It's getting colder, though it's been warm for the past few days, warm enough for a light hooded-sweatshirt that tonight seems woefully inadequate, even indoors. The cold and the hum of the city puts me in mind of a howling winter wind. The way it would blow across the sky would whiten everything in sight, blanketing it all beyond gray. A whiteout wind, a blizzard, that's what the city is to me tonight.
When I came home, they were moving a couch in. It was halfway in the door and wedged. Four people combined their strength to torque one end up to lever the last foot of it the rest of the way through. I stopped helping before they came to the second door. The other day I helped a stranger with a TV for four blocks, but this seemed a burden. Then I recalled that I have all of my possessions in the living room, and asked them to stop. Enough has been broken.
The relief from moving beyond this dormitory living, on the eve of it after a couple of months, ought to be enough to help me sleep like a baby. I've liked this room. I wanted it to last longer. I want my own apartment, but as far as sharing goes I've been in worse situations. I'm awake, wide awake, composing poetry in my mind and prose on the page. I'm in a romantic mood.
I'm desperately seeking some validation. I'm desperately seeking some attention. I'm getting both, but not from the sources that would penetrate to the places I need them to. Give me an inch and I'll take it. I'm just doing what comes next. I'm just taking opportunities, and working towards using them well. I'm desperately seeking opportunities. Give me an opportunity and I'll take it.
I feel like the last remnants of the year are falling away from me like flakes of skin, whirling in the whiteout as the white noise whirls beyond the window. The blinds are closed. In my new place, I'll have curtains. There won't be a tree outside of my window. I fantasize about getting a bird feeder and a little flower box. The cactus seems to be doing well. The weather has dried my skin.
Everything is dust. Everything is the next thing it's meant to be already and already in the way. I want to purge everything I own. There is a lot I want. Too much of what I want I had and lost or gave away. Maybe this is the origin of a hoarder psychodrama. I feel like a monk. I want to retire early through a lucrative transaction between the coat-tails I've been riding and the little proof there is. I want teeth.
Tomorrow I will see what resolutions stick. I've forgotten that. I'd forgotten that. I'll try to remember tomorrow, if I don't forget. Tomorrow I'll see what memories stick. I lack discipline. Going to a gym requires discipline, as does running, earning more money, writing more, producing three solo shows of paintings, working on PR, getting a logo together, learning how to beat a better drum, learning Cantonese, being more loving, getting over the past, letting go, forgetting and remembering. All the time, remembering. Nothing is this convenient.
When I am older I will wear a boutineer. I will burn cigarette holes into my clothes, choosing conspicuous places where strangers might have gotten careless; above the right elbow, for example. Nostalgia has served me well until now. If I were a creature of pure consciousness, living in infinite abundance, I would meticulously craft a detail like that. The hole would be the whole. It usually is. Now I'm looking in the right direction.
