Today is my thirteenth day in Atlanta. The original plan was for me to be here for about eight or so, but I’m still here, and I really don’t see myself leaving anytime soon. A good friend of mine is moving from Durham in a couple of days, so I’ll need to go up there for her farewell soiree.
After that, I might come right back.

Lemme give you some background so you can understand my thoughts on this a little better. I was born in Atlanta, but the familia moved to Houston right before I was seven, and we lived there until I finished high school. After my ninth grade year, my old man moved back here to take what was expected to be his last job before retirement. The plan was for me and moms to come back after my tenth grade year, but that never worked out.
Part of the reason that never worked out was that I really didn’t wanna move. I had a helluva time with adjusting, and it seemed the folks wanted to relocate right when I’d started figuring out how to have fun again (you tend to forget that between seventh and tenth grades). So I did a bit of kicking and screaming, and I didn’t have to move.
Ten years after the first intended move, I love Atlanta like nobody’s bidness. Not as much as I love my mama or my boys, but more than I’ve loved any woman that with whom I don’t share a genetic relationship.
I just feel Atlanta’s rhythm. Everything I do here is on beat. That was never the case in Houston. Sure, I could follow the basic rhythm, the kicks and snares of things, but I never felt like I was just floating with the beat. Living there always required a bit of effort for me. It took effort to understand where folks were coming from, and it surely took effort for them to get me. Being in Houston–and Southern California and Durham, for that matter–never really felt natural.
In Atlanta, I feel like I’m part of the beat. It’s not just a matter of following the drums. Here, I feel like I’m the bass line. I feel like I’m making moves in line with what’s going on, and I’m meant to be there. The things I do here are notes, and they’re always on key. I react as the vibe of the town changes, and it requires no thought at all.
If Atlanta’s Funkadelic, I’m Bootsy. I don’t need the band, but I’m so much better with it.
So, I’ve come up with all kinds of excuses not to leave. No need to start with, “I just don’t feel like it.” I’m not staying until Tuesday because one of my buddies needs me to hold down his house and wait for the cable man. Then, my nephew’s coming here to get settled in at this substandard school right near where I went for undergrad. After that, who knows? I’d planned to throw a birthday party for myself next week in Durham, but doing that would require me being in Durham.
At some point, I’ve gotta leave.
But I don’t.
Man, my brother and I bought my Daddy a router at Christmas, so I’ve converted the basement into my office. I’m in an office chair and on a patio table doing my work. I’ve made pitches and all kinds of ambitious things I have don’t nearly enough of lately. I’m just in the swing here, and that feels good.
I do miss Bomaniland, I must say. I even bought a new router while I was here to give me something to look forward to about going back (yes, I’m nerdy enough to look forward to hooking up a wireless router), but that hasn’t gotten me into the car.
It’s just that A, shawty. It’s getting breakfast at the Beautiful on Sunday mornings. It’s hearing Field Mob on the radio (“Georgia” with Luda is my song of the moment). It’s hangin’ out with my godson and his father. It’s knowing the backway to everywhere.
And it’s a bunch more stuff I can’t even explain.
And it’s still goin’ on until I tell you it ain’t.