This Is Not A Dress Rehearsal

It's been a weird week. Forgive me if this post is more sentimental than most. A year ago, I moved into this wacky artist's community along with a whole hoard of eclectic strangers. Now, leases are ending and people are moving.

Ten. Ten people are moving from my floor. It feels as though the rapture came and left me behind.

The Poet is left behind too, along with The Fonz and The Dancer. Also, The Mad Scientist is still in his laboratory becoming the next Edgar Allen Poe. But the mass exodus of neighbors was dramatic and a bit depressing.

This week seems like a series of scenes from a film:

The Chef making dinner for us one last time and announcing that life is not a dress rehearsal.

A party/impromptu recital in the basement, where bottles of wine were passed around in circles and a boy played the piano while The Chef yelled "THIS IS NOT A DRESS REHEARSAL."

Sticking my head out the window and waving farewell to a hipster gnome who is moving to New York City. My next door neighbor stuck her head out the window too and I felt like we needed to start singing about how we weren't going to pay last year's rent.

Eating donuts with The Chef and The Poet outside on the picnic table late at night, listening as The Chef told us we needed to get out of town, make art that represented our personal truths, and live our lives as if we might die tomorrow.

Finding a six-page typed manifesto under my door (courtesy of one of my writer friends), recapping the year and encouraging everyone in their various artistic endeavors.

Going out to a bar with a big mess of people and laughing about all the things we've experienced together over the past year.

Waking up early to give The Chef a big hug before he bumbled off to Finland. This was the cherry on top of a very bittersweet week and the catalyst for the inevitable water works display that was destined to happen at some point. He even left a note addressed to the community, saying that he was leaving behind his beloved "sound sculpture" (yes, that would be the air mattress with train whistles and pan flutes shoved in it...) as a gift to the community.

Raiding the workshop after The Chef left and rescuing some of the paintings he left behind:

It's strange how The Chef hasn't even been gone for twelve hours and the place already seems strange and lifeless.  His room is empty and all that's left behind is an obnoxious air mattress and some bad paintings of Elvis.  A lot of cool people left this week, but I'm going to miss The Chef the most.  He was a great encouragement to me from the very beginning, not to mention my daily comic relief for an entire year.  I know he's the sort of person that can't stand to live in the same place/city/state/country for more than a year, but it's still sad seeing him disappear into the sunset like that.

"Peace and love," he said as he turned to walk down the hall for the last time.  "Good luck, rock on, love you guys, peace out."  I stood there next to The Poet and tried not to cry.  

I felt like the season finale of this sitcom had come to an end and the credits were rolling somewhere on some cosmic screen.  I guess all I can do is take all my memories and move on to next season's episodes.

This is not a dress rehearsal.  

More Reflections And Stuff...

Oh man. I'm currently at Peets Coffee inhaling a pumpkin spice latte and it's the best coffee-related drink I've had in ages. It officially feels like Fall now. It's weird to think that just last week there was a major heat wave. The air has shifted since then and that distinctive Fall smell has returned. The infamous Portland rain has made a few cameos in the weather report and I've even felt the need to wear sweaters a couple of times.

Personally, I'm glad it's fall again. I'm a true Oregonian in that I secretly hate sunshine and live for a good gloomy overcast day. And I would always rather be too cold than too hot (because really, you can always put on more clothes to warm up when it's cold but can you only take off so many clothes to cool down when it's hot), so breaking out my long sleeved shirts again was sort of exciting.

Also, Fall is by far my favorite of all the seasons. Winter is too depressing, Spring is too optimistic, and Summer is just too darn hot and frankly overrated. But Fall contains a sort of delicate beauty that makes me want to drink too many lattes and write bad poetry about leaves or something.

Fall does bring a certain element of nostalgia along. Maybe it's one of the things that is packaged in that crisp autumn air. It's undoubtedly a season of change, but it's also a season with a distinct set of memories.

This year seems especially nostalgic. A year ago, I was getting ready to move to the city and live with a bunch of wacky artists. I was meeting everyone for the first time. I was building friendships, making alliances, learning who to watch out for, and feeling completely accepted and supported as a creative individual.

A year later, I'm still here, existing in this big bohemian mad house made of brick. And it's been quite the year - I think I have enough material for one thousand sitcom episodes and a few feature films. But the times are changing. People are changing. People are leaving. I keep saying I want to leave too but I don't know where I want to go.

We had The First Of The Last Suppers last night in the courtyard. It started at dusk and we lit everything with candlelit. It was a good night but slightly strange. A handful of my favorite people are sticking around until they develop better plans, but many people are fleeing on October 1st.

The Chef is moving to Finland. He was my first friend here and is one of the most unique people I've ever met. I think I'm in denial over the fact that he's leaving. I'll still have The Fonz, The Poet, and The Mad Scientist (who's been coming out of his room more often and gracing us with his lovably odd personality), but none of them are going to stick train whistles in an air mattress or organize community Solstice celebrations.

And, of course, no one else is going to get drunk and sing "One Night In Bangkok" while spontaneously yanking on The Poet's nipples. Yes, that is a moment that happened last night and yes, i am still laughing about it.

But I digress. A bunch of other people on the third floor are moving too. It's a mass exodus, I guess. Feels like the end of summer camp, actually. You know, it's emotional and seems unfair and you don't want to move on from the fun you had in the woods, but you know deep down that you need to join the real world again and you look forward to bathrooms with running water.

I'll be honest and say that I don't always like change. But I guess that's just something that often comes with Fall.