollywood, safe from crackheads, vagrant youths, and nefarious men with intentions to sell me to an international sex ring.
That apartment saw me through my first Los Angeles relationship. It saw me through two different hair colors and three sets of head shots. It saw me through my first community of friends and my subsequent realization that I must be my own community and remember to take joy in the acquaintances and friends that I have been fortunate enough to make, scattered though they may be. That apartment saw me book my first television show, commercial, and major print job. That apartment amassed so much personal history in the relatively short amount of time I lived there.
I had a perfect apartment in the perfect area of town for a steal. It was within walking distance to everything. It boasted black hardwood floors, a peculiar looking bathroom where the tub sat completely separate from the shower stall, an old fashioned stove that I had to light with a match if I wanted to use it, and the most gorgeous natural light I had ever experienced.
For this final month I enjoyed this apartment all on my own. I'm glad that this process of moving worked out the way that it did because it provided a serene place of refuge where I could rest my brain from the stress of finding a new place to live and from the harsh realizations that I was about to experience what it truly felt like to be near flat out broke. I began to take moments to appreciate how lucky I was to be there.
Taxi, who eventually realized that something big loomed around the corner, also began to luxuriate in his final days at the old apartment.
As you know from my recent video blogs, I came down with a swift, mysterious, and most uncomfortable illness during the wildest throes of the transition. I had already committed to - and needed to - work a series of outdoor gigs. I worked a day in LA, drove up to San Jose at 4am the next morning, worked at the Pride Festival all day, realized that I had developed a fever, drove myself to the nearest quick care, talked about life and got medication from a very down to earth and no-nonsense nurse, worked another day at Pride, and drove home immediately afterward.
It happened after I had been back for a couple of days and experienced the third "Mmm, no thanks," from Craigslist in a row. I surveyed the apartment and all of the furniture, odds and ends, and stuff that I had inherited from my roommate and her brother and I suddenly started crying. It was as if everything I had been feeling about the move, my financial situation, my social life, and all of the stress that had been building up for weeks and weeks finally culminated into a massive sensation of, "I don't know what is even going on right now and I am really, really disappointed in myself for feeling so panicked."
But remember what I said about enjoying your friends and acquaintances? A buddy of mine happened to call and, after realizing something was very off, came over and not only helped out for a little bit, but also ordered wine and Dippin' Dots from Pink Dot because, as they put it,
"I always wanted an excuse to order from Pink Dot."
Then another friend offered the use of a motherfucking MOVIE TRUCK to haul the things that I couldn't transport in my Grandma's Buick.
And of course I accepted the help.
And one short trip down the road later, we took a bed and a table and chairs up to the second floor of my new apartment: a studio in a 1940's New York City style building.
And so: Greetings from inside my amazing, new apartment.
Well. Soon to be amazing. I can't really afford to furnish it right now, but I did try to spruce things up a bit by hanging this shooting range poster on the wall. Regardless of the barren and cavernous state of affairs, Taxi Cat seems to like it.
|He is pleased.|
Not only is this my new apartment, but it distinguishes itself as being my first studio apartment and my first time ever signing a lease on my own. For the first time, I have no roommate, family member, or significant other who shares my living space.
The new digs boasts a huge, open main room with gorgeous natural light and enormous windows. There's a giant space in the wall where a murphy bed used to be. The apartment boasts copious compartments of built in storage and a massive walk-in closet that houses all of my clothes as well as a little station that I use to record voice-overs. The bathroom sports a giant porcelain tub, tile the color of human skin, and a public bathroom style toilet, but I like it. Also, Taxi likes it.
Is this the most I have ever paid in rent? Yes. Am I scared out of my mind? Absolutely. Did I take a job waiting tables to supplement my freelance promo and acting work? ... Yes. Is it worth it?
I have twelve months to figure that out, but so far... I think so.