Sometimes things in my current life just seem to effortlessly roll me in the direction of a new one—unexpectedly colliding with my current me to construct a renovated me. When this happens (to me anyway) the outcome produces a surreal result: like those movie scenes when someone dies and they don’t know it yet, leaving them watching over the remains of their past life while no longer in it. Physically gone yet mentally aware. Taking apart, then reconstructing the details of my new (palm springs) home has once again evoked the aforementioned movie moment.

Although the (above) snap is (Mini) Me painting, (He photographs better) the surreal occurrence actually happened while tearing out the bathroom of my new abode—which started with: Humm…this molding looks dated. To, I think there needs to be a pocket door here. Which morphed into ripping off the (bad 80s) shower doors. To, this built-in is a waste of space. Finally concluding with an empty room and visions of myself languishing in a spa tub, in what will (hopefully) become my new bathroom. Although I wasn’t in my new life yet, I could see it clearly.

All the while, between dodging broken tiles and airborne chips of wood, my I Pod was cycling through my library folder of 80s music. Thus, when I sat to post this snap—along with a little musing—the first thing that popped into my head was the 1981 hit Tainted Love by English techno pop /duoband Soft Cell.

I suppose the combination of old tunes, a new home (and the rhyming of painted and tainted) got me thinking about how much my life has changed since the eighties—my bleachy-streaked Duran Duran mullet, my school time in the UK—as well as my countless evolutions and homes. In my past lives I’ve been: a (teen) model, a makeup artist, a student, a fine artist, a stylist, a fashion designer, a toy designer, an art director and a writer. With each of these renovations, brought various challenges; forms of friendship and love, as well as with all sorts of definitions of home.

As I considered all of my past lives, I thought of Buddha.

Buddhist practice says that the attachment to a permanent self in this world of change is an obstacle to liberation. To advance my happiness, my change, I do my best to release the past while applying my method of liberation: decorate it, then enjoy it…for as long as it lasts….while understanding that it will not be forever.

My friends compare me to Auntie Mame (the Rosalind Russell version)—as I am always morphing my existence/home into another “period”. This observation is seen outwardly, evoking statements like “Oh, he’s in his pink and yellow phase now!” (Which is true.)

But inwardly, change is also churning through my organs, my being; constantly considering the transiency of things.

And with this recent change, this evolution of my being, I am once again reminded that home, (although this sounds totally corny), is however you define it. And, that it changes every day, with a fresh coat of paint or the latest bathtub or a new friend that crosses the threshold.

I suppose how one chooses to look back, to view the past events of your life, impacts how you proceed forward; how you view and ultimately embrace change…or home. Or a new year.

Thus

…home today,

then gone tomorrow

……along with another year.

….pop the cork!…

now…let the projects begin.

…should I….buy it or not? I wondered. Was I…being practical or frivolous? Am I….I questioned, taking care of myself: avoiding the bad 50%—the “50% from my generation who will retire below the poverty line?”……..

Everything, I concluded, worth improving ones life, generally requires a certain amount of risk.

And said risk generally comes accessorized with a little fear.

Currently I’m wearing a lot of accessories. More than I consider tasteful or appropriate.

But I like my accessories…..what can I say? They can make or break any ensemble.

Additionally, I determined that there would be no hope of affording future accessories, (a dreary look) were I to retire below the poverty line—The bad 50%.

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Three weeks ago I bought a house in Palm Springs; a getaway place that will—if all goes well—eventually become a mortgage-free retirement home for the final stages of my maturing process. My conclusive resting stop—ending my era in the good 50%.

Yet, it felt odd to do such a thing with unemployment figures so elevated, jobs so scarce and the world’s money situation sooooo bleak.

At times, I felt practical.

Other times, I felt like Imelda Marcos.

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If I’m going to take the leap, I thought, then let it be in a comforting pair of shoes! The appropriate accessory.

Thus, before signing a million pieces of paper (loan docs), I decided to accessorize with the shoes I’ve been wearing since I was 12: a pair of (this seasons) Jack Purcell leather high tops.

It’s odd how certain things from ones formative years can become, then remain, so comforting for decades to follow—even providing support when considering retirement; the possibility of walking with one of those walkers with the wheels that the old folks pimp out with tennis balls.

I first wore Jacks, purchased by my father with the hopes of enticing me into his obsessive, passionate love of tennis. Now I was picturing them accessorizing tennis balls affixed to my accompanying walker.

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Stepping into new territory always feels big, scary.

What if I trip and fall, fail miserably? So I sat. To put things into perspective.

Suddenly it all felt less scary, miniscule…

….and the unknown future became exciting, a smart, stylish step forward.

