Portland, Year One

The moon is full, it's clear and cold. It's warm in the house and I am well fed. I am in good spirits. I shouldn't be, really. What with my joblessness and the hideous state of the economy and all these harbingers of doom gathering like a chattering murder of crows. A year and then some of working willy-nilly if at all, and all I can think is that I have been fortunate to travel my new city and meet all kinds of people. That oughtta count for something.

There is still time to scour Ebay for used carpetbags and jalopies before the shit seriously hits the fan and the media lapses into assissination speculation.

I am just about to let go of every plan I ever made, let go of every facsimile of a career that I should have had, let go of every expired expectation, right after I get out of the bath and just before I quit smoking for the eleventy-ith time.

We are tottering on the brink of medieval country justice, I am careful to lock my doors and I keep my pitchfork handy, just in case.

But in the slightness of this calm, my calm, I take the time to purchase a very swell pair of red shoes. I go for a run beneath a benevolent moon, I eat left overs and finish last night's wine, I sing in the kitchen as I unload the dishwasher, I am mindful to give thanks as I round every corner.

I've made it a year, I can make it another.