The place on 14th street between Avenues B&C was my first solo adulting apartment. A railroad one-bedroom with no doors except for the bathroom, which was only a toilet and sink because the shower was in the kitchen. The front door let you into a large kitchen, then you passed through into the dining room/living room space and on through to the bedroom at the front, which faced 14th street. All the windows except for the two in the bedroom faced an airshaft. A dear friend of mine lived in the building across the way, so if I looked out my kitchen window and saw her light on I knew she was home. If either of us saw that light and were, say, watching Twin Peaks, we might call each other and watch together. This was waaayyy before streaming so you needed to catch the moment as it happened.

One of the two windows in my bedroom that faced 14th street had a fire escape, although I didn’t spend any time on it as I had in my former apartments because this was the place where my life became very busy. I’d been at SPIN for a solid few months and though I was finding my footing to some degree, I also felt like I was walking on ice in six-inch stilettos. And I’m lousy with heels so my equilibrium was constantly off balance. Yet I masked that as one does when one feels they are in the place they’ve always dreamed of being yet somehow the colors are much different than what they expected. Still, I can call up inside me quite clearly the thrill I had getting up each morning, getting dressed in my thrift store finds (favorites: an orange pleather mini skirt that snapped up the front with a striped black-and-white shirt whose sleeves were overly long; a black-and-white, polka-dot circle skirt, short with a wide elastic waist and a men’s black crew-neck sweater; a blue-and-white striped on top, solid blue on the bottom, long-sleeved mini dress. All of these worn with leggings, motorcycle boots, and a wrist-full of silver chains and plastic o-rings (à la Madonna). I’d put my hair in two braids (sometimes four), put my headphones on, and slip my Walkman in my pocket, being careful not to get tangled in the cord, then step out the door filled with an energy of what today’s rock’n’roll moment might hold. I no doubt had a slight hangover.

This heady feeling of me in 1991 was due to it being the year I came into my sense of creative power. I’d leave the building, cross 14th Street and walk through Stuytown and Peter Cooper Village, a sprawling multi-block living complex that stretched from 14th to 23rd Street complete with green grass and fountains. (Side note: It’s worth reading about here given the history is rich in how NYC developed affordable housing post-WWII and still—to some degree—supports that mission.) I’d exit at 18th Street and head crosstown, over Avenues First, Second, Third, Lexington, Park, then cross Fifth Ave. and halfway up the block on the left were the SPIN offices. Throughout the walk I’d be listening to whatever advance tape had caught my attention or that I needed to review, so that at any given time Soundgarden, Hole, Babes in Toyland, Ween, Metallica Smashing Pumpkins, Girls Against Boys, Beastie Boys would fill my noggin, although the Nirvana and Pearl Jam releases were the most spun and auto-reversed. Maybe I’d stop for a greasy egg-on-a-roll and milky coffee in a We’re-Happy-to-Serve-You cup from the diner or yellow rice-black-beans with an egg and white bread cut on the bias, toasted and dripping with butter from the Dominican place under our offices. Then I’d head upstairs, say hello to our wonderful receptionist (she really was so much more than that though) and go into my tiny closet-sized office.

And so it went for many years: I’d step through the looking glass each morning, then be dropped back into my 14th street apartment after all the events of the day-into-night were done. I knew I was coming into my fullest self, yet there was so much I was pretending. The duality of me out in the world stomping around in my kick-ass boots, then coming home and making dinner (when I had a night to myself) that I’d put on a plate and serve to myself at my tiny dining room table were two halves of a whole. On the fated Christmas where I lit the tiny eucalyptus bough on fire (too close to the candles) and served veal to the vegetarian, I had been so filled with happiness to make and present a meal to all of us holiday-away-from-bio-family friends that I went a bit nuts going to the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker (well, maybe not that last one) and created a multi-course feast. Although you can’t see the food in the photo above, the wine, cigarettes, and happy moments are there.

This would be the place I’d live for a lot of years. Where I’d sit in the dark as bill collectors left messages on my machine and I’d feel faintly scared trying to decide if I was a rebel or just a very broke girl, where I’d be gifted a little wee cat who I’d be convinced had disappeared into a hole in the apartment’s wall after I got her and then didn’t see her for a few days (she did eventually come out and be with me for 20 years). The place I felt my first true heartbreak and heady passion. But that’s to come.