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…