ides of march plus one

People keep stopping by, wishing me well, telling me how happy they are for me. I go through much of life thinking I am invisible. A ship without a wake. I am so ready to be gone... am gone already in so many ways. I left in August if you ask me. But here I sit, amid the remnants of this life. A life recorded on scraps of paper, in letters never sent, in notes and scribblings, misheard quotes and original sin. I'm throwing it away, the better part of it anyway. I know I will not use it, that original thought flows through me and when I'm in the zone, don't need scraps. I amuse myself with the hopefulness, the sheer narcissm of having hung onto scraps of paper describing ad nauseum the varying conditions of my life. It is a map, of sorts, leading finally to here and now. And I dont' know why I am able to let it all go now. It comforted me, the labryinth of words, from the impossibly clever to the unimaginably inane. There is a quote, my favorite by tom robbins, about the nature of passion:

"... neither duration nor proclamation of commitment is necessarily the measure. There are ephemeral explosions of passion between strangers that make more erotic sense than many lengthy marriages, there are one-night stands in Jersey City more glorious than a six month long romance in Paris. But finally, there is a commitment -- however brief, a purity--however threatened, a vulnerability--however concealed, a generosity of spirit--however marbled with need, an honest caring--however singed by lust that must be present if couplings are to be salubrious and not slow poison..." TR.

There are many unsent letters to Lorretta, of many more sent. We wrote letters. Back and forth across the country. I miss writing that way, pen in hand -- perfect pen, perfect paper -- splurging in stationary stores, two dollars for paper with more flowers than room to write. We wrote on napkins, on scraps of out-folded envelopes. I remember one night, middle of a particularly dark crank run, staying at a motel and finding the amusing house stationary along with Gideon's Bible, but no pen. I had to have one, and went out walking, praying that the God of the Gideon's would allow me the luxury of writing. I found the stub of a pencil with the eraser intact. These are the memories of poverty: no paper, pens out of ink, when finding a quarter in the couch pillows was a big find; matching socks, towels and sheets at all, getting change from food stamps.

I will start the countdown: if it is the 16th of March, there are 18 days to go.

I rented a UHaul truck this morning.