I moved the last of my stuff out of my old apartment today. 22 boxes of fanzines, magazines, and underground newspapers from the ’80s and ’90s. And 3 big crates full of my record collection (those fucking things were heavy!).
I had had a connection with that apartment since I first moved in there in 1982 as a 26-year-old boy. And now, 36 years later as a 61-year-old old man, that connection is finally over. So it was one of those “end of an era” moments for ole Ace.
I’ve had 6 real “homes” over the course of my life. Starting with my childhood home in High Bridge, New Jersey where I lived from age 5 to age 11. And most definitely including my homeless home (ironically enough) campsite in the Berkeley hills where I’ve lived for the last 10 years. And that apartment was definitely one of my 6 homes, having lived there for 13 years (all the other places I’ve lived at were just temporary pit-stops).
As I moved the last bits of my past out of the apartment, the one thing I kept thinking: “Will I ever play my records again?” I haven’t listened to any of them since I moved out of the apartment in 1995. But it was part of a larger question. “Will I ever again have a normal home where I can set up all my records and books and other stuff? Or will it all just end up sitting with all the other boxes of stuff stacked up in my storage locker? A relic of my long-lost past.”