For the last I dunno how long...probably back when I lived in Harlem and took my first walkabout to the old neighborhood, I've been dreaming about what it would be like to go back into the building that I was born to. On Riverside Drive. Recently the dreams have been falling consecutively. They were driving me quite mad. In the dreams things were always in horrible shape, as if they were telling me not to pursuit this dream in reality. The dreams showed horrible stairs, rickety elevators, pollution and filth everywhere. But in the dreams, I never quite made it to my apartment door. Only a few times, but not everytime.
Well today, after I blogged my entry while at work, my head was still aswim with turmoil. Grizz, your comment was greatly appreciated and I am going to email you. I do want to hear your voice. You'd be the second person who knows this much about me that I will actually "speak" to. I look forward to this experience. If I cry any time during our convo, you'll forgive me, yah?
But I hadn't seen the Grizz-comment when I was driving back home from work. I had my since-morning headache (still have it, in fact) and I thought "maybe it's a tumor. Maybe this is my last day on earth." and I wasn't afraid. Not even sad for the lost opportunities. I was just resigned to it. It's like, whatever. Goodbye struggle. Like I dodged a bullet, actually. The bullet of sexuality.
anyway, since I was not quite dead yet, I decided that today, I'm going back to that building. I'm going back to Riverside Drive. I'm getting past the security doors and I'm going IN.
AND I DID! Woo-HOO!
I will say something here that I am not saying there in the photo collection.
EDIT: I creeped myself out by posting the name of the molester. So I removed it. I guess some truths are a little too stark, even forty years later. Anyway, that's the door behind which everything changed.