close(r) to home

I have more of a "relax bug" than I do a "travel bug," and it just so happens that sometimes relaxation requires some travel. So many of my friends are always so eager to rush out of New York City on the weekends, as if stress is unavoidable within the confines of the five boroughs. Perhaps it's because I'm blessed to live on such a nice, quiet, and entirely residential street, but I'm far more relaxed sitting on the sofa reading a book, cat by my side, with the blinds open and some sun coming in (granted, it's all reflected or indirect light since I have only north-facing windows) than I would be taking a train or rented car to someplace farther afield that doesn't have myriad options for take-away, groceries, exercise or what have you within a few blocks or, at worst, a 20 minute subway ride away.

Take the whole flight to Fire Island thing every summer weekend--which, of course, in terms of much of my wide (not immediate) social circle tends to mean "The Pines"* or Cherry Grove. Yes, Fire Island is beautiful. It's also a hassle to get to and is more expensive with worse cocktails and less fun than what I can manage by taking a pillow, blanket, camera, good wine, cheese and fruit and bread from Fairway (2 short blocks away) into Riverside Park-- the Hudson River is about 500 feet from my front door--where I can sit in sun or shade all day and relax wonderfully--and then, in the evening, getting together with friends over dinner, watching a DVD, or whatever.

I admit it. The whole regular escapes from New York thing: I don't entirely get it.

Just what are those who are so keen to escape NYC so often really escaping from? Apparently, something I don't have to escape from, whatever it is. Maybe this is a badthing for me! Maybe I should be fleeing something that even now is slowly devouring my soul, or at least my shoes, or my sense of humor, or my 401k, or something! But the curled up cat on my bed tells me that's unlikely.

*If you dare, follow the asterisked link above to a pathetically over-simplified, bizarrely crypto-clinical description (of a sort) of The Pines. The way "gay" in public discourse is synonymous with medical and sociologically biased generalizations, medical nomenclature, and references to AIDS, drugs, and partying is profoundly rank--actually, to me, flatly disgusting--and is simply so very far, far removed from the total reality (and even the vast majority of the simple daily details!) of my life or the lives of any of my gay friends. (To be sure, that over-emphasis on partying and sex is something some gay men--a minority within the minority--help perpetuate by, in fact, applying a great deal of their psychological energy variously enjoying or being obsessed with. But, to imply that or declare that to be "the gay community" is to imply or state an inaccuracy). It's like going to Wikipedia for a definition of "Harlem" and reading mostly about sickle-cell anemia, watermelon &/or fried chicken, and Al Sharpton--i.e., so far removed from the actual realities and totality of Harlem and its residents and life, its diversity and dynamism included, so as to be...well...rather offensive and certainly dehumanizing. Of course, it's never high up on the agenda of the majority--the holders, the authors, of Opinion/Accepted Wisdom--to try to understand any minority, to willingly wade into nuance relative to opinions about a minority, to think critically about a minority in the first place, to dare to pause for a moment of assumption-questioning. No, the majority's chief aim is usually--and unconsciously--to have prejudices confirmed, by like-minded friends, some manner of usually Bronze Age self-described sacred text, or like-minded public commentators. How very . . . . unwise . . . but very common.