And sitting here, in this emptry room, I see one of my "possible pasts" (thank you, Roger Waters), and never mind that this past would, actually, still be a possible future, because I know what I mean. I mean, I see myself as Laura Means, there at The End, rolling those goddamn dice, standing at the open door that leads out into the whole goddamn, wicked Cosmos. Only. It's not Patti Smith playing as I slit my wrists. It's David Bowie. "The Voyeur of Utter Destruction (As Beauty)." Bingo.
Which is to say, the movers came today, and through a grotesque bit of miscommunication — and I'm not pointing fingers, because I know I'm a hateful bitch — a whole lot of stuff that should have gone on the big truck did not. And we will not be leaving tomorrow, but on Saturday. Tomorrow, we try to talk Penske into letting us swap our 12' truck for a 16' truck, and then unload one truck and fill the other one. My muscles have died and gone to a place where pain only means I'm still alive. Spooky slept one hour last night. And there's still shit to pack.
I'm going to sleep on the floor now, because our bed is on its way to Rhode Island without us. But. First, my thanks to