But maybe I’m mistaken and I’ll end up in the bad 50%, below the poverty line…

…or maybe, like Imelda, I’ll retire, slipping quietly into seclusion…..

…..with a significant stride and a million pairs of shoes….

Imelda Marcos is sometimes referred to as the Steel Butterfly or the Iron Butterfly. She is often remembered for symbols of the extravagance of her husband’s political reign, including her collection of 2700 pairs of shoes.

Some mornings I wake up and feel as if I could maneuver through anything; other days, not so much.

Recently, while on a trip to New York City, I was reminded of the randomness of said feelings.

On the first morning of my visit, while languidly sipping my (room service) latte’, I went to the window of my hotel room and swept the curtains opened as if resurrecting Eva Gabor’s opening from the 1960’s television series Green Acres.

(My version being, of course, Queen Acres.)

It felt as if I were standing on top of the world—the cabs of Manhattan buzzing about my feet like a frenetic swarm of bumblebees.

Neeeew YorrrrK is where I’d raaatha staY! I gaily announced to the jagged skyline—as the taxicabs scurried over my mangled toes.

The yellow cabs of New York City have, for me, always brought with them a sense of home, of belonging—like my formative years—a comfort level with their disorderly efficiency. Like ants at a picnic, the meal, the bite, the visit, would not taste the same without them.

Akin to the variations on my day-to-day outlook, the taxis also have the ability to travel in several directions—taking one east or west, fast or crawling through traffic, uptown…

…..or down. Every ride, every day, is a dodgy prospect.

A few hours later, I (actually) stepped onto the streets of Manhattan and that wonderful, familiar feeling of power and control returned as threw my arm in the air—causing three or four cabs to come hurling in my direction; making me immediately question my move west.

How could I have left this? jumbled about in my head, as I slipped into the back seat and dictated directions to my on-the-spot chauffeur.

It was a perfect New York (movie) moment.

But….

….like some other mornings, other moments, other movies, things can go the other direction.

The wrong way.

Downtown.

I think about this as on-the-spot chauffeur effortlessly zigzags us through the traffic.

The wrong way, inevitably occurs two or three days into my visit, when I’m laden with shopping bags, or it begins to rain…or I’m laden with shopping bags and it begins to rain.

Why the fuck do people live here? (Generally) rumbles through my thoughts, as the shopping bags and the rain become heavier—while several women in impossibly high heels or some mother with a baby materialize from nowhere to compete for the same cab from opposing corners. Predictably, these women win out through either my deformed sense of chivalry or my long-gone Manhattan mojo.

Two days after I took this photo, (the last day of my visit), it happened.

Both delighted with our pile of cashmere sweaters, my friend Peter and I emerged from (the new) Uniqlo store—only to be pelted in the face by bullets of rain.

We are Los Angeleno-mos’ and, like cats, have come to regard the rain with disdain.

Fortunately, the overly caffeinated, uncharacteristically helpful sales people at Uniqlo had fashioned big, plastic condoms over our shopping bags—in preparation for the storm.

Channeling Eva Gabor, I threw my arm into the air. The swarm of cabs zoomed by—all proudly boasting a blurred Off Duty sign atop their yellow roofs’.

“Let’s just walk” my friend Peter chirped. “It’ll be fun.”

Several blocks down Fifth Avenue, the wind pelting the downpour from every direction, while umbrellas stabbed at my bald little head, my shopping bag shed its condom near the steps of St. Patrick’s’ Cathedral (a gay omen).

Just as my new Duckie Brown lace-less wingtips were nearing ruination, we succumbed to the elements and retreated into Saks. Momentarily distracted by a wool melton tote from Coach and some Paul Smith boots, I began to forget. The day was moving in a better direction—all the while driving my credit card into the red zone.

Then.

“Come on” Peter hissed, “We gotta get back to the hotel and get our stuff! It’s gonna take for-evvvv-er to get to the airport!”

Back into the rain we went.

Again, not a cab to be had…it was an off (duty) day for all.

I was a prune—literally and figuratively.

But…eventually, like good queens from L.A., we called the car service that had brought us into the city….

….to take us out. And left!

Whether a good mood or a bad trip, whether fair or not fair weather, at the end of the day, there is always significance—something to take away from the excursion. Some days it’s worth blissful acknowledgement, a tip, others…not so much, leaving you to walk it off—the rain soaking you with irritating reminders.

But when in Mahanttan….

….I am always reminded that life is absolutely caaaab-ulous!

….Should I save these? I thought to myself, while staring at a stack of Shavings From My Head homo-promo cards—left over from last year’s Gay Pride.

You never know, I concluded, plunking them into the save pile.

As I continued to sift and sort through the heap of business cards, expired warranties, old magazines and endless post it notes—filled with to do lists and scribbled reminders of things to write about—I came across a torn white envelope bulging with five dollar bills.

