I went to Brooklyn today to my dear friend’s new home he and his partner moved into a few months ago. Brooklyn is not a place I know well—although I have counted up my visits past ten fingers the borough remains “Other,” not Manhattan but neither is Manhattan, Manhattan anymore. In fact my Manhattan has moved to Brooklyn. Apartment buildings just three, maybe four stories tall, stairs to climb up, small dingy hallways holding decades of cooking, breathing, sleeping, eating, flushes, sighs, moans, all supported by the smell of aging timber. 

From their second floor windows, a corner building, essential to the apartment’s charm, two bay windows in the living room and bedroom set at right angles, the view onto sidewalk thoroughfares of strollers feels so communal.

The home’s perfection relies on agreed images—distinct but not individual of conventions—however I find those conventions soothing to look upon. The lamp set just right on an African tapestry—a congregation of Buddhas—spoils of tourism—trappings of privilege—signs of empathy?

I don’t know. I do know today has caused me to reevaluate embraced in the arms of nostalgia.