My liminal space is someone else’s home.
I know I might be using “liminal” in the wrong sense. I’m using it as “the space between permanence.”
And I’m on the road. In a hotel, wandering the streets, doing things I’m supposed to do. And doing things I feel like doing.
Garmentoville Manhattan.
I love this life. I float above everything, lightly belonging, yet not belonging. Everything is familiar yet strange. The convenience store. The restaurants. I don’t know them. Are they good? Should I try it? non of these places will matter to me a week from now.
Yet this is where people live and work. Lifetimes happen here. These places matter deeply. The police station halfway down the block. To me, it’s an interesting side-note. To those who live here, vital.
Like almost every trip I have made in my adult life, I have thought, “Oh, I could live here.” (Except Riyadh. I have no desire to live there.)
Can I make this happen? New York — especially a neighborhood like this — would be interesting for a short-long stay. Let’s say six months. But the next city on this trip . . . that would be the bee’s knees. As I would say if this were 1923 instead of 2023.
That requires re-engineering two lives and two businesses. Not impossible. Maybe do it the reverse of how it’s done now. Live here with occasional week-long trips back to home-home. Rather than be at home-home with week-long trips to hither and yon.