I thought of Keith and smiled.

And then, I counted its contents.

I’d amassed a small fortune: two hundred and fifteen dollars had been stuffed inside the envelope….

….and then, forgotten.

Again, I thought of Keith and smiled. The forgotten five-dollar stash was my savings account for him—a possible weekend getaway treat or future holiday gift.

And while caught in that moment, sifting through my pile of things to save and things to throw out, I grasped a lesson even more valuable than my small fortune of five dollar bills: I was reminded of the valuable currency of relationships; of what we exchange with those who come into our lives, and of what we take along with us—after they are gone; each ritual, each habit, each kindness.

From Keith, it was his high-five savings plan.

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One night, after a few dates, each of us perched on opposite slabs of the concrete kitchen countertop; we sipped white wine and talked of our formative years on the east coast, of our families.

“Yeah, I have a niece and nephew…my sister’s kids” said Keith, elaborating on our theme. “When they were born, it kept me from moving to the west coast. I didn’t want to miss their childhood and be the absent Uncle. Then one day, all of a sudden they were teenagers, and I thought, I don’t want to grow old here, it’s time to move. So I came west,” he said, taking a shot of chardonnay.  “But they’re still part of my everyday life. We talk a lot and I do my five dollar thing for them.”

“Your five dollar thing?” I asked. “What’s that?”

“Oh, yeah”, he laughed and took another swig from his wine glass.

“Well…every time I end up with a five-dollar bill, I pull it out and stick it in an envelope. And at the end of the year, whatever’s in the envelope I give to my niece and nephew. It’s craaaazy how it adds up!” his Boston accent accentuating the amount. “And, you never even notice. Last year, I think I ended up with twelve hundred dollars!”

“Wow. Impressive”, I countered, mental memo-ing the concept.

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Keith and I were eventually spent—our currency exchange rate became like the euro and Greece. The idea of a common currency seemed great, but in the longer scheme, it dwindled to occasional calls for sex, and eventually life moved on.

While I continued to sift, it made me reconsider the others—past boyfriends and how they’d left their mark.

Coincidently, two recent occurrences only made the consideration more potent: I’d just bought a new home in the desert (my reason for cleaning) and, within the same week, (last week) I’d seen and had dinner with two past loves.

Standing in the middle of my kitchen, the keep and not keep piles on either side of my stack of five-dollar bills, I looked up—scanning the top of my cabinets for things to take to the desert. They were filled with Depression glass.

Until I met Steven, at the age of twenty-nine, I’d never been to a flea market. And I knew nothing about Depression glass. But Steven loved the flea market and he collected Depression glass. So it became something we did together. Something I folded into my life—along with him.

Last week, twenty some years later, when he walked into my house, the first thing he said was, “Ah, the Manhattan!” (the pattern name for the depression glass we collected)

Although we were no longer boyfriends, akin to our continued affection, the Manhattan Depression glass survived—decades after the depression, not to mention a bombing and a few earthquakes.

While smiling, I pulled a few pieces down and packed them for their new abode in the desert.

Then I thought of “Chunky”.

Before I met “Chunk”, I’d never been to the desert. But, as our relationship grew, we folded into each other’s lives; sharing the things we loved—when he took me to Palm Springs for the first time. A romantic getaway for new lovers.

They are still my fondest memories of the California desert.

Again, a smile came to my face as I thought of our recent visit—of his new, happily married life in Texas. Then of the Chunky from eighteen years ago, who introduced me to the place that will become my home of tomorrow.

Another example of how those I have loved, have opened me, expanded my scope, added interest to my being….

…..by leaving behind pieces of themselves. Good, useful pieces, that, even when the ending was tumultuous, valuable interest had been added to my personal currency.

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The currency of relationships usually begins with small exchanges: a hello, a wink, a smile, a five-dollar bill. And even if all parts don’t last forever, if the bottom falls out of the shared economy, a valuable personal fortune is (still, usually) amassed. Because of these exchanges, we’ve gained interest (and sometimes cash)—learning a little more about ourselves through these small, gracious investments.

So…perhaps, like me, Greece may eventually return to the drachma.

Why?

Because the word drachma is derived from the verb “to grasp”.

…..just shop talk.

The world is a Disco Ball.

Turning,

catching,

then rearranging,

light.

Manipulating it into fractions of life,

our geometry lesson

on perspective and movement.

Bopping days,

Boogie nights,

rehearsing a lifetime of numbers

we comprehend flexibility,

become bendable.

Dancing,

repeating our steps,

we follow the light

hoping for the perfect moves,

the right song,

the ideal partner:

Someone pliable.

Not just a poser.