The Cavalier’s dream
After Blond Banker left, I walked past the station and ended up walking down that, somewhat familiar, street. Vaguely remembered how to get to the GBA’s old pad.
Last I heard, she had a kid or two and is living in the City with them and her fella.
But 20 years ago, she lived around here. Somewhere. And this was the street I walked down to get to her then pad.
Walked by this Indian restaurant and remember that this was maybe our first date place? I don’t remember.
My memory’s like Swiss cheese these days. But it was definitely this restaurant where we went on one of our earlier dates. I think she paid.
Had just bought my apartment a little before I met her – maybe a year or two earlier?
Was looking into possibly getting a second place at the Majestic Theatre Condos, which was a theatre that just turned into condos. Don’t think it was open yet at the time.
But back to my story; I was still kinda lit so I just went with my instincts and ended up outside Van Vorst Park, which is where we used to hang out from time-to-time.
Couldn’t – for the life of me – remember which apartment building was hers but I knew I was on the right street.
Oddly, I remember the address of a nearby building, 285 Varick Street. This is because the owner wanted to sell us the building, which had a deeded parking spot, for $800,000.
It seems she sold it for $895,000 back in 2006 and it’s selling again for a cool $2 million now.
Wonder what my life would be like right now if GBA and I bought the building and just stayed there. We’d probably be divorced.
Because we weren’t each other’s person, obviously.
Never did figure out which one was her exact building. That’s 285 Varick Street, above, not her actual old pad.
I taught myself how to forget because of her and it seems that it’s worked like gangbusters.
Still, I do remember that, the week I met her, there was a snowstorm when I’d gone to visit her for the first time and we ended up getting snowed in that weekend.
I remember that we had a snowball fight but I don’t remember much else.
For this entry, I dug up a picture someone (her roomie?) took of us that day. I was 29, almost exactly two decades ago.
Have almost no pictures of her because I wasn’t yet into photography and no one’s camera on their phones were worth a damn.
There’s a song by Pink Floyd called, The Gunner’s Dream that has the lines:
Floating down, through the clouds
Memories come rushing up to meet me now
But in the space between the heavens
And the corner of some foreign field
I had a dream
Suppose that’s what I was expecting: To walk down the street and have my memories come rushing up to meet me.
All I could remember was that she had two cats. I forgot their names. She liked scarves and adrenaline. Struggled to remember anything else.
See, when I decide to do something, I go all out. I wanted to forget her and she’s almost completely gone from my head.
We had something-a-lot-like-love but not actual love.
Because true love is a self-proving thing; it either stays with you forever, or you struggle to remember anything you did together.
Spoke to my therapist about it today.
Her: But, it’s what you wanted isn’t it? To forget her, completely and move on?
Me: Yes, but I thought maybe they’d still be there, somewhere in my head. My memories.
Her: But it worked, didn’t it? You forgot her so was able to move on and meet Alison.
Me: Yes, but, now I’m forgetting Alison. I’m forgetting so much.
Her: You’re surviving. That’s why you do it. Because it works.
Me: Suppose you’re right. But what are we, if we’re not our memories?
In any case, I walked back to the station and headed home. I felt like I visited a ghost. It didn’t feel good, at all.
Started remembering things of a friend from years ago who disappeared. And nuthin made sense.
In the first entry of this brief series, wrote that my past came to visit me and I went to visit my past.
Suppose it would be more accurate to say that my past came to visit me and I went to visit someone else’s possible past.
Because, while I know it was mine, it didn’t feel like mine at all.
My memories are all copies-of-a-copy-of-a-copy.
Just realized now that, perhaps, I’m a copy and the real me is out there somewhere.
Man, wouldn’t that be something?
Location: Penn Station this afternoon, to go get my treasure
Mood: fake
Music: Night after night, going ’round and ’round my brain, his dream is driving me insane (Spotify)
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