finally, someone understands

Ezra (no, the other Ezra… not EZRA ACE CARAEFF, he the man of first New York, then Portland… but EZRA SELOVE, he the man of first New York, then Portland, then New York, or New Jersey, I cannot figure) Ezra spends a fraction of a summer in Portland, comes back to New York, and asks, “What the fuck just happened?”
As Marisa would put it, you feel the edge leave you when the plane lands. Portland. I’ve lived here, in New York, for exactly one year–one year and two days, actually–and I am just starting to feel my edge come up, like scales, like a book I can refer to and nod, or the reference another former Portlander, Anna Bond, told me to pick up when I moved here, the Not For Tourists guide, which I never did because in my mind, my central park is named wanderlust. It was the wise Dee Johnson, who once lived in New York but is now from Sweden, Dee Johnson told me to wander, and look at everything, and I love wandering and looking, on streets and museums and in buildings and et cetera. Rapacious, it’s true; neurotic, I’ll cosign; aloof, depends on who you kick it with, but god love this whole fucking city, New York is the best place to wander.
Yes, the Ezra I knew second, he got it. And if it’s any comfort, after you spend enough time near the Portland waterfront, letting your impatience sap, you start to invert, and the analogy is more like the Keanu in… Parenthood.
Welcome back.
Now, for me, back to work.