Always Going Home

I'm going back to New York tomorrow for another semi-important gig, and this time I'll be staying within blocks of my old home.  Coming as a disruption in the ongoing process of getting used to my new life in a place that could be a million miles away, this trip is making me feel a little trepidatious.  I'm uneasy about going back to the old neighborhood.  While I have a sense of my obligation to pay calls on the comrades of my past, in most cases I would really rather not.  There is a certain sense in which my anonymity in my new city is a blessed relief.  I know very few people, and very few people know me; so, while it is true that, as Faulkner said, "the past is never dead.  It's not even past," no one here has to know it. 

I recently dyed my hair a different shade from my natural color, and, though the upcoming visit to my old stomping ground did not consciously play a part in my new color choice, I'm now sort of half-hoping that, if any of my old confrères sees me on the street, they will fail to recognize me and will walk on.

(Incidentally, Betty Duffy also has a post up -- as usual, an excellent and thought-provoking one -- about going back to the old neighborhood).