20,120,422

22APR2012 – Caught some kind of vicious, viral ass-kicking on my return trip from Newfoundland which necessitated the need for forty-eight hours sleep since Thursday evening.  As a result, I feel more awake than I need to be.  It’s a rainy Sunday night in Brooklyn.  The windows are open, the rain is a cool television hiss and my feline roommates are attempting to telekinetically levitate my empty coffee cup — based on the weight of their half-lidded stares.

Change is in the air.  Operation Rose Petals is a done deal.  (Speak to no one about this.)  I’ve got a week’s worth of vacation in my immediate future and the prospect of migration to the Left Coast looms ahead in mid-July like a heatwave on the horizon.  A shimmering and wonderful possibility…  

The move feels like a reward of sorts, as though I’ve done something inherently right according to the Great Machine, as though maybe I’m meant to discover something important there.  Open a locked door, or experience some long-overdue epiphany that will play a vital role in paying back the debts I owe to others and the debt I owe to myself.  (Some debts can never be forgiven.  Others must be erased.) 

Standard practice for an exodus has always included a three-day purge-a-thon.  It says so right there in the fucking manual.  I typically go through every item I own and trim the fat, discarding the unnecessary: Sell or give away books I no longer need, donate articles of clothing that no longer fit properly, and dispose of one-way sentimental anchors.  Terminate with extreme prejudice.  Make light the load, for shit is afoot.

He got the high sign, so he jumped a bus

Along the roads that wind on through

The hot Mojave and the Jericho.

He’d start his whole life anew.

And what he left behind he hadn’t valued

Half as much as some things

He never knew…


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2 thoughts on “20,120,422

  1. as Sherman marches across the plain of memorie and those object imbued smolder and blacken, finding new carbon life as soil for what is cast aside seeds…there are flickering eyes in the dark, reflecting the light and bearing witness….celebrating the movements and the new view as the barn burns slowly down…yet ever aware that while the eyes and ears get prominence and priority in the human mind, that scent is an unshakeable memory conjouror…having been woven from the neuron matter itself…would enjoy a covert meeting out by the pool, with shaded glasses and the glint from a martini glass on the next table..you know the number

  2. Oh what grand adventures await on Le Left Coast! Enjoy the purge – it is cathartic and cleansing and might be the closest you’ll truly understand of menstration. Ew. uncalled for metaphor. I don’t know what gets into me these days – light air, light loads and few responsibilities make me a little unpredictable. Dig up your shallow roots. Bid a fond adieu to Brooklyn and many New York moments. I wish you the fairest winds on your journey west. If you need a place to crash mid way in Colorado, you know how to get ahold of me. I can’t promise it’s not cramped and loud and chaotic, but it’s free and you’re guarenteed a hot meal, a cold drink, and a place to hang your hat. And you might even meet a few future characters for your stories…

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