As a kid, lots of movies stuck with me, but there was one that sort of changed my trajectory: Home Alone 2: Lost in New York. I loved the original, but the sequel told me where I was meant to live. Sure, it’s a bit cringe. I wish I could tell you it was Taxi Driver, The Taking of Pelham 123, or heck, even When Harry Met Sally, but I was a kid, so here we are. My entire mythos is built on a movie about the Wet Bandits.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah. I just visited some friends in Jersey before taking a much-delayed NJ Transit train into the city, where I stayed with a close friend. While there, I found myself reliving New York through the lens of past memories.

For some context, I moved to NYC, well, Jersey City (the sixth borough, a claim real New Yorkers will hate), in 2014 before eventually moving to Brooklyn and sort of working in the fashion industry. I had the world right where I wanted it. Most of my dreams, especially the difficult ones, had come true.

Then a pandemic changed things.

I know, I know.

We all know.

I’ll spare you the postmortem.

Now I’m 1,200 miles from my dream. It’s difficult, but that’s life. I’ve seen It’s a Wonderful Life. I get the message, and I still feel very blessed. But I’d be lying if I said visiting wasn’t bittersweet. I go places, and it’s as if I’m visiting a memory rather than making new ones. I remember going here with so-and-so, doing this with so-and-so. You get the idea.

Traveling, and having the ability to do so, is an immense privilege and a joy for me. I don’t mean to take that for granted. Anyway, you get the picture. Here’s what I’ve been thinking about.

I love New York. There’s something in the air (and I don’t mean the smell of piss) that makes me feel like myself, like I can still do something special with my life. I still feel the way I did the first time, when I missed my last chance to stay in Jersey and had to pay the $13 toll. But when we emerged from the Holland Tunnel, every worry and concern seemed to melt away. I knew I was home.

I’m originally from Arkansas, and I remember talking about moving to NYC while finishing college. Outside of my mom, nobody was particularly encouraging. It was a fool’s errand, a waste of my life. I’d be back in two weeks, tops. I was going straight to the devil’s den. You get the picture.

But I went anyway. I had what might have seemed like small dreams, and I genuinely accomplished most of them. It was a special time.

Life threw me some curveballs, and somewhere along the way, I’ve allowed myself to take a backseat in my own life. After this visit, though, I feel an undeniable need to pay my dues to my nine-year-old self and reclaim the dreams I’ve let gather dust on the shelf.

I still want to live in NYC. And by God, I still want to be a respected artist.

So, a few snowflakes have clumped together, and the snowball is starting to take shape, and I’m ready to roll.

Happy autumn, you filthy animals.