On the way to Myrtle-Broadway a couple months ago. 

Recently a friend with a master’s degree and a steady salary in a prominent industry was explaining something he thought I was unfamiliar with, how the city will open the faucets on fire hydrants during the summer “in relatively low-income neighborhoods to accommodate for people who can’t afford air conditioning.” He and his girlfriend have an apartment in Midtown. I sat where I was and looked at him, and remembered this picture, and the fire hydrant down the street that was turned on last weekend. “Where do you think I live, exactly?” I asked him. 

Home is an odd concept. I can’t think of living anywhere but my current apartment, but I couldn’t have thought up my current apartment when I was looking for somewhere to live a year ago. Some people I know would have turned down my apartment for differing reasons– the neighborhood, the bars on the windows, the long walk to the L train or any nightlife. But last weekend I got together with some friends and had a garden party in my backyard, an opportunity I am afforded in my apartment, and I felt beyond lucky just to invite people into the place in which I live.

And god do I get tired thinking about change. People around me are uprooting and changing their environments constantly. I imagine quitting my job and becoming an underwear model and I get exhausted thinking about holding poses for too long. Anyone would tell me I need to exercise more, get into a better self-care routine. All I want to do is curl up in my bed, in this neighborhood, where everything outside is supposed to be busy and loud, but somehow knows how to get so quiet that all you can hear are the leaves rustling outside, faraway sirens in the dead of night.

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