Rosaceans in Lancaster

So Tuesday morning then. I’ve returned to the garage in Florida, among the trucks, buses, and motorcycles from the street ahead. They never stop. I’ve got Bubba, the pit bull who follows me wherever I go, laying here on my bed, also observing traffic and front yard animals. I can see that he sees the squirrel. The last time I was here, he chewed up a rabbit in the front of the house. He seems a little lazy these days. He’s gotten old like me. These past few months, as we always say, have been a blur. In the moments I was living them, they felt like they would never end and I was anxious for whatever thing was next. Even at times when I was having “fun.” I don’t even know what fun is any longer. I used to think travel was fun. I used to think drinking was fun. Now, all I want to do is exercise, nap, listen to Eckhart Tolle, and fly fish. Oh, and drink coffee.

I’ve got an iced coffee going here this morning as my dermatologist informed me that I have a slight bit of rosacea and that us Rosaceans (inhabitants of an imaginary land of red faced/nosed folks) should not drink hot beverages. All I’ve done past the age of 18 is drink hot beverages: coffee, black tea, green tea, herbal tea, anything hot I sucked down. And all the while, it’s apparently been exasperating the visibility of blood vessels around the nose area. Other possible culprits include dairy, alcohol, liver, and chocolate. In other words, my current diet. I’ve seen no real difference from drinking iced coffee but luckily it’s hot here in Florida and therefore semi-refreshing. The face still just looks puffy, red, and aged so I avoid the mirror. The dog still seems to enjoy looking at me though. That makes one of us.

It’s been just about a month since I left New York for a visit to Lancaster, Pennsylvania where I drank plenty of Yuengling, ate too many pretzels, and smoked dozens of cigarettes in dive bars, a favorite pastime. I went for a visit to see an old friend from Oakland who moved back to Lancaster, his hometown. I had been tired of the heat and noise, mostly the noise, of New York and decided on a weekend trip that ended up lasting nearly two weeks. I unexpectedly fell in love with the place after a few days. Friends had reminded me that I’m guilty of that: falling in love too fast and too hard with a city and telling everyone who will listen about it: the brick row-houses built in the 1800’s, the oldest farmers’ market in the country, the Amish riding their market wagons about town, breweries, coffee shops, and those damned pretzels. I adored it all. I peppered my friend Ben with real estate links, photos, and fun facts until a week or so later, he drove several hours to have a look and ended up buying a house.

After about a week of being in Lancaster, I put an offer in on a house in town, the first time I’ve gone through the process, and lost out to a couple that put in a “phenomenal offer.” They went in 20k over the asking price. I sweat through the sheets those first nights with anxiety that I would actually be a homeowner. I had texted my father that I felt like I was adulting and he said, “About time.” But, I didn’t get the house so here I am in a garage again, still inspecting the interior walls of my psyche that I’m noticing really doesn’t look like much…maybe like a French countryside home with beamed ceilings, a gingham tablecloth, toile wallpaper, and a phonograph playing Django Reinhardt records with stale smoke in the air. But that’s all in the head. At 42, I’ll be renting an apartment still, no furniture to speak of, with no particular aim in any direction other than planning my next fly fishing trip to Argentina.

I was watching Mountains May Depart these past two weeks, the amount of time it takes me to watch films now, and at some point in the film, the protagonist loses her father, a gentle old man who, like all fathers, is taken for granted. My father, who is mostly unaware that I appreciate his ability to cope with my immature and irresponsible existence, probably thinks I take him for granted because like many sons—especially those with a fixation on originality of thought and inventiveness—we don’t emote well. And when creativity, not the creative process itself but the obsession with being someone who is creative, inflates one’s already massive ego, it can only result in taking things and people for granted. But I’m giving that up. Like Prince Akeem of Zamunda abdicating his throne, I too renounce any creative ambitions in exchange for some form of happiness and even mediocrity (which was already always there), time to properly appreciate family members, fly fishing, and Lancaster pretzels.