Since I started blogging, I have stopped writing my thoughts in a Word journal I kept for years. I do occasionally make an entry when I am deeply troubled by something very private that should stay that way, but that rarely happens. While searching old journals for the name of a woman I want to remember, I became absorbed and kept reading for several hours.

Here is an excerpt from the period that followed Jay’s death when I was in a state of limbo, looking for answers and how to be.

June 5, 1994 – locale: Manhattan
Had lunch with Julie today on 8th Ave. near 18th St. We met there because she had tickets to a performance at the Joyce. I think it may have been the Elgin in my day.

(Background: In 1956, at 24, I married Jay and moved into his Chelsea apartment at 151 8th Avenue – the neighborhood I am now writing about.)

As soon as I got off the train at 23rd St., I started to cry. The buildings, for the most part, are all there as in the past, but their facades have changed. The chain stores and trendy little restaurants have taken over. There are still a few bodegas and small mom-& pop delis, but mostly it is Blockbuster, Banana Republic, Lechters, GNC. Gone are Stern’s Deli, Lee Sam’s. The little drugstore next to 151 is now a yuppie cafe. Likewise the store just to the south of it. Indeed, you have to look for our old doorway, but it is unchanged, except for a tenant list on the jamb on the street side. The street door is locked too, whereas in the past you could get to the bells and mailboxes on the inside without a key. That’s probably for the best.

Julie and I ate at a restaurant on 8th Ave. near 20th St. and had the prixe fixe brunch. I had a wine and French toast and sausage and a small Caesar salad appetizer. Julie had scrambled eggs. The host was a tall, stocky transvestite, bald, sensual folds of the face, huge lips, huge dangle earrings, a sleeveless low cut white blouse, exposing huge shoulders, and a floor-length beige lace skirt over a long slip, completed with black open sandals. He was very pleasant. I liked him. The waiter was a black stud type who was very friendly and engaging. I asked him to marry me, which got a good laugh.

After I left Julie at the Joyce, I walked south past my old building. The 16th St. Indy subway entrance has been moved to the north side and is positioned north and south instead of east and west. The 111 building is now a huge carpet vendor. I can’t remember what it used to be. Pappas’ home-like restaurant on 14th Street where Greenwich St. begins has been gone quite a while, but I gave silent tribute to its once comforting presence as I passed the supremely uninteresting food thing that is now in its place.

I decided to walk east on Greenwich to the 6th Ave. subway. Little is left from the past. But the Dew Drop Inn (sic) is still there. It holds no keen nostalgia for me. I always try to locate the place where the little shop was where Jay bought the agates for me, but it is long gone. The clothing shops I knew are gone and the shops in their place seem less friendly.

The sidewalk cafes were filled with gays of every description from grunge to yuppie. I bore them no ill will, merely being aware that there were more of them than before.

One thing that I thought of a few moments ago as I was getting ready for bed, is that I probably wouldn’t want to go back to Chelsea and live. For a few moments, walking along 9th Ave. and down side streets, I felt I could begin again there. But it is a nostalgic fantasy that would not necessarily bring me any joy or peace because you can’t replace a person with a place. You can’t go back and living there wouldn’t be any more meaningful than if I tried something totally new. It’s good to be aware of that. I have to move on, though my version of moving on is to never forget the people who have meant the most to me. Julie talked at lunch about a Japanese movie where a question was asked if you could have one memory forever, which one would it be?

xx, Teal