The Season of Lasts

Friday was my last day of work.

Sunday was the last time that J will color my hair.

Saturday was the last night I'll have all my friends in one room together, so I went and negated by getting blindly, wildly drunk. So I am left with impressions, a patchwork of faces, and snippets of converstations. I am certain I showed off my new boobs to a particular Anna (hi! honestly I think you and Bob are best, how come life gets in the way?)

Just this evening I found out that a very heavy last is resolved, this morning I twirled around my apartment instead of packing and found myself utterly directionless for lack of structure. So it's all really real now, I've got no job, all my stays have been systematically cut. I keep waiting for the tears, but they have yet to manifest, no doubt due to all the liquor and cheese. I've traded in my imaginary cigarettes for the real thing and I have been smoking up a storm. I know it's no good, but it's better than cocaine, and I am fine with that for the moment. I am pretty much fine with anything.

P and I had pilates this evening, a near last, but not quite yet. We parted on the corner and a young woman of indeterminate accent asked me for directions to Amoeba, and I pointed up the Panhandle where the evening light was cascading through the tallest Eucalyptus, and I couldn't speak for a moment, I nearly said follow the light westward, and turn right at the line of trees, swallow the dusk as you run, but I thought that might be inappropriate, so I gave her proper directions and swallowed the dusk ensconced in my own private universe of the iPod.

And a propos de rien why do I cleave so much to scraps of paper, I have scraps of paper, mounting scraps of paper, with scribbles, hillcocks of scraps of paper, dribbling out of drawers, quasi indeciperable, for the life of me I cannot part with them. Like old photos of people whose names have passed beyond recollection, so I have old notebooks with old phone numbers that pre-date the cell phone age, yet I filled a box today with scraps of paper. I labelled it personal, but on the day I move into my new house, my house that I will own, that box, like its many mates will get jostled into a corner and get forgotten, get added to, I figure it's for the archivists of the future, as if those scraps could constitute a life, an approximate snow angel of my history, details of a life I can hardly even figure on my own. Besides who needs them in the age of blogging, as if I could even get even navel-gazier, yes, I did just write that.

next up on the moving train, take the car for a tune up so I can bleed more cash.