Saturday, April 23, 2011

three square inches, or, the problem with moving

 The detritus of drawers, shelves otherwise cleared. There is so much. Any small object that can act as a receptacle. It all comes back to haunt you. The contents of a ceramic bowl I made once upon a time in a pottery class that sits by the front door on a small drawered table Mike doctored the legs of and painted orange included three different kinds of screws, several paper clips, much lint, glass beads of unknown origin and conference nametag holder, and about 17 other items no bigger than your pinky tip but much less useful (photo to follow - of the content, not your pinky tip). This is just what was left after we extracted from it the car keys and about six dollars in change. Three square inches – multiply by god knows and that's the hardest stuff to sort, to “pack,” to have to see.

One week is a Monterey week. I want to throw my arms around the bay, pack the Aquarium, bungie a fleet of redwoods to the roof of the van. I can't go. My friends are wonderful, making this all worse, of course.

Another week is a fuck-this-place-anyway week. Backward ass ideas about health care. Schools floundering desperately in a sea of old people holding on hard to their inheritance. And an article, perhaps my last for the paper here before I hit the road, about a big New York show coming to town one night only – a Wednesday night. The ticket prices START at $53. What? I feel like I need to go over that again. A Wednesday night. $53. WHO is going to this?????? But that's just it. People are going. Just not the people I know.

I think this is the part of the movie where (naturally in the pouring rain) I pound my fists on the strong, hairy chest of my love and my nemesis screaming, “I hate you, Monterey! I hate you! I hate you!” Then kiss him passionately and with abandon.

trying to stay Zen about it all.

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