Saturday was brutal. Literally nauseating. Wretched news abounded. If someone had said I looked like I'd just lost my best friend, they would have gotten an earful, indeed. Resigned to the likelihood that in a short order, for a variety of reasons, I'll have no friends left on the peninsula, I did what I always do when I'm depressed: I surfed real estate ads.
My mind hasn't changed since the Super Bowl last year. There's a sequence of events that hasn't yet begun. And thank god, 'cause the first event in the chain is Ed dying. When she goes, though, I'll have none of the usual trappings keeping me here. No dog, no kids, no serious relationship, no job for which I have to be here. I can do my job from anywhere in the world.
So why not exploit that? Why not boat up the Inside Passage? Or road-trip across New Zealand? Why not rent a flat in Manhattan and live in NYC for a month? Ditto San Francisco, Portland, Bellingham, Flagstaff, San Luis Obispo, Fort Collins, Charlotte, and any other number of towns I love. Spring in New York. Fall in Pittsburgh. Winter in the south of France. Not as a tourist, mind you—as an ordinary resident. Why not? If I'd lived in Metamuville for a month before moving here, the Supreme Counsel of Overentitled Old White Fucks wouldn't have been such an unpleasant surprise.
These are the thoughts that keep me going. Someday soon, I hope to be among mammals again. Hopefully before I'm damaged irreparably.