The Last Night

Hi.

This is a love-letter to a staircase.

I think the word "ache" is entirely insufficient to describe just how sore my body is at the moment. It is 4:40 AM, and I'm lying on Scott's couch in my apartment, my eyes surveying a living room that, just 12 hours before, was filled to the brim with boxes, lamps, and bags. My stuff. All of it. I spent two days packing it all up, prancing around (yes, I prance - deal with it) with my Swiffer duster singing a song to myself:

Throw it away, Martin,
Throw it away.
Throw it away, Martin,
Don't you let it stay!
We don't need it,
Must concede it,
throw it away, Martin,
throw it away.

Goddamn Mary Poppins was right.

The best part about these past two days was finding that, A) There exists enough cardboard in the world to contain all of my stuff and, B)I don't need half of the stuff I own. I realized that the vast majority of my things could spontaneously combust and, while I would be disappointed, I wouldn't shatter. I wouldn't crumble. Looking at my piles of boxes, my computers, my bed, I realized that the things I value are flesh and blood, people and their transient creations- thoughts, feelings, dreams. That is what is precious. Irreplaceable. Unique. I know how much we loved the Hoenig green apple plates, but Honey, it was time.

So, apparently this couch has quite a history. It was in Mark and Scott's apartment long before it journeyed up the steps to 5725. Legend tells of all the dirty sex that has been had upon it: men with men, women with women, men with men with women. I think this apartment is the last ceiling this old couch is going to have over it. I don't think there's enough Febreeze in the world to defunkify this couch and its sagging face. I've never slept on it, myself. That pleasure was reserved for guests, at which point I had the good sense to lay down sheets and pillows. Six-sense told me that direct contact with these cushions could lead to something sinister.

This is my last night at 5725 Phillips. Well, last night as a tenant anyways. I leave for Texas on Friday afternoon, and I've got all of Thursday to clean up, put away the fest remaining things, say my goodbye to my front steps.

To say that this year was anything less than revelatory would be to short-change it. I can say without reservation that this was the best year of my life. The reasons are multitudinous. I know. I know. Just enjoy the word. But in all those syllables are a thousand good conversations with Mat, a thousand surprises from Jess, a thousand laughs with Scott and Bryan and Dave and Nate. Porous as I remain, I have never felt so thoroughly congealed. There is solid footing here. I can feel it under my toes, like summer grass, and I like it. I like it a lot.

I would be lying if I said that any part of me is anxious to leave. The opposite is true. Well, okay, I do not love my bathroom or kitchen. They are sort of gross. But, people-wise, it is out of love and loyalty only that I leave right when things are getting interesting. Luke wandered in tonight and, seeing the apartment in its current state, said, "Seems like you were just getting settled in." And I was. By God, I was getting settled in. I was getting comfortable. And now, as I sit on this stained and defiled sofa, I feel like I've just watched a fantastic trailer for a movie that I'll never get to see. It is very easy to write sad words about leaving this place. There is a lot to leave.

And yet, a new, fantastic adventure awaits just around the corner. Jess and I are looking to move to Washington, D.C., at the end of August. Together. As in, sharing the same space in the same state for more than seven days. About this I am very excited. We've been together 6 years. I feel like we've earned the right to buy a couch together, make our own dirty, dirty history upon it, you know? Doesn't seem right to be sad when I have so many nice people around.

So, I've decided that instead of being sad, I am going to work hard at keeping what was built here strong and beautiful. And I will come back to climb the steps, no doubt. I will sit upon them and watch the tomatoes grow, the cats wander, the cars park. And part of me will always be at home here, happily young.

yours,
Martin