But oh, that magic feeling—nowhere to go

Out of college, money spent
See no future, pay no rent
All the money's gone, nowhere to go
Any jobber got the sack
Monday morning, turning back
Yellow lorry slow, nowhere to go
But oh, that magic feeling, nowhere to go
Oh, that magic feeling
Nowhere to go
Nowhere to go.

The Beatles, "You Never Give Me Your Money"

Well, it's been a while, but I'm back. A whole lot has happened since last time. I took on an unpaid internship at web advertising office in Midtown to build my portfolio and maybe hopefully get a job, the money-producing variety of which has as of yet not been forthcoming. Roommates are shuffling in and out, and college friends Dave and Carolyn will be moving into McKibbin shortly—hopefully within the week. Christina, our new(ish, she's been here almost a month now) roommate from Germany is quickly becoming a good friend. Kimmie, another new roommate, moved in from California about a week ago. Julie had to go back to France. It looks like 3 other roommates are moving out soon as well, though they haven't been around much anyway. When the dust settles we'll probably be at 12: Elisia, Christina, Whitleigh, Pat, Eric, Scott, Kimmie, Jesse, Jon (maybe), Carolyn, Dave, and myself. I've mentioned this before, but it's still hard to remember that we effectively just got here. I haven't known anyone here (excepting Dave and Carolyn) for more than 40 days, which seems impossible.

I'm feeling much better after a pretty down couple of weeks. First of all, it's been brutally hot. McKibbin doesn't have air conditioning (neither does most of Bushwick, for that matter) so even just sitting there you feel the sweat actively pushing through your skin. Everything and everyone smells bad and the air has a gooey humidity that seems not only oppressive but almost... immoral. Even at night, temperatures stay in the high 80's, and there's no relief. Second of all, I have surprised myself with the ferocity with which I've been missing home and my family. Though the grass is often greener, I suppose, the poetic starving-artist glamour of eating pasta for the fourth night in a row in an apartment where you could probably set the water to boiling just by putting it in front of the window for a few minutes. Suddenly the comfortable-in-every-aspect nature of suburban living that usually arouses such existential terror in me seems downright reasonable in comparison. It's funny to realize that what I wanted to leave behind to come to Bushwick is exactly what so many people here are trying to get to: a lawn, a car, three solid meals a day. Not having a paying job also blankets everything with a thin film of stress and I spend just about every waking moment thinking about money.

But oh, that magic feeling, nowhere to go.

I'm coming to terms with the fact that this might not have been a good plan, which is, interestingly, incredibly liberating. Part of the point is the struggle, in the end. I knew it wasn't going to be easy, and that's what I wanted. Poetry of the situation can't feed your body, but it can help you hang in there until you can manage that for yourself. Such is the beauty of a sense of adventure: when the plan is bad on purpose, you succeed win or lose.